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“He’s my friend!” he cried out in a voice that sounded nothing like his own. As the words left John’s lips, he felt the last remaining shreds of his broken heart wrenched out along with them. It was distant and weak, two things that he had never allowed himself to be. The memory of it all is painful, but that’s beside the point. “Please, let me through… he’s my… he’s my fr-” he started, but the dreaded ‘f-word’ died in his throat. Fuck, he hated that word. He’d always hated it and he couldn’t deny it; not anymore. He had always known that there was something more - something deeper - between them and his next words betrayed his heart in an instant, tumbling out before he had a chance to stop them. “God, no… No, he’s more than… He’s always been more but, I- I never said.” A broken sob escaped his throat as the first of many tears began to fall.
As they rolled Sherlock’s limp form over on the pavement - they? Who was ‘they’? Who had heard…?, John reached out a hand and curled his fingers into the thick collar of the Belstaff coat. Clinging to it for dear life, his tears continued to fall as he whispered the words he’d held in for far too long: “I love you.... I love you, Sherlock... Please… Please, don’t leave me. Don’t do this...” But, it was too late. He’d known it before the detective’s body had even hit the pavement. It was too late and there was nothing he could ever do to change that, now.
As he watched the love of his life being loaded onto a stretcher - a formality; Sherlock would never know the difference , he felt oddly disconnected from his own body. In a way, it was almost as if he were watching the scene unfold from some unknown perch up above, watching as the entire world seemed to crash down around him. The blood on the concrete had swirled into a sickening puddle of guilt at John’s feet and he felt his knees buckle. He barely even put up a fight as his vision went black around the edges before swallowing him up completely.
From there, John recalls the way his keys rattled in his shaking hand, staggering into the lock as the awful sound of scraping metal assaulted his senses. He remembers his resolve crumbling under the sound of one set of footfalls on the stairs instead of two. Night had fallen and an overwhelming sense of loneliness engulfed him. Nothing would ever be the same and some parts of him just hadn’t accepted that yet. Hours had passed since the incident - being forced into mental/physical supervision at the Yard had been torture - and it was Lestrade that finally cracked, giving in to John’s quiet pleas to be taken home. He had no desire to stay with anyone else or have someone sitting around their flat, watching him day in and day out. He wanted to be alone; he wanted to process the grief in his own way in his own home.
The door to the sitting room fell open quite easily. He can vaguely remember that he hadn’t even bothered to close it properly before leaving out at a dead run in hopes of catching the detective, but he had done his best to block the thought from his mind. The last thing he needed was to dwell on the day's events the moment he set foot in the flat and so he stumbled to his chair where he’d slouched rather defeatedly. As his head fell into his hands, John felt the sudden urge to scream and lash out at all that was left in the world. It was easy to envision himself kicking over the leather armchair across from him, ripping apart the magazines that littered the coffee table, and slamming his fists onto the desk, clearing the surface in one fell swoop of his arms.
Instead, he tangled his fingers in his hair and allowed himself to break once again. The pain in his chest was devastating, the silence deafening. His mobile buzzed to life a moment later and it took John much longer than he’d care to admit to even realize where the sound had come from. He knew it would be Molly or Greg or even Mycroft reaching out to him but he had no desire to talk to anyone. Nothing that anyone could say or do would ever bring Sherlock back and he just didn't have the patience to listen to it.
He tugged the device from his coat pocket in a fit of frustration and dropped it unceremoniously onto the small table beside him. He expected it to land with a satisfying little thunk , but it didn't. A muffled clatter caught his attention and with a heavy sigh, he turned his head to glance at the table. He could still remember the wave of confusion that washed over him as he took in the sight before him. The mobile phone was face-down on the table, but the small black velvet box beside it caused John’s heart to stop. It most certainly wasn't there that morning and it was in that moment that John began to understand the heart-breaking turn his life had taken.
Licking his lips, he leaned over the arm of his chair and gasped audibly. Beside the box there waa a note, the same note that John keeps tucked away in his wallet to this very day. The same note that pumped hope right into his veins and straight through to his heart, jump starting it all over again. “I never knew... but, wait for me, please… and keep this with you. -SH” the note read and John’s eyes shifted to the little black box.
He remembers swallowing thickly, his mouth feeling more like dried cotton than ever before as he reached for the box. If he closes his eyes, he can still feel the soft velvet beneath his fingertips as he caressed the lid reverently. For some reason just holding the box close to his chest gave him a peace of mind that he never thought he’d have again. Sherlock left it for him, touched it, held it as he thought of John and that thought alone was worth its weight in gold.
Taking a deep breath, he slowly opened the box to find a silver chain. It wasn't just any chain, however; he’d recognise the chain from his old military dog tags anywhere... The only difference was that his dog tags had been removed, replaced by a single, silver pendant. Turning the pendant over in his fingers, his jaw dropped in disbelief at the inscription engraved into the precious metal: “It’s always you, John Watson…”
It’s been three years since that terrible day.
Over the years, secret messages and coded pictures had become a normalcy in John’s everyday life, subtle hints and clues to let him know that his best friend was safe and making his way back to him with certainty, but in recent weeks those correspondence have been few and far between. John’s fingers close around the pendant where it rests against his skin, brushing the soft hairs of his chest as his heart beats in time with the gentle woosh-woosh-woosh of the underground as it races along the Jubilee Line. It won’t be long before he’s home, cocooned in the warmth of his own flat, tucked away from the rest of the world where he can let his demons run free. He’s known Sherlock has been alive all this time, but, lately, he can’t help but worry. He can’t ignore the terror he feels every time he gets the post, only to realize that once again he hasn’t received a single word from the detective.
As his feet drag heavily up the steps to 221B, he can’t fight the sadness anymore. He’s soaked to the bone after a sudden downpour had caught him off guard, his leg is aching again for the first time in years, and his shoulder throbs with a vengeance. Three years of loneliness and fear cave in on him and he lets out a shaky sigh. His key turns in the lock as he sniffs, willing his emotions to keep it together. He steps into the sitting room and shuts the door behind him, slumping back against it as his eyes fall closed.
A sharp intake of breath draws all of John’s focus and his eyes snap open. His breath hitches in his chest as he jerks his head to the center of the room, staring wide-eyed at the man before him. It’s been three years to the day since he’s laid eyes on Sherlock Holmes but the fluttery feeling in his stomach still hasn’t changed. The detective’s chocolate curls are sticking up all over as the few over his brow seem plastered to his forehead, dampened by the weather. His piercing blue eyes seem to search John’s face as they dart this way and that, but John isn’t sure what he can read in his expression. His heart is hammering in his chest now and he feels his lips moving, dying to say something - anything! - but the words stick in his throat like treacle.
Sherlock’s brow furrows slightly and a tight smile tugs at the corners of his lips. It’s an expression John has seen time and time again, but he’s never fully understood it until now. It’s a heartfelt expression coming from the man that is believed by many to have no emotional connection to the world at all, but, in this moment, it’s quite clear that he does. Every fairytale emotion is written clear in the lines of his face and it isn’t long before he’s moving, his long legs clearing the space between them in three long strides. The movement takes John by surprise, but his arms move of their own accord, wrapping around the taller man’s middle as he’s crowded against the door.
Their bodies crash together in a tangle of limbs and roaming hands as Sherlock’s lips meet John’s in a passionate kiss, hesitant at first but gaining confidence as John returns the gesture, lapping desperately at the detective’s bottom lip. It’s fierce and hungry, filled with an intensity that John has never felt before. He has no idea what he’s doing or what it even means, but he can’t get enough. Kissing Sherlock is by far the greatest thing he’s ever experienced and he can only hope that this isn’t just a one off.
One of his hands finds Sherlock’s curls, wrapping his fingers delicately in the velvet locks as he tugs experimentally. A soft moan escapes the detective’s lips and John can’t help the quiet yet possessive growl that rumbles through his chest. The sound of his best friend moaning in his arms is music to John’s ears and he straightens his back, pulling Sherlock flush as he grips the collar of the taller man’s shirt. He deepens the kiss, licking into Sherlock’s mouth as the detective melts against him and he’s suddenly startled by the brush of metal against the pad of his thumb.
Panting softly, John kisses the corner of Sherlock’s lip reassuringly as he pulls back just enough to glance at his friend’s neck. There against the pale, smooth skin of his throat rests a silver chain similar to the one that John was given all those years ago. It’s clearly something new judging by the looks of it, only purchased in the last few years, and John’s curiosity peaks. He dips his fingers into the vee of Sherlock’s open collar and tugs gently at the chain, pulling it out from under his shirt. A glint of silver catches the light and John recognizes his battered dog tags almost instantly, feeling a tightness in his chest as he thinks back to the black velvet box.
“You…” he says, not entirely sure of what he’s supposed to say. The words run together in his mind, but he blurts them out anyway, needing something more than air between them. “You’ve had them all this time?” It’s an obvious question with an even more obvious answer but he’s starting to put the pieces together even before Sherlock speaks.
Dipping his head, Sherlock nods slowly, “Yes… I needed something to take with me… Something of value, something that would make me feel close to you. Something to give me strength.” He doesn’t meet John’s eye but the light blush that graces his features is enough to confirm John’s suspicions.
“So, you meant it, then? The note…”
Sherlock nods once again; John isn’t pulling any punches. “Of course, I did… I couldn’t leave you alone like that, not after everything you said. Not without telling you that I heard you…”
For some strange reason, Sherlock’s words strike a chord with John and it’s the first time that he’s actually realized what all of this means. It’s the first time the truth dawns on him and his heart nearly stops. He’d heard him that day; he’d heard everything John had said as he’d clung to his presumably lifeless body and cried out, wishing like hell that the nightmare before him wasn’t happening. Sherlock had been listening there on the pavement when John had confessed his feelings for him and hadn’t batted an eye. Sure, it had all been a ruse, an act for Moriarty’s henchmen, but the reality of it all weighs heavily on John’s heart. On the surface, John’s anger bubbles, twisting itself into a fury that makes him want to punch the detective square in the face, but, deep down, he knows why Sherlock had faked his own death. There had been no other way for Sherlock to save the ones he loved and that was something that John was going to have to live with. The final links in Moriarty’s chain of evil had been broken as Sherlock had fought his way back to him and now he is finally home. He's back in 221B where he belongs, in John’s arms for the first time ever. He doesn’t need to spoil it by rehashing old regrets.
A gentle brush of fingertips over his cheek draws John back to the present and he looks up to see Sherlock’s pale blue eyes studying him once again. There’s a hint of worry - and is that fear? - in his gaze, but John just shakes his head. He can’t punish him for this and he knows it. “I know… It’s fine, all right?” he responds, doing his best to reassure his friend as he lets his fingers caress the taller man’s hair. “I know there was nothing else you could have done and that doesn’t change the things I said to you that day. There’s no point in being angry, so I promise I won’t be. I waited for you, just like you asked… and now you’re home…”
Sherlock’s gaze softens and he presses forward, meeting John’s lips again. The kiss is different this time, a silent ‘thank you’, a tender symbol of gratitude to mark the start of their new life together. John feels his heart swell in his chest as he breathes his detective in, huffing softly against his lips. Sherlock is home. They’re safe. They’re together... just like he promised.