Chapter Text
It was a chilly Monday afternoon. Sherlock was lounging on the sofa, looking outside the window of 221B Baker Street, deep in thought. The air was still, few people were walking rapidly across the street, the buzz of distant traffic was echoing around the flat. Apart from the faint sounds of the busy city from outside, it was silent.
John was out. He had mentioned before leaving for work that he was having a date later that evening, and something about today’s date, 14th of February. Sherlock had been only half listening, being too preoccupied with one of his many experiments. There was nothing special about today from his point of view, and hearing about another one of John’s dates always made him feel a knot in his throat. Sherlock usually preferred to ignore John when he talked about them.
The doorbell downstairs rang, breaking Sherlock’s train of thoughts. John never forgets his keys, and if he did, then he wouldn’t come home this early anyway. Especially since he got a date. So, not John. A client, then? Possibly. Mrs. Hudson got the door, Sherlock could hear her talking with a man downstairs. The sound of the door closing and only Mrs. Hudson’s footsteps coming up the stairs indicated that the man had left. So not a client. But the person had left something for him. Who could that be? Sherlock rushed towards the window to catch a glimpse of the man who just left. Nobody. Too late.
“Hoo hoo!” Mrs. Hudson’s voice came before she opened the door to the flat, carrying a medium sized cardboard box. “A nice young man left this for you, Sherlock.“
Sherlock grabbed the box and inspected it for a few moments. It was neatly tied with a red string, a white envelope attached to the box. There were small hearts drawn onto it and a note: For Sherlock Holmes. No address, anything. What was the meaning of this?
“I’ll leave you to it, dear,” the landlady said, closing the door after her, going back to her flat downstairs.
Sherlock went to the kitchen, placing the box on the table. He took the envelope and placed it next to it, then opened the box. His eyes widened upon seeing a human heart, blood still dripping from it. He frowns picking up the envelope, opening it to reveal a valentine’s card which wrote:
“Happy Valentine’s day from me & John.
Well, it’s mostly John.
~Jim Moriarty”
Sherlock’s hands began to tremble as he stared at the contents of the box, the card slipping from his hands. It can’t be John’s heart, surely. Is this what Moriarty had meant when he said he would burn the heart out of him? He felt his chest tightening with dread, and he could barely breathe anymore. Sherlock hadn’t even acknowledged the stream of tears that had started rolling down his cheeks. He pressed his eyes shut together after he closed the box, swallowing a sob. He had never been fond of this particular day, but now he surely hated it. He covered his eyes, letting out a strangled cry, taking a step back from the table. This just couldn’t be true. It couldn’t.
***
“Sherlock?” John gasped as he stepped through the front door and towards the kitchen, finding Sherlock clutching at his shirt, tears streaming down his face, staring blankly at a box on the table.
Sherlock snapped his head in the direction of John’s voice, his eyes immediately landing on him. There he was, alive and breathing. What was going on?
“John!” Sherlock choked out, running up to John, grabbing him by his jumper with one hand, and the other reaching towards his wrist to feel his pulse. He felt it there, against his fingertips, beating steadily. The gift had just been a sick joke. He let out a sigh of relief, hugging John tightly. He didn’t care why he was home so early. He was just glad he was here. God knows what would have happened if he thought John was actually dead…
“What’s going on, Sherlock?” John asked in confusion. He was quite surprised to see Sherlock distressed and crying. He hugged the taller man, trying to comfort him.
“You’re fine…” Sherlock croaked, hugging John back tightly, trying to calm down, the feeling of holding onto John grounding him. “You’re fine…” Sherlock repeated, as if trying to convince himself that John was truly unharmed.