A/N: This fic is meant to be a bit more gritty, uncomfortable, in some ways more realistic, and in other ways not (probably some OoC to watch out for).

There is a near-rape scene in this, so please do not read if you might find something like that offensive.

I cannot get possible post-Reichenbach reunion scenarios out of my head, and this is a darker version that I have been toying with.

Enjoy! :)

Forgiveness

"Oh, god." John hunched over where he stood, hands braced against his knees. "Oh, my god, sweet Jesus..." He felt sick, like he was about to vomit any second.

"John." Sherlock said his name softly, likely sensing the other's instability. He took a careful step closer, but John held up a hand to keep at bay.

"Mmmgh," John managed, straightening and touching the back of a palm his mouth as if to discourage the bile from rising in his throat. He started pacing in small circles, face turned decidedly away from Sherlock.

"John," Sherlock said, louder, though he kept his distance. "I'm sorry."

"Hmm?" His stomach vaguely under control, John turned to face him. "What's that? You're sorry?"

An exasperated sigh. "Don't make this difficult, John. Truly, I am very sorry-"

"Oh, okay then!" John exclaimed, a terrible plastic smile on his face. "Since you're sorry, I suppose we can now go back home together like a happy couple and pretend the last three years never happened!" He laughed, a hollow and broken sound.

Sherlock attempted to close the distance between them in a few long strides, but John backed away, almost like a wounded animal.

"Don't," he warned, voice dripping with venom. "Don't you dare come near me, or I will hurt you." John could see Sherlock's eyes widen at his words, a very human emotion behind the often icy, cold, hard blue eyes. Eyes that were utterly lifeless, attached to a broken face covered in blood, just three years ago...

John bent over again, the image that had haunted him ever since reappearing in his mind's vision with a vengeance. This time he couldn't hold back the bile and retched onto the ground. Instantly he felt a large palm flatten itself onto the middle of his back.

"Oh, god," John cried for what seemed like the millionth time. He wiped his lips with his sleeve and tried to straighten, though he still remained slightly stooped, like he had just drastically aged. "Sherlock, what have you done to me?"

"I..." Sherlock tried, though for once it seemed like words had eluded his great mind. John glanced at him and deduced that the taller man was probably confused, startled, and maybe hurt by their so-called reunion.

"What did you expect?" John demanded, knowing full well that his tone was coming out cruel. "A hug?"

"John." Sherlock' cool, collected expression seemed suddenly restored to his angular face, and now he addressed John like a parent might a child. "You are being emotional. You are not thinking straight, and I have had enough of this. Let's go home, and we'll speak in the morning."

As Sherlock grabbed John's wrist and forcefully dragged him along, John wondered how long it would take for him to physically attack that insufferable, inconsiderate, inhuman sociopath. He tried to prioritize this against falling into his own bed and weeping. Both actions battled for the top spot on the list.

In the end John settled for weeping.

He went straight to his room once they reached 221B, locked the door behind him, and collapsed face-down onto the bed. He tried not to think about the fact that the flat was no longer empty, no longer haunted by relentless ghosts of the one man that ever mattered. But then he heard movements downstairs, the familiar clinking of test tubes and banging noises from the kitchen, the light yet restless footsteps of a man who cannot sleep at night, and his tears could not be restrained.

John cried into his pillow, the feathers slightly muffling his sobs. He cried for the years he had lost in misery, for the new lines on his face, for his heart that had been forced to harden beyond recognition, and for the greatest deceit he had ever been victim to.

That night he was plagued by ruthless nightmares, and he must have screamed out loud because he woke to the sound of Sherlock breaking down his door and running to his bedside. Frantic fingers grazed against his damp face and chest, which John attempted to weakly swat away.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock murmured in the darkness. If John hadn't known better, he would have thought he sounded concerned.

"I'm broken," John confessed, breathing heavily from the dreams still not fully dissipated from his vision. He felt hands in his hair and through unfocused eyes saw Sherlock looming over him, a grand and terrible shadow, like an avenging angel come to claim his soul.

"I want to help you, John," Sherlock whispered. John could feel warm breath ghosting across his face. "Tell me, please, what can I do."

"Why aren't you broken?" John wondered out loud, almost to himself. "Didn't I matter to you?" His tears leaked into Sherlock's palms.

"You never left me, as I did you," Sherlock stated simply. "I watched over you, always. Not a day went by that I didn't see you, John." His lips curved in a melancholy smile. "Comparatively, it's always more difficult for those left behind."

"That is some accurate insight into the human condition, for a sociopath," John said. He noticed Sherlock flinch at his last word.

"How long is it going to take?" Sherlock asked after a moment's pause. John knew he was asking how long it would take for him to grant forgiveness.

"I've been dead for three years too, Sherlock," he answered. "It's going to take a while."

Sherlock explained himself, in the days that followed. Some explanations were long, others were short and to the point. He told the same story in many different ways, probably hoping to one day say it the right way and make John forgive him.

He described the work he had done with complete ease, though predictably he faltered and struggled to verbalize what the past three years had meant to him on an emotional level. John assumed he had missed him, had wished things could have played out differently, etcetera.

Still, the words weren't enough, and even John had no idea what he needed from Sherlock at this point.

John got into the habit of leaving for the hospital early and coming home late. In the evenings when Sherlock wasn't busy explaining himself, they sat on opposite ends of the room in silence, noses buried in laptops or books.

Once, when John's back was turned, he heard Sherlock pick up the violin and begin to play. For once there were no horrible screeching noises or finger-plucked strings; instead a beautiful, eerie melody flowed from the instrument. John knew the music was for him. He refused to turn around though, instead settling for closing his eyes and imagining what Sherlock must have looked like as he played. It was a vision that tore at his heart and threatened to unleash the tears that he vowed never to express to Sherlock again.

When the music stopped, John still sat, eyes closed, unmoving. Soft, bare footsteps sounded on the floor behind him, and then he felt hands rest on his shoulders, gently pulling him backwards. John didn't resist, with a moan allowing his head and back to slump against Sherlock's chest.

On impulse John went out drinking one night, without Sherlock of course, and returned very late.

Late and intoxicated.

He "missed" the door to his bedroom and instead made his way toward Sherlock's instead. He swung the door open (it was rarely locked) and stumbled into the darkness, awkwardly fumbling around until he found the edge of Sherlock's bed. Once he did, he threw himself onto it, avoiding an unceremonious stumble right back off of it by pure luck.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock said, voice tense. John knew he'd be awake; the man hardly ever slept. He also knew that it irritated Sherlock to see him drunk.

"Uhhhh..." John hadn't actually thought this far ahead. All he knew was that he still wasn't okay, he still hadn't forgiven Sherlock, he still felt angry, betrayed, hurt... And inevitably the alcohol in his system amplified those emotions.

In the end he knew something had to happen, anything, because Sherlock was here, alive, against all odds... yet he still felt like this!

Dizzily he rolled onto his stomach, partially on top of Sherlock, and placed a not-so-gentle kiss to his mouth.

At first Sherlock didn't respond, and John continued to kiss his limp, soft lips. After a few moments John felt the vibration of a muffled noise coming from Sherlock's mouth, and heat rose in his cheeks in embarrassment as he realized it was a sound of protest.

Maybe because of the anger, of the pent-up emotions gnawing at his soul, John continued to kiss Sherlock despite the other's increased struggle to escape from underneath him. He grabbed fistfuls of dark locks to keep his head still and increased the pressure of his kisses to bruising levels.

Sherlock was strong, but John was an ex-soldier, and at that moment the more he lost his mind the more physical strength he gained.

He moved his hands to pin down Sherlock's arms as his lips moved to his neck.

"John," Sherlock breathed once his mouth was freed, voice trembling. "Stop. Please, stop." As the man underneath him begged, John only became more aroused, forcing Sherlock's shirt up to expose his flat stomach and chest.

It was only when he heard an agonizing sob escape his friend's lips that he faltered. He realized that he had begun to grind against Sherlock, his own clothing coming undone, parts of his skin rubbing against Sherlock's uncovered flesh.

And then he suddenly snapped out of it, halting all movements and releasing Sherlock. He glanced at his face, the alcohol largely losing its effect, and saw the tears rolling down pale cheeks.

He had never seen Sherlock cry. Ever. Not in earnest, at least.

Even though he was freed, Sherlock made no move to escape. Instead he lay limply, sobbing softly, defeated.

"Fuck," John cursed. "Sherlock, I..." And then the shame rolled over him in waves, his face draining of color and then gaining it all back again in seconds. "What have I done?"

He scrambled from the bed and ran, as fast as his legs would carry him. He ran from the flat and into the cold night air, ran until his lungs burned and his legs threatened to give way.

John spoke to Sherlock even less after that. He also stopped eating.

And one fine day it seemed that Sherlock had had enough.

John woke up that morning to the smell of food coming from the kitchen. To his surprise he found Sherlock setting the table with scrambled eggs, toast, scones, and tea. He glanced up as soon as John walked in and came to stand in front of him.

"You are going to eat," he declared, stern blue eyes fixed on the shorter man.

"Sherlock-"

"Wait," he interjected. John obeyed, though he wasn't prepared for what came next. "Just listen to me for a minute. I missed you, John. I've tried to explain this to you for days on end now, though somehow my words have eluded your funny little brain. I missed you more than I could possibly say. For three years, I dreamed of the day we could be together again. And since we have met again, I've still missed you."

John opened his mouth to say something but Sherlock waved a hand to silence him.

"I want my John back. My John. I am sorry, more than you know, for the pain that I have caused you. But my sole motivation was your protection, your safety, you. Everything I have done has been for you, John. Please, please forgive me. I will do anything it takes to win our friendship back, the way it was."

"Sherlock-"

"I don't know anything about this," Sherlock continued, ghosting a thumb across John's bottom lip, "or this," he whispered, running a warm palm intimately down John's chest. "But you may touch me, John, you may do what you like. If that is what will earn your forgiveness then so be it."

"Sherlock, stop," John pleaded. "I'm ashamed, so god damn ashamed, I don't know what came over me, I..."

Sherlock grabbed him in a fierce embrace, sensual and strong. John inhaled the scent of him, finally forgiving Sherlock for the past three years, and feeling unworthy of the forgiveness he knew he received in return.

Funny, how causing pain to the one person who mattered put his own sorrow into perspective.

He would spend the rest of his days atoning for his actions toward Sherlock, whether the other man needed him to or not, of this he was certain.

But at least he had Sherlock, home, with him from now until the very end, and he loved him.

He whispered as much into the taller man's neck, earning an unpracticed yet well-intentioned kiss to the top of his head.

"You're back?"

"I'm back," John whispered.

A/N: I almost felt bad writing the assault part, as I know that is NOT JOHN at all, but it was just something to experiment with.

I hope this did not offend anyone. I know nothing of rape myself; this was just a writing exercise.