I'm going to be SO evil. Don't hate me, bb. They've been too happy lately. xDmightbebloggingFebruary 5 2012, 19:58:53 UTC
Three years was a very fairly long amount of time. A lot could happen in three years. So many things happened in an ever-changing world, nothing ever staying still... and yet, that first year had been the most difficult and longest year for John Watson. For a good part of it, he merely existed, finding it difficult to eat, much less get out of his flat. Oh, he left 221B Baker Street in the beginning - it was too painful, and there were too many memories. That flat was Sherlock Holmes to him, and he couldn't bear being there alone, with only that damned skull to keep him company. He could hardly stand poor Mrs. Hudson's twittering and kind words, pushing her, as well as many other people in his life, aside. So he moved in with Harry, his sister, for a while. Things had definitely been bad enough to warrant staying with her. It was no secret that they hadn't gotten on really well in some time now. But she was sympathetic, and she really was off the alcohol, and it was strangely comforting being with her, with his family. But even she couldn't get him to move on, not right away.
He'd looked and hoped and waited for a miracle, all throughout that first year. Others told him it was useless, Sherlock Holmes was dead, and he slowly started to see the rationality in their statements. He'd seen his best friend there, lying in a pool of his blood, bright red contrasting with his pale face and unseeing eyes. But it might as well have taken the entire year for him to finally come to terms with it all. Sherlock wasn't coming back to surprise him, or tell him yes, John, it was only just a magic trick - then proceed to scold him for being an idiot and thinking he would just die like that, in such an inelegant, stupid way.
And then, despite all the bad media and stories about Sherlock Holmes, the fake detective... a sort of movement started up, and began to spread. It started with people who had been helped in some way by Mr. Holmes, and did not believe the reports. The 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes' movement spread through word of mouth, fliers, graffiti and the like, and it was overwhelming, and encouraging, and for a while John thought maybe, just maybe he was still alive out there, somewhere, and had something to do with all this... but even that movement began to die out and fade away.
But the year past by, seasons fading into the next, and he knew he was truly alone. He didn't stay with Harry for too long, of course. So, he toyed with the idea of moving out and finding a flat, something cheap and like the empty one he'd briefly lived in before he'd met Sherlock and got swept up in that exciting world. But in the end, he moved back into 221B Baker Street, and Mrs. Hudson was only too happy to have him back, that she let him pay a cheaper rent until he could afford more. He returned to work at surgery, and took on even more hours, throwing himself into the job he was trained for.
Yes, a lot can happen in three years. People like John lose people, move on, meet new people... and sometimes become engaged. The announcement had just been made in the paper yesterday. The bride-to-be? A Mary Morstan.
"Yeah, I've got it, Mrs. Hudson," the newly engaged John Watson could be heard on the other side of the door. He was shrugging his coat on, just on his way out to stop by Tesco's and pick up some very ordinary, everyday items. It had been three years since he'd picked up something strange for one of Sherlock's experiments. When he opened the door, expecting it to be someone of absolutely no consequence, he looks up.... and stops short.
He feels and looks as if the air rushed out of him, as if he'd suffered a heavy blow to the gut. So many emotions come flooding back to him - memories of waking up to lazy kisses and intimate mornings. Of chasing after exciting cases, and having arguments of severed heads or fingers in the fridge. Of running fingers through each other's hair as they enjoyed quiet moments on the sofa. John stares as if he's seen a ghost, because he might as well have.
Sherlock would have sworn he had thousands of words he wanted to say to John, but you would never know that after he hears John's voice behind the door. It made his heart stutter and he may have actually gasped a little as the mere knowledge of John's presence just beyond that door seemed to steal any words or breath he may have had. He had hoped he would have at least managed something more eloquent than gaping at him and saying a muted "Oh.". All the memories came back in an instant, and he could hardly handle the fact that he'd been away from this incredible man for three years.
He doesn't know how to read John's expression right now, and that makes it even harder to formulate a greeting or an apology or something that's not just staring uselessly. He'd practiced for this, looking forward to this moment every single day he was away, but now that it was here he had no idea how he was supposed to do this. "John, um." he starts, clearing his throat as though that might help. "You don't have to let me in." But i hope you will. "You don't even have to say anything." Even though I want you to tell me everything. "I just wanted to say that I owe you more apologies than I can ever say." He takes a deep breath, resisting the urge to reach out and touch him to at least affirm he was really there because he didn't think he deserved to anymore.
He thought he had more to say, but the words left him again. He hoped John would say something, bracing himself for whatever that might be. He didn't care what it was, he would let John scream at him until he was hoarse if he wanted to because that would be progress towards fixing them. He knew he'd broken them, and just because it was necessary didn't make it any easier. He had missed John every single day, and he wanted his partner -his everything- back so badly it was physically painful.
He waits patiently as he could for a reaction of any kind, searching John's expression for what he could be feeling.
To be perfectly honest, John isn't completely sure what he feels yet. His expression is, for the most part, initially quite blank, but there is a great deal of shock there. That's probably what's wrong with him - he's in a sort of state of shock. It's not everyday you're suddenly hit with the great impact that is your former flatmate, best mate, lover, everything showing up at your front door. He had hoped and longed for this everyday during that first year Sherlock had been gone. The intense feelings of wanting him back had continued on into the next couple years, of course, but they had started to dim somewhat. After all, people had to move on. For the longest time, he'd just stayed still, not wanting to move, to eat, to do anything, really. But no matter how alone he felt without the missing half to his soul, he was John Watson, and he wasn't an idle man. Coming back from the war had stopped him once, and while losing Sherlock was so much worse... it was something he also had to come back from.
John's jaw finally worked a bit as he listened to the other speak, and he damn well nearly lost his balance as that familiar baritone hit his ears. It had been so long, and it sounded both so foreign and so very familiar. Even though it sounded uncertain, it might as well have been the most beautiful thing he'd heard during these last three years. He has to hold on tighter to the door handle or else he will crumple to the ground right then and there, his body suddenly feeling so very weak. But is it relief he feels? He's not sure. There's hurt, betrayal, and anger certainly still there, having laid dormant for a while now, rushing back in the face of the detective's return.
As he finally opens his mouth again, this time hoping to say something, anything, his free hand clenching into a tight fist at his side... there's suddenly another voice behind him. Mrs. Hudson. Whether or not she realized it was a tense moment between the two men, she, too, had been missing Sherlock. She's grown noticeably older, and is a bit slower on her feet, although quite good still for her age. She bustles past John after a tear-filled look at him, and then is tittering away at Sherlock, hugging him, scolding, going on about this and that and where has he been, and how could he do that to them?
It's a moment for John to collect himself, swallowing hard, and glancing away to the ground for a moment. It's another moment before Mrs. Hudson either realizes the boys need this, their makeshift reunion, or she can't handle it anymore herself - she's in tears, after all. She has an excuse to return to her own flat, something about having too many things to do, and then they're left alone again. Sherlock probably would have gotten a good look at him by now. The doctor does look older, with more grey streaks to his lightly coloured hair, and more lines on his face. A smile still has not graced his lips since before opening the door to this particular surprise.
John is only vaguely aware that he hasn't yet spoken a word to Sherlock. He swallows hard, glancing up, and then just as quickly away... and nods a bit. "You'd better... come in, then," he somehow manages in a quietly hoarse voice. Still not meeting the other's gaze, he steps aside to let him walk in so they can head upstairs to the flat. Talking outside wouldn't be a good idea, after all. For the most part, the flat has been left the same, although Sherlock's things - books, case files, and the like - have mostly been moved, and are being stored in his room. Engaged or not, John and Mary are not yet living together... although he already has plans of buying a new place for them. He's had his eye on somewhere nicer.
However... there is a rather familiar skull still staring down through unseeing, hollowed eyes, resting there on the fireplace... that has long-since gathered a small layer of dust.
John is rather impossible to read in this moment, whether that was because there was nothing to read or because Sherlock had lost his touch at seeing what the doctor was thinking wasn't clear yet. He liked to believe that he would always be able to read John effortlessly, but maybe three years was too much time. Maybe John was completely different, and maybe this John wouldn't feel for him what the old John had because of all the bitterness that had likely built in the time he was away. All these ifs and maybes were starting to get to him, so he pushed it back and brought himself back to here and now where maybe he still had a chance to make this right.
He watches with bated breath as John opens his mouth to speak, actually starting slightly when Mrs. Hudson pops up from behind John. He accepts the hug from her a bit awkwardly, sparing a quick glance at John over her shoulder before averting his eyes from his expression that was still frustratingly unreadable. He placates her the best he can, murmuring apologies and the assurance that it was necessary.
It seemed to assuage her for the moment enough to leave them back to their wonderful and at the same time awkward reunion. He takes the moments to study this three years older John, wanting to curl up on the sofa with him and count all the new grey hairs and trace his fingers over the new lines on his face. There's another pang of longing that hits him then, wishing he could have been there to see the gradual progression of all that rather than just the finished product in front of him.
He blinks in confusion at first when John finally speaks, almost believing that he had only inserted the response he was hoping for until John steps aside for him. "Th..thank you." he replies almost meekly, moving inside and taking those familiar and yet foreign stairs up to the flat. He hovers awkwardly just inside the door of the sitting room, for the first time unsure of where he should sit. Was there even a place for him here? A glance at the fireplace makes him decidedly more hopeful, glad to see at least one remnant of him still out in the open. He waits for John, his hands clasped behind his back but with one errant finger tapping nervously away on his hand.
Sorry for late tags, bb! <33mightbebloggingFebruary 10 2012, 04:58:32 UTC
John hesitates at the bottom of the stairs, before following after Sherlock, but taking them a bit slower. As he walks, he tries his very best to collect his thoughts, but for the most part, they're not really all that scrambled. To be perfectly honest, he still isn't quite sure what he's thinking. He's feeling numb, as if this is all just a dream, and not actually happening. To be fair, he's had quite a few dreams like this, where the consulting detective has returned. He's not nearly as haunted by them these days as he used to be, although every once in a while, they'll return in full force, just as if to remind him of what he's lost. To remind him that he's not as perfectly fine as he thought he was, after meeting someone new, supposedly falling in love, and getting engaged.
Supposedly? He loved Mary, of course he did. Right? God, he couldn't think of that, of her. Not now. Not yet.
Once he stepped into the sitting room behind Sherlock, his eyes take in the nervous movement of that long finger. Swallowing hard, he glances back up in the general direction of the other's eyes. It's strange, to see Sherlock looking so out of place, when this had surely been his home, once upon a time. Was it not anymore? For the longest time, it hadn't felt like home without him, and now... well, whatever the case, John awkwardly gestures to Sherlock's usual chair, even though it has been a long time since he's sat in it. "Have a seat. I'll, ah... put the kettle on, shall I?" He doesn't quite smile, although he tries, and his voice doesn't sound nearly as casual as he wants it to. Clearing his throat lightly, he turns without another word and heads into the kitchen, not really giving Sherlock a chance to reply. Once he's there, just as he's going through the motions of making some tea... he finds he has to stop. Leaning against the counter suddenly becomes necessary, and a silent, body-shuddering sigh goes through him. He refuses to let the tears come - and he's not quite sure whether or not he can cry yet, anyway. He's not sure there are any tears left, after so many had been shed, in private, that first long year of Sherlock's absence. After that first year, he'd thought, well maybe he'll meet someone else. And since Sherlock was a man, and he'd clearly been attracted to his body, he'd started going to gay bars. However, try as he did, he was never really all that into the men there, handsome though many were. He blamed it on their age, as the younger ones made him feel a bit too old, and the older ones just didn't excite him as Sherlock did. He was somewhat content to give up on his short-lived 'dating adventure,' figuring he'd had his soul-mate and he'd lost him. How could he possibly fill that void in his heart ever again?
Then came a woman in the unassuming form of Mary Morstan... and everything changed. She wasn't Sherlock, of course, but she also wasn't like the ordinary women he'd dated in the past. She stirred something inside of him.
Inhaling a deep breath, pushing such thoughts aside and composing himself, he returns into the sitting room, letting the water boil for the tea. One look at the other man, looking all gorgeous and perfect and as if he hasn't aged a day... part of him wishes they could just return to as they were before. He has to tear his gaze away again, slowly easing himself down into his own, usual chair.
"So," he starts quietly, voice somewhat resigned, trying to keep his tone neutral... but there might still be an accusatory hint there. He can't help it. "Where have you been?"
It's hard to reply while holding a bucket for my creys :(shutupimageniusFebruary 11 2012, 23:30:24 UTC
Sherlock had known this would be difficult, but that didn't make it any easier to cope with. As much as he told himself that he had to leave to save John and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, it was still impossible to deal with. He had fallen so hard and fast for John that leaving him had nearly destroyed him. He reverted back to what he used to be, a spectator of human lives rather than actually living one as he had been when he was with John.
When John met his gaze, the remembrance of all the little moments of intimacy they shared hit him like so much asphalt he'd appeared to die on all those years ago. He saw flashes of them in bed, on the sofa, John smiling at him like he was the most incredible thing in the world to him because back then, it seemed he was. He'd almost felt like he deserved that adoration for a brief time, long before he knew it would be necessary to break his heart to save his life. He opens his mouth to speak -to say what, he had no idea-, before John is waving towards his chair and swiftly leaving the room. His brow furrows in half confusion and half hurt at the idea that this man that he loved so much now felt like a stranger. He draws a shaky breath and moves to his chair, settling into it and finding some minuscule comfort in the familiar piece of furniture.
The words 'I'm not ready for this, how could I ever be ready for this? flit through his head unbidden, wishing he knew the right words to put together to make John possibly forgive him, if he even deserved his forgiveness. He watches as John avoids his eyes, clearing his throat a little after he asks that question, which is actually one of the easier ones he could have asked. "I didn't stay in any one place for very long. All over Europe, really." he answers, gauging John's expression and trying to think of what he could possibly say. "You must know that it was necessary, John. I never would have left if it wasn't absolutely imperative." he says, knowing his play at being clinical about this wouldn't do him any favors in gaining John's favor. "He was going to have you killed, John. You and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. I had to do it, to save you." he explained, hoping against hope for some sort of understanding.
I knoooow! And.. I think I'm about to make you cry even more... >.> I'M SO EVIL PLZ STOP ME >.<mightbebloggingFebruary 12 2012, 18:43:13 UTC
It was a rubbish business, wasn't it? Having one's heart broken so your life could be saved? Truth was, Sherlock Holmes had been everything that was important in John Watson's life. After he'd returned from the war, a broken, beaten man, he'd had nothing to really live for. Life had been a dull, mindless crawl of days where absolutely nothing of consequence happened. If he hadn't met that strange, eccentric, incredibly amazing consulting detective, he never would have known how complete his life could feel. It had been perfect and flawed, dangerous and exciting, a love/hate relationship that he wouldn't have traded for anything. How could he have known it would have ended so abruptly, and so quickly? When he saw his best friend, his lover, his entire life lying there, inanimate and so very lifeless, his life might as well have ended too. Nothing happened that first year. After it seemed Sherlock's miracle was not coming, he just about gave up on ever being truly happy again.
Sitting there, now, across from that beautiful ghost, he still doesn't know how to feel, or what this all means. But through his warring emotions, he does feel a surge of intense feelings - a remembrance, perhaps, of how he once felt for Sherlock? But surely that's gone now... right? As he listens to the other man explain, his own jaw twitches slightly, and he shifts uneasily, restlessly, in his chair. There is some guilt there, yes, at the thought that this had all been to save not only his life, but Mrs. Hudson's, and Greg's as well.
"You... had... to," John repeated slowly, his tone quiet but suddenly a bit more cool. "Yes, fine. Alright. But three... years, Sherlock. Three years, I hear nothing and I thought... I thought you were..."
He trails off, burying his face in one hand, but the tears still do not come. Instead, as his shoulders shake lightly... it suddenly becomes clear that he's laughing, silently, just a bit. Dry laughter. The reason becomes clear soon enough. He looks back up, and his gaze does meet Sherlock's this time, sharply... but also with a note of disdain and resentment there. It's partially focused on himself, and partially on Sherlock. He's not sure who is more to blame. "I'm engaged, Sherlock. To be married." In case there was any confusion. "To a woman."
John feels at once that he's said too much, but he couldn't help it. The moment he saw Sherlock at the door, he's been this closer to blurting it. Now it's suddenly out there, and the ball is in Sherlock's court... although he's relatively sure whatever look that man gives him will break his heart even more, if possible.
Sherlock knew he used to mean a lot to John, but John also had meant just as much to him, if not far more. John made human connections almost effortlessly, it seemed, always finding a new girlfriend almost immediately after it was broken off with the one previous. For Sherlock, though, it was nearly impossible. Whether he got irritated by their stupidity or they got put off by his attitude in general, he never made anything more than an acquaintance in his entire life until John came along. It was like a whirlwind of new feelings after he showed up. Suddenly, Sherlock had the progression of flatmate, colleague, friend, best friend and lover in John, all within mere months of meeting him. Just when he would think it couldn't possibly get any better than it was, it did, and he never wanted it to end. Leaving him and indeed staying away from him for all that time was the hardest endeavor he'd ever endured. He wanted to go back every single day, and every day that he couldn't was another heartbreak.
He can feel how his words are affecting John as much as see it, wishing he could touch him again, even if just for a moment. He couldn't though, not yet. He goes silent when John speaks, feeling his stomach flip when he trails off. His fingers twitch on the arms of his chair, poised to fling himself to the floor and grovel at his feet for making him feel this way.
Just when he thought he couldn't possibly feel worse after believing he made John cry, he does when he realizes it's laughter rather than tears. He stares, wide-eyed and frightful at the sound of it, the bottom dropping out of his stomach as realization dawns on him that this was so much worse than he imagined. And then, it gets worse yet again. Engaged. John was engaged, and his insides twist excruciatingly at the knowledge. He should have expected this. Whatever hopeless romantic side of him had surfaced when he was with John held onto the pathetically deluded idea that he would have waited for him, but he knew that was a long shot. John thought he was dead, and he objectively rationalized that he would have to give up on him eventually.
He shouldn't have come. He should have stayed away and left John with the belief that he was something approaching a good man. Maybe he could have believed for a moment that he deserved him if he had. He just had to give in to the selfish desire to see him again, didn't he?
He feels like he can hardly breathe, and the instinct to just run from all this crushing emotional distress descending over him was strong. He can't look at John, instead focusing on an invisible point of interest on the floor. The knowledge that he really didn't belong here had him standing, his eyes on the door. "I should go, shouldn't I?" he asks quietly, not trusting himself to say anymore and upset John further. The ball is immediately back in John's court, one word from him being the difference between trying to pick up the pieces of them or Sherlock leaving his life again, forever this time.
*cuddles* I promise it will get better! <3mightbebloggingFebruary 13 2012, 04:18:02 UTC
Although Sherlock doesn't say anything at first, John can see it, there in his eyes. The fright, and then the surprise. They might not have spoken for three years, but he likes to still think he knows him. He remembers him. He thinks he can practically hear that an inner struggle is going on inside the other man, and it twists his own stomach painfully. John swallows hard, staring at Sherlock and silently willing him to look back at him, as if maybe that shared connection in their eyes will somehow make everything right again. It's silly to think as much, of course. This can't be fixed overnight... and he's not even sure what needs to be fixed. Their friendship? They had always been so much more than friends, how could they be platonic now? Even three years later, he wasn't sure how to be just friends with this man, and he has the sudden, inexplicable urge to jump up, take him into his arms, and tell him just that.
...but would that be the right course of action? Mary. Mary was a very real presence in his life. Christ, she was his fiancee, after all. Of course he cared about her deeply. But she wasn't Sherlock, and it hadn't mattered that she wasn't Sherlock, because she seemed like the next best thing, and anyway, Sherlock was dead, right?
When the silent man suddenly stands, John finds himself shooting up shakily to his feet as well before he realizes what he's doing. He shakes his head. "Sherlock... stay," he says simply, brow furrowing a bit. "Please. There are... things that need to be said. Let me explain it to you, alright? Let me try." As if on cue, he hears the sound of the water boiling, but he doesn't immediately go to fetch the tea. His eyes silently plead with Sherlock to stay, and he doesn't turn to leave until he's sure that he will indeed not leave. "I'll get the tea, just... sit. Please."
Tea was the last thing he wanted right now, but he went to get it, anyway. Perhaps it would help. It was very British of him, he supposed. He returns a moment later with two glasses, and hands Sherlock his. Their fingers brush, and it's such a small, accidental thing, but it's still torture to him, and he quickly pulls his hand back and away. "It's just the way you like it, as long as your tastes haven't changed," he says quietly, returning to his own seat. Setting his tea aside to cool, he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face, before beginning.
"I want you to know I didn't go off looking for her," he began quietly, closing his eyes as he remembered, and because looking at Sherlock was a bit painful. "The first year you were gone, I missed you... so much, it literally hurt. Harry, bless her - she helped me get by and try to move on, but I fought her stubbornly for a long time. We hadn't gotten on well in a long time, but she was patient with me. I went back to seeing my therapist. My leg started hurting again. I didn't... I didn't want to go on without you, Sherlock, it was the most difficult thing I've ever done. But you were gone, and there was no miracle, you weren't coming back. I had to start living again. I was a soldier, it's what we do, we bloody soldier on." He sighed, opening his eyes and looking back up at Sherlock. "I served with her father in Afghanistan. I think you might actually like Mary - she's intelligent, witty, terribly independent. I suppose she... reminded me of you, in a way." John swallowed hard, having to look away again, shifting restlessly in his seat. "We, um, met almost two years ago, and have been dating for a while. I only just asked her to marry me... a few days ago."
He narrowed his eyes at the other, needing to emphasize his point. "I thought you were dead, Sherlock. If I'd known that you... that you were still out there, somewhere, I wouldn't have... not with her, not with anyone, do you... do you understand?" But his hardened expression breaks, and he has to turn his head and cover his face one his hand again. This time... there are silent tears. He's surprised he's held them back long into their 'reunion,' to be perfectly honest.
Okay bb I believe you :cshutupimageniusFebruary 14 2012, 04:15:35 UTC
Sherlock wants to look at John again, but not if all he was going to see was disdain. He knew it was probably the least of what he deserved, but that didn't make it any easier to see just how he'd affected him. It feels like he's suffocating in this familiar yet so foreign room, and the urge to just get out had him standing almost without realizing it. He just wanted to find a dark room and smoke and drink himself into oblivion, leaving John to have a happy marriage without having to look after him.
John's voice is the only thing that can make it through the haze of uncertainty, and it has him finally looking back at him. He's sure he didn't hear him right at first, that he's just inserting what he wants to hear. He can't imagine why John would want him to stay after everything he put him through, so he listens very carefully next time he speaks. He feels a flicker of warmth at what he hears, the fact that John wanted him to stay making him take his seat again without hesitation.
He's thrumming with anticipation as John gets their tea, not sure what he's expecting but feeling the slightest bit better that John didn't just tell him to sod off like he was halfway expecting. He watches as John returns, the brush of their fingers affecting him far more than it probably should have. More memories were brought to the surface by the mere touch of his hand, remembering how those hands used to make him feel so safe and loved. That on top of the fact that John remembered how he took his tea made him wonder how he was meant to sit by as this extraordinary man that he loved so much it hurt married someone else.
He watches as John speaks, feeling the tug at his heartstrings as he was taken through everything he went through in his absence and wishing he could have been there. His gaze is solemn as he speaks of the woman, the fact that she reminded John of him a small iota of comfort even though the fact remained that she wasn't him.
His features are obviously pained as John tells him that he wouldn't have done it if he thought he was alive, wishing he could have found some way to get him a message that wouldn't have compromised his safety. He doesn't have time to come to terms with the fact that John would have waited for him before John's crying and he doesn't know what to do. His first instinct is to leap across the room and pull him into a tight embrace, but he's not sure if he should because he didn't think he'd be able to let him go. Was he even allowed to touch him? His fingers grip at the arms of his chair and he shifts a little in indecision, waiting for any signal from John as to where to go from here. "John, tell me what I should do. Please. Something, anything. Please." he begs in quiet desperation, ready to leap up and do whatever he had to so John would forgive him.
<33 Last of the edits, SORRY. xDmightbebloggingFebruary 16 2012, 03:27:53 UTC
John wasn't any less clueless about this entire situation than Sherlock was. Everything was a confused mess of overwhelming emotions. How was one supposed to act when suddenly confronted by the former lover they'd thought had been dead for the past three years? He'd missed him, of course he'd missed him. He'd never stopped missing him... but he'd had to move on. No one, even the lovely Mary hadn't filled the void left behind by Sherlock. It was impossible to replace him, and he had always been one of a kind. To say that losing him had been a difficult blow was an understatement. It had nearly killed him. Now, to have him back again, as if from the dead, he knows he should be happy - he should be beside himself with excitement and relief and love, and perhaps he is, but it's too jumbled and confused inside him. Tears seem a very natural reaction, even for the former soldier who doesn't like showing this sort of weakness in front of others.
He hears the other man's words, and he can't practically feel his restless unease. That tone of begging, of pleading there on his voice nearly tears the poor doctor completely apart. He knows he has to say something, anything, like Sherlock said... but he's afraid to open his mouth. He's afraid what might come out might... be the wrong thing. Was there a wrong thing to say? Was there a wrong thing to do? They hadn't even touched yet. John hadn't punched him or hugged him or anything. Right now, he's hesitant to just look at him, and his jaw clenches as he tries to control the tears behind that hand stubbornly covering his eyes.
"Damn it, Sherlock," he let out a shuddering sigh, trying furiously to regain whatever composure he had left, and that wasn't very much. Slowly dropping his hand, he revealed reddened eyes and a hardened expression. Staring across the small distance between them, he slowly stood, clenching his hands into fists at his sides. Slowly, he started towards the other man, and for a long moment, it almost looked as if he might actually punch him. But something shifted in his expression, and softened, turning into a look that was more broken and he bit his lower lip hard so a sob wouldn't escape. But when he opened his mouth to speak, his voice was weakened and hoarse.
"Come here," he managed in that voice he was sure didn't sound pretty, but at the moment, he hardly cared. He opened his arms up just a little bit. "Please." And the moment Sherlock stood and was close enough, John would literally fall into his arms and lean into a tight hug, as if his legs could not support his body any longer - as if this one, powerful embrace that had been so very long in coming would make everything better again, somehow. Because despite everything - the fact he was engaged, the fact Sherlock had lied to him all these long three years - he deserved this, at least... even if it was all he was allowed to have.
Sherlock wasn't immune to all the conflicting emotions either, as hard as some may find that to believe. There was guilt -a lot of guilt-, as well as longing and heartache and so many others that he couldn't even find words for. He had waited for this moment every minute of every day for those three years, feeling like he was so ready for this when he really wasn't ready at all. Three years of looking forward to this reunion didn't bring him any closer to understanding how he should act or indeed if he should even be here. It feels like he's drowning in anguish as he watches John cry and knows that no matter what he'd like to do, he wasn't sure what he should do in this situation.
He had never begged in his life until John, but now he was ready to plead for the rest of his life for any little sliver of forgiveness he could gain. John deserved no less than Sherlock devoting his life to his happiness, and he would remain at the ready to do what he had to even though the position was seemingly already filled. He would never love anyone else, but John deserved a chance with someone who wouldn't pretend to be dead for three years, didn't he? If she truly made John happy, he would never try to intervene, but if there was somehow a chance for him...he would take it without question. Maybe that made him selfish, but he already knew all too well of that character flaw in himself and had learned to accept it.
When John speaks and looks up at him, his chest clenches painfully at what he sees there. To know that this was all his fault, that he was the one who made John feel that way, it was killing him inside. He watches him stand, not moving a muscle as he closes the distance between them. He braces himself, but doesn't flinch, ready to take whatever punishment John saw fit. John could beat him senseless, make him bleed profusely and Sherlock would sit there and take it because he believed it to be the least he deserved.
He sees the shift in John's features, though, and sees that he won't be hit just yet written on his face. He's elated at that, both at the fact that he wouldn't be hurt and that he could still read John's face like he'd never left. John's words have him leaping up, but he waits for John's arms to come around him just to be sure. His legs actually did physically stop supporting him, and he ends up kneeling down in utter emotional exhaustion with his arms still wrapped tight around John. He squeezes John tightly, marveling at how they still fit together and this still felt so right even after all this time. "I'm so sorry, John." he whispers into his ear, moving his hand to gently stroke his hair in an effort to reassure him somehow. His eyes fall shut and he just appreciates the simple joy of getting to hold him again, to know that this is real and not one of the countless times he would dream of this before waking up alone.
It felt like coming home. John knew the phrase was cliche and stupid and ridiculous, but when they touched, it was the first thought that leaped into his mind. He fell to his knees, along with Sherlock, leaning into the embrace, grabbing fist-fulls of his shirt and holding on tightly. The sound that escaped his lips was a mixture of sigh and sob, shuddering out of his trembling body. Everything was Sherlock - the familiar but foreign smell of him, the warm, solid feel of him and also the softness around his edges. They couldn't possibly be any closer in their embrace, and yet, it still wasn't enough - he needed more, needed for his entire world to be only filled with this man he'd thought was dead. He was touching him, he was real, and John couldn't stop himself from burying his nose in Sherlock's hair, breathing in that scent he'd only dreamed of, and imagined he could smell so many times. The flat never stopped smelling of Sherlock, at least in his mind, but this was so much more real. He revels in the lovely feel of the man's unruly curls against his face. The hands stroking his hair feel somehow so impossibly good for such a little thing, and he almost sobs again, although the soft, muffled sound that comes out of him is closer to a strained whimper.
Sherlock's apologetic words reach his ears and he grimaces hard, only tightening his grip on the consulting detective. There was much for him to be sorry for, true, but the good doctor also can't help feeling guilty. Although he's not completely sure if his guilt was because he had 'cheated' on this man by finding another... or because he was 'cheating' on Mary by going back to this man. But it is only an embrace, right? Completely harmless, something they both needed. And yet... were Mary to walk in right now, he's aware it might not appear completely innocent. It does not help that she knows about Sherlock - that he told her about him. They didn't keep many secrets. And there is the very real possibility she will walk in - they do not live together, but she has a key into the flat. She's stayed over before, although he usually prefers to stay at her place. He didn't tell her why, of course, but truth be told... he always felt 221B belonged to him and Sherlock, and the memories of their time there together.
But he doesn't tell Sherlock about all of that now. Call it selfish of him, but he doesn't want to. Right now, he just wants to stay like this forever - an impossibly naive wish, he knows, but as the minutes go by, he isn't any closer to pulling away. "Talk to me, Sherlock," he murmurs, leaning his cheek against the other's chest and pressing his ear above his heart. He hears the quickened beating of that precious heart, another reminder that he is indeed alive and back here, again, with him. As it's meant to be. His hands begin moving restlessly upon Sherlock's back, as if unable to find purchase and wanting to pull him even closer. Moving his chin up a bit, his nose brushes against Sherlock's neck, and his breath is warm against the pale skin there. "Just... tell me where you've been. Tell me what you've seen. Tell me what you've been doing." Tell me over and over again how much you missed me. But he stops himself from uttering those words, much as he wants to say them. To hear Sherlock's beautiful voice, that voice he had missed so much, would be more than enough.
Sherlock clung to John just as tight, feeling complete again for the first time in three years. Hearing and feeling John's shudders and whimpers against him was so difficult to handle, and there was no helping the way his own face heated up as tears prickled at the corners of his eyes. He had missed this every single moment of every single day he was away, and he was so grateful that John allowed him this. John had every right to hate him, of course he did, and the fact that he didn't was so very incredible and so very John. He breathes deep the scent of him and enjoys the warmth of him that seemed to seep through his clothing and into his very skin. He continues to toy with John's hair, feeling another pang of longing for lazy mornings where he would get to do this until John woke up and greeted him with a smile and a kiss. This embrace was far more than he deserved, though, and he was infinitely grateful for it.
He has a similar want to just stay here, just like this and go back to how they used to be without question. He knew it wouldn't be that easy, and that John deserved some kind of explanation. John's voice makes his heart hammer in his chest, that heart that always had and always would belong solely to John, and he cradles his head protectively as John leaned into him. He gently nuzzles the top of his head just a bit, closing his eyes and making himself believe for just one second that the last three years never happened. The way John can't seem to get close enough tugs at his heartstrings, and he wants nothing more than to give John his wish for absolute closeness. He sighs softly at the way John breathes against his neck, willing himself to concentrate on his words when he's so overwhelmed by the feeling of it.
"Come on." he replies gently, urging John to stand with him just long enough to tug him over to the sofa. He takes a deep breath and continues to just hold John close, drawing strength from his mere presence. "There's not much to tell, really. A lot of dull hotel rooms and days spent following each strand of Moriarty's web." He paused, his hands tracing over every bit of John he could reach. Nothing much seemed worth remembering without John. "John, you have to know that I wanted to come back every single day, or at least tell you somehow I was still alive. I couldn't, though. He had eyes everywhere, and he would have intercepted any message I tried to send you." He sighs softly, just holding him and appreciating every moment he was allowed to touch him while trying to ignore the regret and knowledge that John wasn't truly his anymore. This moment, though, this was all theirs, and he was going to get all he could out of it.
Everything about Sherlock felt right - the way they still fit together so perfectly, the way he felt both angular and soft, the way he smelled, and the way he also seemed to move instinctively into John. It was a good thing the other man didn't let go of him, because even when they were making their way to the sofa, John held onto him tightly. To be perfectly honest, he was fairly certain his legs would give out on him again, if he let go. This man was suddenly his anchor again, and it was dangerous how much he depended on him to keep him going again. It was dangerous because once he did have to let him go... he didn't know what would happen. Mary. He had Mary. She was supposed to be his anchor now, wasn't she? He was engaged to her, after all. But, bad as it seemed, it was as if she didn't have a spot in this, their reunion, even if only in his thoughts. It was a terrible thing for him to think, he knew, but what she didn't know surely couldn't hurt her. Again, he selfishly wanted this moment to himself, and Sherlock only - no one else was privy to their reunion. It was theirs' to have and do with what they would.
And hopefully, it wouldn't tear them both down even lower than they'd been these past three years apart.
John continues to lean into Sherlock, resting against his stomach, one arm slung over that torso and hand tangled tightly into his shirt. He was undoubtedly wrinkling it, and those shirts of his were always rather expensive, but at the moment, he couldn't bring himself to care. Every touch from the consulting detective's fingers felt like a caress, and he willed that hand to keep moving, to touch every inch of him again. It was an effort to concentrate on Sherlock's words, feeling himself becoming easily lost to the familiar lilt of that baritone he had missed so much. But he listened hard, and the meaning of those bittersweet words caught up with his brain. His body betrays him, practically aching for all the lost touch he'd gone without these three long years. It had been replaced with the touch of another, from hands that were smaller, softer, and more tender in a different way. He'd come to love those hands, too... but always in the back of his mind had been the one he'd lost, the one not even Mary could ever replace.
"I understand," he replies in a low, hoarse voice, a heavy sigh shuddering through his body. God, but he hated this. He hated that he was this close to taking so much more, everything he thought he deserved from this man. "Doesn't mean I have to like it." He smirks slightly, humorlessly dry... before slowly lifting up his chin so his face was angled towards Sherlock's. He knew at once that it hadn't been a good idea. Every fiber of his being wanted Sherlock, and here they were, faces so close, breathing the same air. His former everything was back, and he was there, and real, and gorgeous, and very much not dead... and John was fighting a losing battle to just stop this right now, and move away to a much safer distance. It was like a drowning person fighting the will to breathe air again. Useless. He was helpless to this, his weakness, back from the dead and with him, driving him crazy once again.
"I missed you so much," he says, just barely above a husky whisper... and the hand that had been wrinkling his shirt crept up, to his collarbone, then his neck. John's gaze hungrily drank in everything about him - his haunting eyes, his sharp cheekbones, his plump lips... and, God, but it had been so very long...
Sherlock had missed this so much for so long that it was still hard to believe that it was really happening. John was in his arms again, holding him like he thought he might disappear again if he didn't cling as tightly as he could. He wasn't going anywhere, promising himself that he would never never put John through such torment ever again. His mission in life was now doing whatever he could to keep John as happy as possible, though what that entailed remained to be seen. Even if John wanted to go through with his marriage, he would just smile and ask what he could do to help, even if it meant keeping himself together enough to stand next to him as his best man and hand off the ring that would forever bind him to someone who wasn't him. He would save his inner turmoil for when John couldn't see, just so he could make John believe that he was allowed his chance at happiness without needing to worry about him.
It was difficult, though, when John settled against him like he was always meant to be there (because he was meant to be there). Letting him go for the second time would be excruciating just like it was the first time, but he would take whatever he could get. If that meant taking a place on the sidelines of his life, he could accept that, and he would privately treasure every moment they spent together where he could talk to him and see him smile and just appreciate him from a respectful distance.
The broken quality of John's voice is hard to hear, but he endures it because at least he was hearing John's voice for real this time rather than the innumerable times he would be simultaneously haunted and consoled when that voice would sound in his dreams (or nightmares, sometimes). He managed a slight twitch of a smile when he hears the smirk in John's voice, loving the sound of every syllable despite the pained note in his words. He's frozen in place momentarily when John meets his eyes again, losing himself in his gaze like he had so many times before so very long ago.
This was dangerous, he knew that much, but hearing those words he'd waited three long years to hear gave him no willpower to pull away. He wanted to make up for all that lost time and crash their lips together and tell him over and over how much he loved him and would always love him, but he couldn't do that do him. He couldn't blow up John's entire life by pretending to be dead only to come back and reveal he was alive only to subsequently blow up his engagement. He didn't want John to resent him, and he wanted to give him time to get his head together and figure out exactly what he wanted to do first.
"John," he says softly as John's hand reaches up his neck, using every shred of willpower he had not to just take what he wanted, even though he could see John wanted it too. He took a deep breath and leaned in slowly and deliberately to press a kiss to his cheek, knowing even that would be difficult to explain if John's fiance happened to see. "Whatever you want to do, I'm here for you. For good, this time." he said gently into his ear, wrapping his arms tight around him and resting his chin in the crook of his neck as he always used to.
He'd looked and hoped and waited for a miracle, all throughout that first year. Others told him it was useless, Sherlock Holmes was dead, and he slowly started to see the rationality in their statements. He'd seen his best friend there, lying in a pool of his blood, bright red contrasting with his pale face and unseeing eyes. But it might as well have taken the entire year for him to finally come to terms with it all. Sherlock wasn't coming back to surprise him, or tell him yes, John, it was only just a magic trick - then proceed to scold him for being an idiot and thinking he would just die like that, in such an inelegant, stupid way.
And then, despite all the bad media and stories about Sherlock Holmes, the fake detective... a sort of movement started up, and began to spread. It started with people who had been helped in some way by Mr. Holmes, and did not believe the reports. The 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes' movement spread through word of mouth, fliers, graffiti and the like, and it was overwhelming, and encouraging, and for a while John thought maybe, just maybe he was still alive out there, somewhere, and had something to do with all this... but even that movement began to die out and fade away.
But the year past by, seasons fading into the next, and he knew he was truly alone. He didn't stay with Harry for too long, of course. So, he toyed with the idea of moving out and finding a flat, something cheap and like the empty one he'd briefly lived in before he'd met Sherlock and got swept up in that exciting world. But in the end, he moved back into 221B Baker Street, and Mrs. Hudson was only too happy to have him back, that she let him pay a cheaper rent until he could afford more. He returned to work at surgery, and took on even more hours, throwing himself into the job he was trained for.
Yes, a lot can happen in three years. People like John lose people, move on, meet new people... and sometimes become engaged. The announcement had just been made in the paper yesterday. The bride-to-be? A Mary Morstan.
"Yeah, I've got it, Mrs. Hudson," the newly engaged John Watson could be heard on the other side of the door. He was shrugging his coat on, just on his way out to stop by Tesco's and pick up some very ordinary, everyday items. It had been three years since he'd picked up something strange for one of Sherlock's experiments. When he opened the door, expecting it to be someone of absolutely no consequence, he looks up.... and stops short.
He feels and looks as if the air rushed out of him, as if he'd suffered a heavy blow to the gut. So many emotions come flooding back to him - memories of waking up to lazy kisses and intimate mornings. Of chasing after exciting cases, and having arguments of severed heads or fingers in the fridge. Of running fingers through each other's hair as they enjoyed quiet moments on the sofa. John stares as if he's seen a ghost, because he might as well have.
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He doesn't know how to read John's expression right now, and that makes it even harder to formulate a greeting or an apology or something that's not just staring uselessly. He'd practiced for this, looking forward to this moment every single day he was away, but now that it was here he had no idea how he was supposed to do this. "John, um." he starts, clearing his throat as though that might help. "You don't have to let me in." But i hope you will. "You don't even have to say anything." Even though I want you to tell me everything. "I just wanted to say that I owe you more apologies than I can ever say." He takes a deep breath, resisting the urge to reach out and touch him to at least affirm he was really there because he didn't think he deserved to anymore.
He thought he had more to say, but the words left him again. He hoped John would say something, bracing himself for whatever that might be. He didn't care what it was, he would let John scream at him until he was hoarse if he wanted to because that would be progress towards fixing them. He knew he'd broken them, and just because it was necessary didn't make it any easier. He had missed John every single day, and he wanted his partner -his everything- back so badly it was physically painful.
He waits patiently as he could for a reaction of any kind, searching John's expression for what he could be feeling.
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John's jaw finally worked a bit as he listened to the other speak, and he damn well nearly lost his balance as that familiar baritone hit his ears. It had been so long, and it sounded both so foreign and so very familiar. Even though it sounded uncertain, it might as well have been the most beautiful thing he'd heard during these last three years. He has to hold on tighter to the door handle or else he will crumple to the ground right then and there, his body suddenly feeling so very weak. But is it relief he feels? He's not sure. There's hurt, betrayal, and anger certainly still there, having laid dormant for a while now, rushing back in the face of the detective's return.
As he finally opens his mouth again, this time hoping to say something, anything, his free hand clenching into a tight fist at his side... there's suddenly another voice behind him. Mrs. Hudson. Whether or not she realized it was a tense moment between the two men, she, too, had been missing Sherlock. She's grown noticeably older, and is a bit slower on her feet, although quite good still for her age. She bustles past John after a tear-filled look at him, and then is tittering away at Sherlock, hugging him, scolding, going on about this and that and where has he been, and how could he do that to them?
It's a moment for John to collect himself, swallowing hard, and glancing away to the ground for a moment. It's another moment before Mrs. Hudson either realizes the boys need this, their makeshift reunion, or she can't handle it anymore herself - she's in tears, after all. She has an excuse to return to her own flat, something about having too many things to do, and then they're left alone again. Sherlock probably would have gotten a good look at him by now. The doctor does look older, with more grey streaks to his lightly coloured hair, and more lines on his face. A smile still has not graced his lips since before opening the door to this particular surprise.
John is only vaguely aware that he hasn't yet spoken a word to Sherlock. He swallows hard, glancing up, and then just as quickly away... and nods a bit. "You'd better... come in, then," he somehow manages in a quietly hoarse voice. Still not meeting the other's gaze, he steps aside to let him walk in so they can head upstairs to the flat. Talking outside wouldn't be a good idea, after all. For the most part, the flat has been left the same, although Sherlock's things - books, case files, and the like - have mostly been moved, and are being stored in his room. Engaged or not, John and Mary are not yet living together... although he already has plans of buying a new place for them. He's had his eye on somewhere nicer.
However... there is a rather familiar skull still staring down through unseeing, hollowed eyes, resting there on the fireplace... that has long-since gathered a small layer of dust.
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He watches with bated breath as John opens his mouth to speak, actually starting slightly when Mrs. Hudson pops up from behind John. He accepts the hug from her a bit awkwardly, sparing a quick glance at John over her shoulder before averting his eyes from his expression that was still frustratingly unreadable. He placates her the best he can, murmuring apologies and the assurance that it was necessary.
It seemed to assuage her for the moment enough to leave them back to their wonderful and at the same time awkward reunion. He takes the moments to study this three years older John, wanting to curl up on the sofa with him and count all the new grey hairs and trace his fingers over the new lines on his face. There's another pang of longing that hits him then, wishing he could have been there to see the gradual progression of all that rather than just the finished product in front of him.
He blinks in confusion at first when John finally speaks, almost believing that he had only inserted the response he was hoping for until John steps aside for him. "Th..thank you." he replies almost meekly, moving inside and taking those familiar and yet foreign stairs up to the flat. He hovers awkwardly just inside the door of the sitting room, for the first time unsure of where he should sit. Was there even a place for him here? A glance at the fireplace makes him decidedly more hopeful, glad to see at least one remnant of him still out in the open. He waits for John, his hands clasped behind his back but with one errant finger tapping nervously away on his hand.
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Supposedly? He loved Mary, of course he did. Right? God, he couldn't think of that, of her. Not now. Not yet.
Once he stepped into the sitting room behind Sherlock, his eyes take in the nervous movement of that long finger. Swallowing hard, he glances back up in the general direction of the other's eyes. It's strange, to see Sherlock looking so out of place, when this had surely been his home, once upon a time. Was it not anymore? For the longest time, it hadn't felt like home without him, and now... well, whatever the case, John awkwardly gestures to Sherlock's usual chair, even though it has been a long time since he's sat in it. "Have a seat. I'll, ah... put the kettle on, shall I?" He doesn't quite smile, although he tries, and his voice doesn't sound nearly as casual as he wants it to. Clearing his throat lightly, he turns without another word and heads into the kitchen, not really giving Sherlock a chance to reply. Once he's there, just as he's going through the motions of making some tea... he finds he has to stop. Leaning against the counter suddenly becomes necessary, and a silent, body-shuddering sigh goes through him. He refuses to let the tears come - and he's not quite sure whether or not he can cry yet, anyway. He's not sure there are any tears left, after so many had been shed, in private, that first long year of Sherlock's absence. After that first year, he'd thought, well maybe he'll meet someone else. And since Sherlock was a man, and he'd clearly been attracted to his body, he'd started going to gay bars. However, try as he did, he was never really all that into the men there, handsome though many were. He blamed it on their age, as the younger ones made him feel a bit too old, and the older ones just didn't excite him as Sherlock did. He was somewhat content to give up on his short-lived 'dating adventure,' figuring he'd had his soul-mate and he'd lost him. How could he possibly fill that void in his heart ever again?
Then came a woman in the unassuming form of Mary Morstan... and everything changed. She wasn't Sherlock, of course, but she also wasn't like the ordinary women he'd dated in the past. She stirred something inside of him.
Inhaling a deep breath, pushing such thoughts aside and composing himself, he returns into the sitting room, letting the water boil for the tea. One look at the other man, looking all gorgeous and perfect and as if he hasn't aged a day... part of him wishes they could just return to as they were before. He has to tear his gaze away again, slowly easing himself down into his own, usual chair.
"So," he starts quietly, voice somewhat resigned, trying to keep his tone neutral... but there might still be an accusatory hint there. He can't help it. "Where have you been?"
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When John met his gaze, the remembrance of all the little moments of intimacy they shared hit him like so much asphalt he'd appeared to die on all those years ago. He saw flashes of them in bed, on the sofa, John smiling at him like he was the most incredible thing in the world to him because back then, it seemed he was. He'd almost felt like he deserved that adoration for a brief time, long before he knew it would be necessary to break his heart to save his life. He opens his mouth to speak -to say what, he had no idea-, before John is waving towards his chair and swiftly leaving the room. His brow furrows in half confusion and half hurt at the idea that this man that he loved so much now felt like a stranger. He draws a shaky breath and moves to his chair, settling into it and finding some minuscule comfort in the familiar piece of furniture.
The words 'I'm not ready for this, how could I ever be ready for this? flit through his head unbidden, wishing he knew the right words to put together to make John possibly forgive him, if he even deserved his forgiveness. He watches as John avoids his eyes, clearing his throat a little after he asks that question, which is actually one of the easier ones he could have asked. "I didn't stay in any one place for very long. All over Europe, really." he answers, gauging John's expression and trying to think of what he could possibly say. "You must know that it was necessary, John. I never would have left if it wasn't absolutely imperative." he says, knowing his play at being clinical about this wouldn't do him any favors in gaining John's favor. "He was going to have you killed, John. You and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. I had to do it, to save you." he explained, hoping against hope for some sort of understanding.
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Sitting there, now, across from that beautiful ghost, he still doesn't know how to feel, or what this all means. But through his warring emotions, he does feel a surge of intense feelings - a remembrance, perhaps, of how he once felt for Sherlock? But surely that's gone now... right? As he listens to the other man explain, his own jaw twitches slightly, and he shifts uneasily, restlessly, in his chair. There is some guilt there, yes, at the thought that this had all been to save not only his life, but Mrs. Hudson's, and Greg's as well.
"You... had... to," John repeated slowly, his tone quiet but suddenly a bit more cool. "Yes, fine. Alright. But three... years, Sherlock. Three years, I hear nothing and I thought... I thought you were..."
He trails off, burying his face in one hand, but the tears still do not come. Instead, as his shoulders shake lightly... it suddenly becomes clear that he's laughing, silently, just a bit. Dry laughter. The reason becomes clear soon enough. He looks back up, and his gaze does meet Sherlock's this time, sharply... but also with a note of disdain and resentment there. It's partially focused on himself, and partially on Sherlock. He's not sure who is more to blame. "I'm engaged, Sherlock. To be married." In case there was any confusion. "To a woman."
John feels at once that he's said too much, but he couldn't help it. The moment he saw Sherlock at the door, he's been this closer to blurting it. Now it's suddenly out there, and the ball is in Sherlock's court... although he's relatively sure whatever look that man gives him will break his heart even more, if possible.
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He can feel how his words are affecting John as much as see it, wishing he could touch him again, even if just for a moment. He couldn't though, not yet. He goes silent when John speaks, feeling his stomach flip when he trails off. His fingers twitch on the arms of his chair, poised to fling himself to the floor and grovel at his feet for making him feel this way.
Just when he thought he couldn't possibly feel worse after believing he made John cry, he does when he realizes it's laughter rather than tears. He stares, wide-eyed and frightful at the sound of it, the bottom dropping out of his stomach as realization dawns on him that this was so much worse than he imagined. And then, it gets worse yet again. Engaged. John was engaged, and his insides twist excruciatingly at the knowledge. He should have expected this. Whatever hopeless romantic side of him had surfaced when he was with John held onto the pathetically deluded idea that he would have waited for him, but he knew that was a long shot. John thought he was dead, and he objectively rationalized that he would have to give up on him eventually.
He shouldn't have come. He should have stayed away and left John with the belief that he was something approaching a good man. Maybe he could have believed for a moment that he deserved him if he had. He just had to give in to the selfish desire to see him again, didn't he?
He feels like he can hardly breathe, and the instinct to just run from all this crushing emotional distress descending over him was strong. He can't look at John, instead focusing on an invisible point of interest on the floor. The knowledge that he really didn't belong here had him standing, his eyes on the door. "I should go, shouldn't I?" he asks quietly, not trusting himself to say anymore and upset John further. The ball is immediately back in John's court, one word from him being the difference between trying to pick up the pieces of them or Sherlock leaving his life again, forever this time.
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...but would that be the right course of action? Mary. Mary was a very real presence in his life. Christ, she was his fiancee, after all. Of course he cared about her deeply. But she wasn't Sherlock, and it hadn't mattered that she wasn't Sherlock, because she seemed like the next best thing, and anyway, Sherlock was dead, right?
When the silent man suddenly stands, John finds himself shooting up shakily to his feet as well before he realizes what he's doing. He shakes his head. "Sherlock... stay," he says simply, brow furrowing a bit. "Please. There are... things that need to be said. Let me explain it to you, alright? Let me try." As if on cue, he hears the sound of the water boiling, but he doesn't immediately go to fetch the tea. His eyes silently plead with Sherlock to stay, and he doesn't turn to leave until he's sure that he will indeed not leave. "I'll get the tea, just... sit. Please."
Tea was the last thing he wanted right now, but he went to get it, anyway. Perhaps it would help. It was very British of him, he supposed. He returns a moment later with two glasses, and hands Sherlock his. Their fingers brush, and it's such a small, accidental thing, but it's still torture to him, and he quickly pulls his hand back and away. "It's just the way you like it, as long as your tastes haven't changed," he says quietly, returning to his own seat. Setting his tea aside to cool, he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face, before beginning.
"I want you to know I didn't go off looking for her," he began quietly, closing his eyes as he remembered, and because looking at Sherlock was a bit painful. "The first year you were gone, I missed you... so much, it literally hurt. Harry, bless her - she helped me get by and try to move on, but I fought her stubbornly for a long time. We hadn't gotten on well in a long time, but she was patient with me. I went back to seeing my therapist. My leg started hurting again. I didn't... I didn't want to go on without you, Sherlock, it was the most difficult thing I've ever done. But you were gone, and there was no miracle, you weren't coming back. I had to start living again. I was a soldier, it's what we do, we bloody soldier on." He sighed, opening his eyes and looking back up at Sherlock. "I served with her father in Afghanistan. I think you might actually like Mary - she's intelligent, witty, terribly independent. I suppose she... reminded me of you, in a way." John swallowed hard, having to look away again, shifting restlessly in his seat. "We, um, met almost two years ago, and have been dating for a while. I only just asked her to marry me... a few days ago."
He narrowed his eyes at the other, needing to emphasize his point. "I thought you were dead, Sherlock. If I'd known that you... that you were still out there, somewhere, I wouldn't have... not with her, not with anyone, do you... do you understand?" But his hardened expression breaks, and he has to turn his head and cover his face one his hand again. This time... there are silent tears. He's surprised he's held them back long into their 'reunion,' to be perfectly honest.
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John's voice is the only thing that can make it through the haze of uncertainty, and it has him finally looking back at him. He's sure he didn't hear him right at first, that he's just inserting what he wants to hear. He can't imagine why John would want him to stay after everything he put him through, so he listens very carefully next time he speaks. He feels a flicker of warmth at what he hears, the fact that John wanted him to stay making him take his seat again without hesitation.
He's thrumming with anticipation as John gets their tea, not sure what he's expecting but feeling the slightest bit better that John didn't just tell him to sod off like he was halfway expecting. He watches as John returns, the brush of their fingers affecting him far more than it probably should have. More memories were brought to the surface by the mere touch of his hand, remembering how those hands used to make him feel so safe and loved. That on top of the fact that John remembered how he took his tea made him wonder how he was meant to sit by as this extraordinary man that he loved so much it hurt married someone else.
He watches as John speaks, feeling the tug at his heartstrings as he was taken through everything he went through in his absence and wishing he could have been there. His gaze is solemn as he speaks of the woman, the fact that she reminded John of him a small iota of comfort even though the fact remained that she wasn't him.
His features are obviously pained as John tells him that he wouldn't have done it if he thought he was alive, wishing he could have found some way to get him a message that wouldn't have compromised his safety. He doesn't have time to come to terms with the fact that John would have waited for him before John's crying and he doesn't know what to do. His first instinct is to leap across the room and pull him into a tight embrace, but he's not sure if he should because he didn't think he'd be able to let him go. Was he even allowed to touch him? His fingers grip at the arms of his chair and he shifts a little in indecision, waiting for any signal from John as to where to go from here. "John, tell me what I should do. Please. Something, anything. Please." he begs in quiet desperation, ready to leap up and do whatever he had to so John would forgive him.
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He hears the other man's words, and he can't practically feel his restless unease. That tone of begging, of pleading there on his voice nearly tears the poor doctor completely apart. He knows he has to say something, anything, like Sherlock said... but he's afraid to open his mouth. He's afraid what might come out might... be the wrong thing. Was there a wrong thing to say? Was there a wrong thing to do? They hadn't even touched yet. John hadn't punched him or hugged him or anything. Right now, he's hesitant to just look at him, and his jaw clenches as he tries to control the tears behind that hand stubbornly covering his eyes.
"Damn it, Sherlock," he let out a shuddering sigh, trying furiously to regain whatever composure he had left, and that wasn't very much. Slowly dropping his hand, he revealed reddened eyes and a hardened expression. Staring across the small distance between them, he slowly stood, clenching his hands into fists at his sides. Slowly, he started towards the other man, and for a long moment, it almost looked as if he might actually punch him. But something shifted in his expression, and softened, turning into a look that was more broken and he bit his lower lip hard so a sob wouldn't escape. But when he opened his mouth to speak, his voice was weakened and hoarse.
"Come here," he managed in that voice he was sure didn't sound pretty, but at the moment, he hardly cared. He opened his arms up just a little bit. "Please." And the moment Sherlock stood and was close enough, John would literally fall into his arms and lean into a tight hug, as if his legs could not support his body any longer - as if this one, powerful embrace that had been so very long in coming would make everything better again, somehow. Because despite everything - the fact he was engaged, the fact Sherlock had lied to him all these long three years - he deserved this, at least... even if it was all he was allowed to have.
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He had never begged in his life until John, but now he was ready to plead for the rest of his life for any little sliver of forgiveness he could gain. John deserved no less than Sherlock devoting his life to his happiness, and he would remain at the ready to do what he had to even though the position was seemingly already filled. He would never love anyone else, but John deserved a chance with someone who wouldn't pretend to be dead for three years, didn't he? If she truly made John happy, he would never try to intervene, but if there was somehow a chance for him...he would take it without question. Maybe that made him selfish, but he already knew all too well of that character flaw in himself and had learned to accept it.
When John speaks and looks up at him, his chest clenches painfully at what he sees there. To know that this was all his fault, that he was the one who made John feel that way, it was killing him inside. He watches him stand, not moving a muscle as he closes the distance between them. He braces himself, but doesn't flinch, ready to take whatever punishment John saw fit. John could beat him senseless, make him bleed profusely and Sherlock would sit there and take it because he believed it to be the least he deserved.
He sees the shift in John's features, though, and sees that he won't be hit just yet written on his face. He's elated at that, both at the fact that he wouldn't be hurt and that he could still read John's face like he'd never left. John's words have him leaping up, but he waits for John's arms to come around him just to be sure. His legs actually did physically stop supporting him, and he ends up kneeling down in utter emotional exhaustion with his arms still wrapped tight around John. He squeezes John tightly, marveling at how they still fit together and this still felt so right even after all this time. "I'm so sorry, John." he whispers into his ear, moving his hand to gently stroke his hair in an effort to reassure him somehow. His eyes fall shut and he just appreciates the simple joy of getting to hold him again, to know that this is real and not one of the countless times he would dream of this before waking up alone.
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Sherlock's apologetic words reach his ears and he grimaces hard, only tightening his grip on the consulting detective. There was much for him to be sorry for, true, but the good doctor also can't help feeling guilty. Although he's not completely sure if his guilt was because he had 'cheated' on this man by finding another... or because he was 'cheating' on Mary by going back to this man. But it is only an embrace, right? Completely harmless, something they both needed. And yet... were Mary to walk in right now, he's aware it might not appear completely innocent. It does not help that she knows about Sherlock - that he told her about him. They didn't keep many secrets. And there is the very real possibility she will walk in - they do not live together, but she has a key into the flat. She's stayed over before, although he usually prefers to stay at her place. He didn't tell her why, of course, but truth be told... he always felt 221B belonged to him and Sherlock, and the memories of their time there together.
But he doesn't tell Sherlock about all of that now. Call it selfish of him, but he doesn't want to. Right now, he just wants to stay like this forever - an impossibly naive wish, he knows, but as the minutes go by, he isn't any closer to pulling away. "Talk to me, Sherlock," he murmurs, leaning his cheek against the other's chest and pressing his ear above his heart. He hears the quickened beating of that precious heart, another reminder that he is indeed alive and back here, again, with him. As it's meant to be. His hands begin moving restlessly upon Sherlock's back, as if unable to find purchase and wanting to pull him even closer. Moving his chin up a bit, his nose brushes against Sherlock's neck, and his breath is warm against the pale skin there. "Just... tell me where you've been. Tell me what you've seen. Tell me what you've been doing." Tell me over and over again how much you missed me. But he stops himself from uttering those words, much as he wants to say them. To hear Sherlock's beautiful voice, that voice he had missed so much, would be more than enough.
"Anything."
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He has a similar want to just stay here, just like this and go back to how they used to be without question. He knew it wouldn't be that easy, and that John deserved some kind of explanation. John's voice makes his heart hammer in his chest, that heart that always had and always would belong solely to John, and he cradles his head protectively as John leaned into him. He gently nuzzles the top of his head just a bit, closing his eyes and making himself believe for just one second that the last three years never happened. The way John can't seem to get close enough tugs at his heartstrings, and he wants nothing more than to give John his wish for absolute closeness. He sighs softly at the way John breathes against his neck, willing himself to concentrate on his words when he's so overwhelmed by the feeling of it.
"Come on." he replies gently, urging John to stand with him just long enough to tug him over to the sofa. He takes a deep breath and continues to just hold John close, drawing strength from his mere presence. "There's not much to tell, really. A lot of dull hotel rooms and days spent following each strand of Moriarty's web." He paused, his hands tracing over every bit of John he could reach. Nothing much seemed worth remembering without John. "John, you have to know that I wanted to come back every single day, or at least tell you somehow I was still alive. I couldn't, though. He had eyes everywhere, and he would have intercepted any message I tried to send you." He sighs softly, just holding him and appreciating every moment he was allowed to touch him while trying to ignore the regret and knowledge that John wasn't truly his anymore. This moment, though, this was all theirs, and he was going to get all he could out of it.
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And hopefully, it wouldn't tear them both down even lower than they'd been these past three years apart.
John continues to lean into Sherlock, resting against his stomach, one arm slung over that torso and hand tangled tightly into his shirt. He was undoubtedly wrinkling it, and those shirts of his were always rather expensive, but at the moment, he couldn't bring himself to care. Every touch from the consulting detective's fingers felt like a caress, and he willed that hand to keep moving, to touch every inch of him again. It was an effort to concentrate on Sherlock's words, feeling himself becoming easily lost to the familiar lilt of that baritone he had missed so much. But he listened hard, and the meaning of those bittersweet words caught up with his brain. His body betrays him, practically aching for all the lost touch he'd gone without these three long years. It had been replaced with the touch of another, from hands that were smaller, softer, and more tender in a different way. He'd come to love those hands, too... but always in the back of his mind had been the one he'd lost, the one not even Mary could ever replace.
"I understand," he replies in a low, hoarse voice, a heavy sigh shuddering through his body. God, but he hated this. He hated that he was this close to taking so much more, everything he thought he deserved from this man. "Doesn't mean I have to like it." He smirks slightly, humorlessly dry... before slowly lifting up his chin so his face was angled towards Sherlock's. He knew at once that it hadn't been a good idea. Every fiber of his being wanted Sherlock, and here they were, faces so close, breathing the same air. His former everything was back, and he was there, and real, and gorgeous, and very much not dead... and John was fighting a losing battle to just stop this right now, and move away to a much safer distance. It was like a drowning person fighting the will to breathe air again. Useless. He was helpless to this, his weakness, back from the dead and with him, driving him crazy once again.
"I missed you so much," he says, just barely above a husky whisper... and the hand that had been wrinkling his shirt crept up, to his collarbone, then his neck. John's gaze hungrily drank in everything about him - his haunting eyes, his sharp cheekbones, his plump lips... and, God, but it had been so very long...
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It was difficult, though, when John settled against him like he was always meant to be there (because he was meant to be there). Letting him go for the second time would be excruciating just like it was the first time, but he would take whatever he could get. If that meant taking a place on the sidelines of his life, he could accept that, and he would privately treasure every moment they spent together where he could talk to him and see him smile and just appreciate him from a respectful distance.
The broken quality of John's voice is hard to hear, but he endures it because at least he was hearing John's voice for real this time rather than the innumerable times he would be simultaneously haunted and consoled when that voice would sound in his dreams (or nightmares, sometimes). He managed a slight twitch of a smile when he hears the smirk in John's voice, loving the sound of every syllable despite the pained note in his words. He's frozen in place momentarily when John meets his eyes again, losing himself in his gaze like he had so many times before so very long ago.
This was dangerous, he knew that much, but hearing those words he'd waited three long years to hear gave him no willpower to pull away. He wanted to make up for all that lost time and crash their lips together and tell him over and over how much he loved him and would always love him, but he couldn't do that do him. He couldn't blow up John's entire life by pretending to be dead only to come back and reveal he was alive only to subsequently blow up his engagement. He didn't want John to resent him, and he wanted to give him time to get his head together and figure out exactly what he wanted to do first.
"John," he says softly as John's hand reaches up his neck, using every shred of willpower he had not to just take what he wanted, even though he could see John wanted it too. He took a deep breath and leaned in slowly and deliberately to press a kiss to his cheek, knowing even that would be difficult to explain if John's fiance happened to see. "Whatever you want to do, I'm here for you. For good, this time." he said gently into his ear, wrapping his arms tight around him and resting his chin in the crook of his neck as he always used to.
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