Sherlock fanfic: 'It Starts'
Based on this amazing piece of fanart by mariemjs
Quick, go leave lots of comments and love. IT IS WELL DESERVED.
~
It’s over, now.
Baker Street hasn’t changed much since he had left, his long legs carrying him out onto the streets of London and towards a midnight meeting with a madman; an encounter that would give rise to the destruction of the life he had known and the beginning of the chase that had spread across continents and three long, lonely years.
As Sherlock Holmes stares at the brass numbers of the flat - the home - he had shared with one John Watson he realises that he hasn’t been this scared in a long time. Perhaps ever.
The only thing that came close was - -
- - - chlorine and fear and his blood, pounding in his ears and John, John, John joking and looking up at him with those too blue eyes and what if it wasn’t a joke, because really he couldn’t think of anything more serious and wasn’t that just ridiculous because he had a gun in his hand and there was a bomb a few metres away and a madman to chase - but, oh, no. Stupid. Not yet. The chase hadn’t started yet. But it would soon, he knew and John knew what he was thinking because this was serious (not as serious, but serious enough) and his flatmate nodded at him and so he lifts the gun once again and speaks and then he, he, he - - -
- - a memory; deleted more times than he cares to linger on.
But still. The fear, that Sherlock feels rising in him now - the panic. He’s not used to it. Because he had left - he had left John alone, thinking him dead and gone, and now he was back and wouldn’t it just be typical, wouldn’t it be just bloody, hilariously typical if John was happier for it?
What if, in leaving, Sherlock had ensured not only John’s safety; but his happiness as well?
And that, really - that’s what it came down to. John’s safety was the only reason why he had had left. He couldn’t have done it for anything less. He couldn’t have done it if he thought his return would be anything less than a happy occasion. And he would return.
Because Moriarty couldn’t be allowed to continue.
He just couldn’t. Not in any capacity.
Not if he was going to be a threat to John. And he was always going to be a threat to John.
But now - now, John was safe. It was over. Moriarty had perished in the explosion, along with Sherlock - allegedly - and so John had been kept safe and he had been free to do what he had needed to do. And he had. And now he was done.
John was safer than he had been in years. But what if he was happier too?
And here, the panic had set in - because while Sherlock could be assured of John’s safety, he wasn’t certain of his contentment. Because, in the 1103 days that Sherlock had been apart from his best friend, he had never considered that John might be happier as well as safer without him.
Not until now, when he’s standing on the doorstep to their old flat, a million things running through his head about what he wants to say and do and all he can think is; will this make John happy?
And because he doesn’t know, Sherlock stares at the numbers on the door to the place he once called home, his weathered hands closing into fists - and he panics.
~
It had been a long day, and all John Watson wanted to do was to unpack his groceries in the too-empty fridge, sit down in his too-quiet apartment and go to sleep in his too-cold bed. That’s all he’d been wishing for on that particular Tuesday evening.
Instead, he walks back from the shops, crosses Baker Street at a tired walk, and manages to get within five metres of his flat before he notices the man having a staring contest with his front door.
He realises numbly that he’s dropped the groceries, damn, and then a few more thoughts are making their way sluggishly towards the front of his mind as the man starts at the sound of bags dropping and John looks into familiar grey eyes and thinks
‘Oh. I’m dead.’
Then he feels dizzy and takes a deep breath (and when had he stopped) before he realises that, no, he can’t be dead, not with the pain that’s bursting forth from the place where he’d hid it, deep inside himself. It settles over his chest and he takes another shuddering breath as another thought comes to him.
‘He’s not dead’
And then, because some things will never, ever change,
‘I’m going to kill him’
He’ll wait for his vision to clear first. John’s waited this long, and for something he thought was never coming - an opportunity he thought he’d never have the chance to take. He can wait a bit longer for his tears to stop flowing. He waits, and stares, and he’s no longer tired.
Because this is all he’d been wishing for over the past three years and on that particular Tuesday, John stops waiting.
~
Sherlock can see John’s thoughts as clearly on his friend’s face as ever, and pain and relief (because, oh, the pain in John’s eyes, his face - it’s obvious, but there is joy there too, disbelieving, amazed, hurt joy) hit him hard in the gut and John’s crying, Sherlock has never seen John cry, not once.
Sherlock’s throat burns in time with his eyes and he realises that, yes, this is going to hurt. It’s already hurt them both in ways he could never have expected. But Sherlock can see that John’s already thinking about throwing something at him (because some things never change) and he finds himself desperately hoping that maybe John will throw himself at Sherlock (because some things do) but most of all, Sherlock finds himself staring at the man he’d given up everything for - everything he’d known, in exchange for this man’s safety. And he thinks that, maybe, if his bloody, hilariously typically insane life amounts to just this; his eyes spilling over as they stare at each other from across a chasm of space that threatens to destroy him when all else couldn’t...
If John Watson is all his life amounts to, then Sherlock thinks he couldn’t be happier.
He isn’t scared. Isn’t panicking. It’s just the rest of his life, about to begin and he doesn't know how - and so Sherlock makes a hesitant step forward and clears his throat.
“My dear John,”
And it starts.