Thursday, March 6, 2014

John

It's gotten to the point where every time his phone vibrates, he thinks it might be Mycroft, and gets excited.

Excited.

To talk to Mycroft.

Mycroft Holmes.

John is losing it.

—

At half one in the afternoon, John finds himself sitting on the end of his bed, drumming his fingers on his knees, and staring at the wall. It's a pretty average wall, too. If Sherlock was here he would no doubt be firing off deductions every which way as based on the wallpaper markings and the precise amount of dust gathering under the dresser, until John begged him to shut up, and even then Sherlock would get that insufferable know-it-all grin and make snarky comments about Anderson.

Good lord, he misses that.

Molly texts him out of the blue as he's on the verge of possibly maybe getting out of the hotel room and doing something other than pining after his flatmate.

how are you doing?

Confused, he replies, Fine, how are you?

all right. listen, do you have any idea where Sherlock is? he's MIA, and Greg says Mycroft won't disclose any information, and told us not to ask you.

I don't know. Shit. Shit shit shit. If Sherlock is off doing bad things again... he stops his train of thought there.

right. thanks anyway.

No problem. Is there a case?

yeah, we need you and Sherlock, but it can wait until he shows up. I'm sure he will. show up. sorry, John.

Alright. Cheers.

John sighs and tosses his mobile carelessly onto the bedside table. He should probably get lunch at some point, and anyway, a walk would do him good.

There's a little cafe with a very pretty waitress down the way, and as he sits down he finds himself wishing that Sherlock was here. Shocker, that. Nowadays he's lucky if he can survive more than five minutes without thinking about him. Missing him. Wanting him.

The waitress smiles at him and clears away his plate. When he shifts to extract his wallet, a shock of familiar blond hair catches his eye.

Fuck. He needs to get out of here, now. Glancing panickedly between Mary's head and the table, his conscience acutely aware of the fact that he hasn't paid the bill, John scrambles to make an executive decision regarding next steps.

Mary starts to turn in her chair and John, in his most splendid display of maturity and composure yet, ducks under the table.

—

Sherlock

He does as Mycroft advised for once, and waits.

Waits an entire ten hours before electing to reach for his phone and call John, who promptly hangs up on him. The doctor is probably occupied, but still Sherlock worries.

—

John

He's crouched on the floor of the cafe, feeling positively ridiculous. Mary laughs and his stomach churns. How can she possibly be happy? After everything - and she's out there, living a normal life while he gets his heart broken in a million different ways - and it's just not fair, none of it is fair, and everything is so bloody frustrating that he can't even think straight anymore.

As he's attempting and failing to determine when and how he should make a run for it (he's no Sherlock, god dammit; if the detective was present, he would (begrudgingly, because favors are dull, but then again he does (did?) seem to make exceptions with John) provide a complete forecast of Mary's every move - which, come to that, would have been pretty swell about three years ago), his phone rings. He hangs up before anyone can overhear, then reaches for his cane, wincing in pain and embarrassment at this necessity and slipping a ten pound note under the salt shaker.

And flees.

—

Sherlock

Is it permissible to text him now? SH

Forget it. I do not require your tragically imbecilic council. SH

Calm down. I was engaged in a scintillating conference call with China. Their status is positively abominable. Did you call him?

He hung up. SH

My. How impolite.

I am texting him. He must understand. SH

And you're confident in your explaining abilities? As I recall, such skills were considerably lacking after the whole fake suicide debacle.

He must understand. I will make him. SH

Ah.

What? SH

If you believe that he is in a position to listen, by all means.

He is John. SH

He is hurt.

He will understand. SH

I will make him understand. SH

Like you made him understand why you left him for two years?

I don't care. I'm doing it. SH

—

John

Meet me at the spot where I deduced the part time nurse's illicit love affair while she was en route to her wedding shower. SH

John's heart skips a beat.

You mean the street or the exact spot?

Use your visual memory, John. If I recall you were quite displeased. Ought to have made the experience rather memorable. SH

Grinning, John replies,

I'm almost always displeased, and every experience with you is memorable. But ok. I'll be there soon.

His chest is expanding rapidly with something like hope. Sherlock is mad and beautiful and wonderful and oh god is he in love with this bastard and maybe they're fucked but it doesn't matter because Sherlock texted him and that must mean everything is okay, it must. He grabs his cane and takes off.

—

Sherlock

His eyes sting, red and irritated at the edges. His nose is cold. He stands, hands thrust into his pockets, and sniffles like a tyke stuck home with a head cold. Unfortunate biological reaction, isn't it, nasal congestion hand-in-hand with tears. Sentiment? Can't be.

Sentiment.

And then his heart does something funny, as does his chest and everywhere aches with something and this time he knows he's not ill. Limping towards him is the one person he wants to see in the entire world. The one person he cannot, will not, could never shut out, no matter how hard he tried – and he tried. The cadence of John's gait, his shoes slapping the pavement, Sherlock shivering in expectation. Round the corner. There there there.

John looks at Sherlock, then begins running, flinging the cane to the side, and throws himself at him. He is so small, so little, head nestled against Sherlock's chest. Sherlock's hand comes up to cradle his neck, other one on his back, feeling muscle and trembling limbs through that absurd double-zippered jacket. Denim trousers rubbing against his dress pants. John. In his arms. Shaking.

"Please," John whispers, looking up at Sherlock. He moves to pull away, but Sherlock's grip tightens involuntarily. John is his – his everything, his life, his love. His.

"Don't talk," Sherlock says hoarsely, pulling him infinitesimally closer. "Shh."

He waits until John's breath returns to normal. He waits until he's enveloped in John's scent, John's warmth – until reason and logic are remnants of the past. Then, and only then, does he reluctantly separate slightly, hand drifting down and clutching John's wrists.

"Are you alright?" he asks, and he must look genuinely concerned because John's eyes soften and he gives a watery chuckle as he says in a heartbreakingly tender voice,

"Now I am." A tear drifting down to his chin, which Sherlock swipes at with his thumb. Is he doing this correctly? No time to question. John's gaze is all-consuming and Sherlock is utterly, completely transfixed, words getting trapped in his throat.

"I, um, I have - I came to a realization." He takes a deep breath and squares his shoulder. "I would like to share this realization with you." Pause. John licks his lips and it is very distracting. "If you are willing."

"Sherlock, it's okay," John responds.

The way he looks at Sherlock, like he's worth something, worth something special, makes the detective forget everything. His voice goes husky, his needs more intense than ever before. "John," he whispers, gripping John's shoulders. "Please don't ever leave me again. I can't live without you. Please."

And then John's mouth is on his, soft tongue tracing gently across Sherlock's lower lip, coffee and toast and marmalade on his breath, eyelashes fluttering shut against Sherlock's cheek.

It takes everything Sherlock has to pull away for a second to rest his forehead against John's. "Wait, John."

"Yes," John whispers.

"Do you... I need to know that you..."

John grins. "I love you, you bleeding idiot."

Sherlock all but crushes the man to him, in full view of pedestrians and security cameras, and their mouths meet and noses press up against cheeks and hands in hair and the light turns green and still they stand entwined and everything, everything, everything else can wait.

—

Every breath you take

Every move you make

Every bond you break

Every step you take

I'll be watching you

Every single day

Every word you say

Every game you play

Every night you stay

I'll be watching you

Oh can't you see

You belong to me

How my poor heart aches with every step you take

Every move you make

Every vow you break

Every smile you fake

Every claim you stake

I'll be watching you

Since you've gone I been lost without a trace

I dream at night I can only see your face

I look around but it's you I can't replace

I feel so cold and I long for your embrace

I keep crying baby, baby please

Every move you make

Every vow you break

Every smile you fake

Every claim you stake

I'll be watching you

—

Author's note: Thank you for all of those who have followed this story. I finished it awhile ago on AO3, but haven't updated til now.

I am no longer posting to FF. My AO3 username is edye327, so you can subscribe there if you'd like to see more of my writing (especially Johnlock).