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Three years. Three years John had been without him, and three years since he had done nothing but work.
Work seemed to be what he could use to get his mind off of things.
Like how he watched his best friend plunge himself off a building.
How he feels like it's his fault.
And mostly, how he never told that man that he did love him.
Not that it mattered now. No matter how long he stood at his grave and try not to cry as he told the dead man over and over; no matter how much of his shit John would pack up, it wouldn't make it any less painful when he finally saw that flat empty and hand the keys back over to Mrs. Hudson.
It wasn't a particular day when his life changed again. John had decided to wear his favorite red shirt and bring Mrs. Hudson a basket full of muffins that he sorely attempted to bake. The ride back to London was always quiet as he tried to use his deceased friend's skills to see if the driver was a killer or not. John could never really tell, but he did try. Sherlock would have just smirked at him, he thought, and told him what he had missed that day.
Once John arrived, he found it suspicious that he was able to open the door without using the key but only supposed that Mrs. Hudson wanted it to be easier on the ex-army doctor. It was never easy coming or going from Baker Street, and John supposed that she knew that and kept the door unlocked for him. She was always like a mother to John and he had grown to love her dearly. When he walked in the flat to see her tied up, whimpering for her life his instincts kicked in to protect her.
The instincts of John Watson snapped in the moment a man with a scar on his face attacked from behind making John get into his soldier mode automatically. It had been a while since he had done combat, admittedly, but he did try. He struggled as his instincts had told him to often feeling as if he would win but it was when he found his nose to the carpet and a heavy weight on his back that he knew he had lost. his arms behind his back, being held by one giant hand as he tries to struggle out of the grasp but could not. Finally, John grew limp with a sigh and managed to see Mrs. Hudson next to him crying under all of her bondage. Whoever was responsible, John raged, was certainly going to pay. "Oh, Johnny boy, you do look pretty when you're under my tiger's control," came a familiar voice that made John's heart sink into his stomach. It couldn't have been--it was impossible! But as certain as the weight on his back, Jim Moriarty walked in with his very clean west-wood and his hands in his pockets. A smirk crossing his features--why he always seemed so clean and smug for a villain that played so dirty, John would never know. Jim squatted down and smiled at John, "what's the matter, Johnny? You look like you've seen a ghost." A giggle came from him as he stood and nudged John's cheek with his shoe. "Oh, Johnny boy, you think a little game is going to make the big bad wolf go away so quickly?" He was taunting, John knew. Referring himself to The Big Bad Wolf was a little more than appropriate for Jim, especially with his predatory grin that made him look completely unhinged and a little--to John's dismay--wolf-like. "Where is he?" Jim's voice echoed through the flat, making Mrs. Hudson whimper more and John's blood boil protectively.
"Who?" Demanded John into the carpet, hearing the miserable groan from Jim.
"Sherlock!" He replied as if it was the most obvious answer that could have been given. John frowned as The Wolf circled him as the grip on his arms grew tighter reminding him that he was still a prisoner to Moriarty's henchman.
"Johnny, Johnny, Johnny. I'm a little disappointed," he said, tilting his head in what seemed to be in a mocking manner. "Didn't you learn anything? Did The Great Detective never teach you anything?" He tusked with his tongue, followed with a chuckle. "I guess his little fake sacrifice didn't do you any good since you didn't bother to try to figure out why a man like Sherlock Holmes would do something like that. Did you really think he was the sort of man to die with such disgrace?" The last word was nearly spat off as it came out of his mouth.
John winced at it, trying very hard to keep up in his mind with the information that was given to him. "Sherlock's alive?" it was either the information or the man that was now sitting where his lungs were that made him short of breath. "Oh my god," he tried to breathe, but found it very difficult.
"Of course he is!" Came a voice like thunder. "And for that," the sound of a hammer pulling back--a gun-- is why you're going to die first. Little red riding hood doesn't get to get saved this time." John didn't close his eyes. He was a soldier. He always faced everything. This was why he was able to see a blur take on Jim Moriarty, making the gun shoot at the roof instead of the army doctor making Mrs. Hudson jump and squeal out as there was no mistaking the long, black coat of Sherlock Holmes. It happened too fast as the struggle ended with the two men standing and threatening to hit one or the other; ending with Sherlock striking with his right, sending Moriarty back. It was only that moment where Moriarty seized Sherlock that John regained some sort of supernatural strength to get out from under Sebastian just before the two got to the window pulling Sherlock towards him in a rough embrace as the sound of glass shattering and a loud thud came to every ear in that room and then...
Silence.
It took John all of five seconds to grab Sherlock by the waist and put him out of danger before Sebastian Moran came at them both. The gun, as John could see, was far from reach as he tried to shield everyone from the wrath of the tiger before he knew it he was at the mantle where Sherlock had once put a knife that was still somehow wedged into it.
It was a gamble, John knew as he worked at the knife as Sherlock struggled with the larger man. Once it was out, John only needed one shot: hit Moran, or hit the man that had miraculously came back to him.
The struggle was a close one, seeing Sherlock was an artist at fighting. He was very skilled and John had no doubt--but the other man needed to be taken care of or they would never really be in peace.
So, John threw the knife, praying to any deity that would listen that it would hit Moran.
The struggling stopped with a thud.
John's heart stopped as Sherlock lay under Moran.
Neither moved.
It felt like an eternity. An eternity without Sherlock, relived all over ago.
Until there was movement. Moran was moving, John ran for the gun and pulled the hammer back, but was relieved when he saw the knife wedged in Sebastian's chest and Sherlock crawling from under him. Relieved, John threw the gun down and helped Sherlock up, checking for anything that was broken and finally looked him in the eyes.
The very much alive eyes that he once thought he would never see again, the eyes that he had come to fall in love with.
His own eyes scanned the face in front of him, and like it was as natural as breathing, John took Sherlock in a tight embrace and kissed him.
The kiss was urgent, sweet and somehow something that John had never experienced with his plethora of girlfriends. It didn't break and it only went on, making John melt in Sherlock forgetting that he was ever hurt, that Moriarty and Moran were dead and they were to blame, the muffins that were long cold by now, and even that Mrs. Hudson was still helpless and tied up---none of it seemed to matter as time itself seemed to stop for what seemed like True Love's Kiss.
The End.