Foreward

Hi all... it's been a long time.

If you've come here through my author alerts, welcome back, and I'm truly sorry for taking down this story four years ago- it's been a bit of a journey, but I'm finally ready to revisit and reupload the Johnlock story of my heart :)

For newcomers that stray across this, you should know that this story was originally uploaded and completed in 2013, before some personal issues forced me to take it down in early 2014. Well, that's behind me now, and after watching all the Sherlock series and concluding I'm still a season 1 and 2 Johnlock purist, I'm back to reupload the original story.

I will be editing and hopefully improving the content of each chapter as soon as I can, as it was a very rough original draft that made it to completion, but I received some great feedback the first time around and I just hope there is still something here worth your time. After that, who knows... but I always wanted to do a sequel.

Notes/Disclaimers:

-None of the characters are mine, no profit to be made out of this at all etc etc.

-Reviews/favs are always appreciated but not demanded.

-This will contain SLASH. Mano-a-mano actions. Manlove. Consider yourself forewarned.

X TheFarFire x

Driven.

Chapter 1

"What's this all about?" John Watson rubbed the heels of his palms into his eyes as he followed Lestrade down into the belly of Scotland Yard. It was late, the offices were quiet, and Lestrade had clearly been sweating, judging from the fade lines on his shirt collar. Fresh lines. He rolled his eyes at the detail. When would he stop picking up on things like that? And why tonight of all nights, did it suddenly set him on edge? He had enough grey hairs as it was, he really didn't need an increase in paranoia, not when he was trying so hard to make progress.

John cleared his throat, mouth a little dry, wondering if this was about the 'unofficial' medical care he'd been giving to London's homeless network since losing his job at Sarah's clinic four months ago. Dispensing treatments and prescription drugs funded by the estate left by ...Him... wasn't strictly legal, but it wasn't strictly illegal either. Besides, it was the only good thing he was really doing with his life. If Lestrade was going to warn him off, he wasn't sure he could listen. It was the only thing keeping him active whilst he tried to get his head straight...

"It's to be expected. There is no magic number. There is no set time to grieve for someone. You're still in shock." His therapist's voice echoed round his mind, making him bristle. Not now. Not today.

"You look like Hell, John. When was the last time you ate?"

"I eat every day." It's keeping it down that's the problem, he thought dryly. "Anyway, I though I told you to stop worrying about me?"

The Detective Inspector pulled up outside a closed door, a slight rabbit-caught-in-headlights look about him. On closer inspection John could see that even Lestrade's forehead was sporting a fine sheen of sweat now, mouth puckering in anxiety. His training immediately kicked in, the instinct to provide medical care was still as strong as it ever was.

"Greg, you don't look too great yourself. Let me -" He reached towards him, attempting to feel his temperature on his forehead, but was rebuffed gently. Lestrade smiled nervously, shaking his head in dismissal, instead getting a handkerchief out of his pocket to mop down his brow.

"I'll be alright, I'm just... I dunno... Overwhelmed a bit."

John frowned with concern, but just as he was about to insist, his eyes were suddenly drawn away to the door. Someone was waiting in there.

Even with the dirty frosted glass, he caught sight of movement set further back as a figure passed by the light inside. Lestrade looked furtively at the door, then to John's face, and then finally came to rest on a scuff mark on the opposite wall.

And all John could do was watch Lestrade fidget back and forth, rubbing his neck, brow furrowed, clearly stressed. He hadn't seen him like this in a very long time, and it made a knot of worry form in his gut, tightening as Lestrade continued.

"Damn strange business, all of this... You know the past few months since Sh-" John still couldn't control the involuntary jump in his heart, followed by that tight contracting feeling, every time someone mentioned His name, something which never went unnoticed. Lestrade cut himself off from completing it, probably trying to spare him more discomfort, like that was even possible. "This is... Horrible. It's all just a big bloody mess. Again."

John looked at him in confusion. "What do you mean..? Seriously, what's going on, you look like you're coming down with something. Or about to have a coronary." He half smiled at the bad joke, trying to get Lestrade to see sense. He tried again. "Would you just let me take a look at you?" But Lestrade wasn't listening.

"You're not going to like this. I want you to try to prepare yourself, as best you can. If that's even - oh God," his eyes flickered from left to right, like he was thinking aloud rather than actually talking to John. Had he rehearsed this? He looked like he was trying to remember his lines. "I just... I just wish there was some other way to do this- it's just we were desperate. The Moran case, the double suicide- to think that you and me, and poor Mrs Hudson- well it just- I mean sometimes I can't even-"

"Greg!" John grabbed him by the arms, shaking him once to try and get him to focus. Lestrade looked him right in the face, seemingly bracing himself for what he had to say.

"You were right." He said slowly, looking ashamed. "I'm sorry. You were completely right all along. He isn't a fraud. You had faith in him, and trusted him, and I was an idiot and I should have listened to you and not all the non-believers upstairs. That bastard Moriarty nearly got away with it."

John's voice was merely a whisper, the blood felt like it was draining out of his arms. After everything that had happened, Moriarty's name still had a debilitating effect on him; but the way he was talking, mixing up his tenses, apologising like this, was unnerving him more. He could barely get the words out.

"What are you saying...?"

Lestrade looked at the frosted glass, the shadow had retreated. "Sherlock is a hero. He saved all three of us from being murdered by that nutcase. I mean, one of my own men, can you even believe it...?"

John sucked in a sharp breath, steeling himself for a conversation he did not want to have right now. "Was. Was a hero, Greg. I know. It's hard. No one understands better than me, okay? Come on, you're meant to-" Lestrade cut him off, returning John's grip on his arms, surprising him with the sudden strength.

"The story is running tomorrow. It'll be in all the papers. Sherlock will be exonerated... We can prove Moriarty existed, we have his right hand man in custody. It's finally over, John!" He looked so relieved, but John was aghast. "Don't you see? We can make it like it was before, we can go back-"

"I wouldn't go that far, Lestrade."

John's blood ran cold.

The voice he never expected to hear in this world or any possible after life just spoke from behind the frosted glass. The rich baritone barely even muffled. It was as if the door had put aside it's own existence just so that voice could be directly and fully aimed at John's ears with piercing clarity. He dropped his grip on Lestrade like it burned him, mouth setting in a hard, thin, unbelieving line, eyes widening until the whites shone. He moved back so far he bumped into the corridor wall opposite.

There... behind the frosted glass, was the unmistakable silhouette of Sherlock Holmes. The shadow reached, turned the handle, and revealed himself.

If John hadn't been a doctor, he would have thought he was having a heart attack. But as he was a doctor, he knew it was just another panic attack- except he couldn't just ride this one out. He couldn't remember a single technique to help him through what was happening to him right in that moment. He was shocked into freezing right there, lungs refusing to work, feeling the sickening tension of a fight-or-flight reaction explode over his chest and rush up to his eyes, making them water.

But still, he bit back any and all noises, words, and especially the expletives. His eyes wanted to look everywhere at once- did they actually see more this time since his absence? Because Sherlock suddenly seemed to be full to the brim with 'more'... more colour, more force, more LIFE.

"I'm sorry John, I wanted to tell you. It tore me up, seeing the way you've been. But the circumstances... I had to do my job to protect you-" Sherlock raised a hand silencing Lestrade, who went to say something further before deciding against it. He retreated down into the corridor instead, trying to give them some privacy.

Sherlock turned his full attention on John, just like he would after coming to one of his amazing conclusions, just like he would when he needed John to hear him, tell him how fantastic he was. But he couldn't handle it. His dead best friend, was here, right in front of him, with that look. It was...too cruel.

"John..." That voice, coming out of that mouth, attached to that body, made up of THAT mind- "I don't even know where to begin. I have so much I need to tell you-"

"Save it." John shook his head once, choking out the two words through bared teeth. He'd never wanted to kill a dead man before -and he meant really, truly, squeeze-the-life-out-with-his-barehands type of killing. His heart felt like it was going to burst in equal parts hysteria and horror.

It wasn't possible, he'd finally lost it, clearly. The grief had sent him mad and he was probably lying in a puddle of his own drool somewhere in a mental hospital. Because he'd seen it. He'd seen the jump. The fall. That coat- John covered his mouth with both hands, back sliding up against the wall to steady himself.

He was wearing the coat.

No, no, no, NO NO NO-

He wasn't equipped to deal with this situation at all. Not now, not ever. Tears threatened to spill over his eyes, and there was no air, no god-damn air in this whole building! Sherlock raised a hand to try and placate him but John was done. One hundred percent done.

Had they expected him to yell? To kick and punch or scream swear words and vulgar nonsense? He had previous form afterall, back at Baskerville, so it must have been a possibility they prepared for. Prepared for... John pointed a shaking finger past Sherlock at Lestrade who did his best to avoid his accusing glare. There were not enough words to describe the feeling of betrayal looking at the pair of them caused him.

John's stomach rolled violently. A warning. He had to get out of there before- before...!

Sherlock grabbed him as he tried to lurch away. "Please, John, just-"

Big mistake.

In all the times he'd imagined this impossible reunion, he'd never in a million scenarios dreamt up the reality.

John just managed to turn his head down fast enough to throw up on the floor, missing his suit but splashing Sherlock's shoes instead. He was so stunned that he released John and for a moment they just stared at each other. It was one of the few times John had ever seen him speechless. They both were.

And just like that he snapped. John wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve and then unceremoniously kneed Sherlock in the groin, shoving him down on the ground like a crumpled wet paper bag, who grimaced in well-deserved agony.

"You won't get away with this!" John screamed at him, voice breaking, looking back up at Lestrade who was rushing back towards them. "Either of you!"

Which left him only one thing left to do. He ran. Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers ran. Back up the way Lestrade had led him, shame burning his face.