Chapter Text
A year. A whole year, and John still feels Sherlock on his shoulder sometimes.
During the small moments of joy undeterred by guilt he allows himself, during the small moments of excitement he lets himself feel, he always feels Sherlock at his shoulder, biting down, and it’s always there to remind him. You don’t deserve to be happy, John.
Because if John was smart enough, quick enough, clever enough, strong enough, if he was enough, Sherlock would be there next to him, and his shoulder would be lightly damp, and he’d feel the slight sting of his teeth, and he wouldn’t be atoning for this.
It was probably to be expected. John’s always had a history of losing the best things that come to him, and he had to have known that Sherlock would’ve been ripped from him at some point as well. Apparently, pattern recognition wasn’t his strong suit.
He’ll pick up the paper sometimes, go through the agony column, like Sherlock used to love doing. He’ll turn on the news, look for a murder and pretend to be half the man Sherlock was.
Lestrade tried, at first. She’d never been as fond of him as she was of Sherlock, but they were facing the same grief, the same loss, and she tried. Everyone tried. Everyone bloody tried. Lestrade tried, Mariana tried, Carol tried, hell, his own bloody patrons tried.
Trying doesn’t bring your best friend back from the dead.
So everyone stopped trying. And John did, too, he stopped entertaining the idea that he’d ever move on from this, because every single day he’d wake up, and the guilt would stay just as fresh as the day it happened, and it felt like torture, all of it, everything felt like torture.
Check your phone, Mariana’s voice echoed in the back of his head. You can’t just mope around all day, John.
Sighing at the Mariana in his head, he picked his phone up, and, lo and behold, a calendar alert. For the bloody library.
In an effort to get John to at least get some vitamin D and not rot in his bed all day, Mariana had taken it upon herself to schedule events for him. He usually never entertained it, but he probably owed it to her, didn’t he? To keep the image of someone recovering at least a little bit.
He dresses himself in something semi-decent, a jumper and a pair of sweatpants, and makes his slow descent into 221A.
“John!” Mariana smiles at him, and he quirks his lips up at her, too exhausted to even smile. “You’re going out!”
“Saw the calendar thing,” he says, voice hoarse and unused. He hasn’t talked in what feels like ages. Who’s worth talking to without him here?
“I knew they’d work someday,” she teases. It’s nice to talk to her, and John knows he should do it more, that she deserves someone nice to talk to and not the shell of a man he’s become. But he can’t bring himself to do anything anymore.
He waves at her, going to run a hand through his hair before realizing he’d buzzed it all off in the wake of a wee mental breakdown a few weeks ago. His face goes a little red, and he rushes out of the door, finally breathing the cool, slightly polluted London air for the first time in what must be months.
He walks down the block to the local library, but once he steps in, he’s not really sure what he’s doing there. He’s never been much of a reader. His eyes catch the mystery section, full of Poirot and Hastings, and other detectives and their trusty sidekicks, but he’s quite fond of the idea of making it out of the library without breaking down in tears, so he walks the other way, eyes shut, intent on just walking back out, and–
“Bloody hell!” he hears a frail voice yell, and to his horror, he’s knocked over some poor old man, who was carrying a stack of books. The small man glares up at him from the floor, and he starts to stammer out a litany of apologies.
“Oh, bugger, I’m so sorry, sir, let me just–” he goes to pick the man’s books up, and his hand is smacked away.
He reels back in shock, eyes widening.
“You’ve done enough,” the man hisses, picking up his things with a look of scorn on his face.
He watches as the man scurries away, feeling awful, his stomach twisting into knots. You’ve fucked it all up again, haven’t you.
Sighing, his heart heavy in his chest, he walks back out of the library, intending on going home again.
That is, until he spots the Volunteer.
It’s been a good long while since he’s had a drink, despite what the way he’s been acting might suggest, and at least he might have some facsimile of fun if he gets tits-over-arse drunk.
He keeps his eyes on the sidewalk, he knows if he looks up he’ll see somewhere he’s been with Sherlock, and he’ll stop dead in his tracks and probably get hit by a car, which honestly doesn’t sound so bad now that he thinks about it.
Ping!
A text from Mariana.
There’s someone here who says he wants to see you, John. Are you far?
It’s probably for the better that he doesn’t drink, anyway.
coming now.
He doesn’t want to talk to anyone. He doesn’t, god above, he doesn’t. He wants to stay in his room all day, he wants to rot, but oh well, right?
He knocks on 221’s door, and Mariana opens, a smile on her face.
“Hi, John! Was your trip to the library good? There’s just this old man, he says he wants to repay you? Hah, what’d you do?”
It’s the man from the library. Holy shit, he really should’ve stayed inside today.
“I’d like to talk, if you might take me upstairs?” he says, and John, smiling nervously, helps him up the stairs.
“Erm, sorry for the mess,” John says, taking in what the room actually looks like for the first time in a long time. “I’ve not gotten around to cleaning yet, hah.”
“Oh, that’s quite alright,” says the old man. “I wanted to apologize for my rash behavior earlier. I was quite rude.”
“Oh, no, that’s completely my fault! It was deserved, really I should be apologizing, sir,”
“Please, it was awful behavior on my part. It’s just, well, I’m a book collector, my books are very dear to me, you see. Oh, you have one of the ones I have, over on that shelf behind you!”
John turns around. “Really? Where?” he turns back around. “Whi–”
Sherlock. In the flesh.
Curly hair grown out much too long, John knows it’s probably so uncomfortable for him, crooked glasses, a simple hoodie and jeans, faded scars on his face that John knows every story of, god, that is Sherlock Holmes.
“Did you miss me, John?”
The next thing he knows, he’s on the floor, Sherlock above him, rambling as he comes back to the world.
“I’m sorry, I should’ve sent something in advance, this was probably quite unexpected, probably? Of course it was unexpected! God, I’m sorry, Watson, I–”
“We’re back to Watson?” John teases, weakly, a hand reaching up to grip Sherlock’s arm, to make sure he’s there, he’s real.
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says.
“You should be,” John replies. “Christ, do you know what you put me through? Are you okay? What happened? Is Moriarty still alive too? No, that’s not important. God, Sherlock, why?”
“It’s– so much, John, I truly did think I was going to die, else I never would’ve said what I did, I thought of you every single day, I’m so sorry,”
John can’t figure out if he wants to punch Sherlock in the face or pull him into a bruising kiss. Watery eyes stare at him, and he pulls himself up, slowly, resting his face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck.
“I missed you so much,” he mumbles, and he feels Sherlock’s body shake with tears that have been waiting to escape for too long, but John’s already cried all his tears.
Instead, he grips Sherlock, tight, hard enough to bruise, and bites his shoulder, not letting go. He’s here. He’s home.
They’ll be okay.