Chapter 1 Johnlock- Breath

He stood on the sidewalk trying to work up the courage to enter the god-forsaken flat building. It had been two years. Two years full of anguish, regret, sorrow, and just downright depression. Two years since he had been in the flat, talking with, more often yelling at, Sherlock, clearing away experiments discovered while cleaning, and blogging about their cases solved together. About Sherlock.

John Watson could feel his eyes start to water at the painful recollections and quickly wiped his eyes, not wanting to let his emotions force him to back down. He moved forward, fetching the keys out of his pocket, his mind focused on getting his hands to work properly instead of remembering the tender memories about Sherlock.

He was finally able to grasp the key, unlock the door, and step inside without much more trouble. Once inside, he closed the door and leaned against it, sighing. Since that was now over with he thought about what he should do next. He didn't think he's have the strength to enter the flat ever again. He had tried before, but the memories overwhelmed him if he got too close to the building.

After much contemplation and staring at the ceiling, he decided to clear his throat and call out, "He-hello?" Silence. He spoke again, louder this time. "Mrs. Hudson? Are you…. Is anyone here?" Hearing no response from inside the flat, John sighed deeply, feeling a bit crushed that he had to do this alone. Mrs. Hudson was most likely on vacation, judging from the silence in the building and the amount of dust coating the banisters of the stairs. John's eyes stopped. The stairs that led to their flat.

An expression of pure misery covered John's face like the dust on the stairs. Just because he could and should face this alone, definitely did not mean he wanted to. But he had to do this. He had to. He was so tired of being afraid to face the subject that everyone knew was constantly on his mind. The subject of….. Sherlock being gone. Forever. John would never be able to hear his deep voice regularly rant about how stupid everyone else was or see the delight in his eyes when he solved a particularly tough case. And he knew that could never happen again. Sherlock was gone.

John chocked on an unexpected sob and covered his mouth with his hand, his cheeks feeling wet. He hadn't realized he was crying. His eyes were blurry and felt heavy and the tears made hot streams down his face. With the hem of his tan jumper, John wiped away the tears and took a few slow breaths to calm himself. If he continued to break down here, there was a good chance he would never make it any further.

Once he felt calmer, John started towards the stairs, taking slow, careful steps as if trying to keep the dust undisturbed. His breathing was strained from his throat feeling constricted and he could hear his heart beating and the blood rushing in is ears. He shook his head and wiped the sweat from his brow. Why does this have to be so hard? He thought. Just walk upstairs like you always did. He took another step upstairs and looked down at his legs and hands. They were shaking.

John sighed again feeling utterly defeated. He could feel his legs wanting to give out and could feel the need to collapse and sob on the floor. But he knew he had to this. He needed to accept what had happened, and what better way than by visiting the place where all memories made in the past happened? He looked back up focusing on the stairs and moving one foot after the other. His mind was awhirl with all things Sherlock.

When they would run through London, chasing killers, or when they would argue whether or not the universe was important to know, or how there was an underlying current of something that could have been more that friendship… No he couldn't think of him like that now. Regretting the things that didn't happen wasn't going to help him at all. He had found somebody else anyways. Someone who hadn't left him in the worst two years of his life.

John swallowed the anger that submerged trying to focus on happier thoughts and feelings. He inhaled quickly, to make sure he didn't hold his breath from his jumbled emotions and pass out. He stopped abruptly and felt a weight drop in his gut when he realized he had reached the top of the stairs and was staring at the door to the flat. He could feel his heart beating in his throat and the sweat gathering on his palms from his anxiety. Recognizing the need to breath, he exhaled the held in breath and did his best to breath normally, like he wasn't battling for his life.

Keys in hand, John suddenly lurched forward towards the door before he could back down. With a light push, the door swung open, but he shut his eyes. The thought of seeing the flat was almost too much, let alone actually seeing it. His breathing took on a shaking edge as he contemplated what he could do. The only way, he decided, to make sure he didn't turn tail and leave the awful building was to take a few steps forward and enter the flat, eyes still closed.

John did just that and also settled to close the door behind him. He took a great breath, practically inhaling dust, and slowly opened his eyes. When he saw who was in front of him he stopped. Stopped breathing, stopped moving, stopped thinking.

Because there, standing little more than a few feet from him,

Was Sherlock Holmes.