they’re about to break that chair, wink wink
Oh mai.
When Sherlock came back after three years of being dead, John didn’t quite know what to do or think or say. The man who had returned was a changed one. Broken. The mind was still there, but the man had become a mere shadow of the greatness he once was.
He had fallen.
During the first few weeks, they didn’t talk too much, each trying in vain to achieve some form of normalcy. Sherlock would play the violin at odd hours in the night again, and John would realize that he did in fact miss the haunting melodies Sherlock composed when deep in thought. Sherlock would actually drink the tea John made, realizing how much he missed it.
One day, John came home earlier than usual to find Sherlock bent over in his chair, sleeve rolled up, needle in hand. Without thinking, he rushed to him and took the needle away, flinging it to the far corner of the room before kneeling down in front of his flatmate.
“I thought you quit.”
Sherlock remained silent, his eyes fixed on the floor, but not really seeing the worn wool of the rug beneath his feet.
“It’s going to kill you,” John continued. “You’re going to overdose one day and—”
“And what?” Sherlock asked suddenly, tensing up. “What would happen, John? What’s my purpose? Nobody would give a flying fuck if I just…disappeared. They’d probably have a celebration down at the Yard.”
John searched for something to say. How did you reassure a man like Sherlock?
“If you could…if you could see what goes on in my head…all the time…all the time…it hurts…it hurts, John…and it never stops…never...”
He was shaking now, hands curling up into fists.
John gently placed a hand on Sherlock’s face, his other hand steadying Sherlock’s trembling wrist. Sherlock leaned into the friendly hand, exhaling slowly.
“Just…could you stay here…for a moment more?” he asked softly, in a tone John had never heard him use. It was almost child like.
John smiled, nodding. “I’ll stay here for as long as you need me.”
What goes on in John Watson’s mind.
OH MY GAWD
Sherlock was in a flurry again, having just had one of his epiphanies. John looked up from his laptop, watching his flatmate quickly slipping out of his bathrobe and hurrying into his room, emerging a few moments later in trousers and a proper shirt.
“Right, I need you to go and talk to the wife, find out exactly what he was doing, because it was quite obvious he wasn’t at the used bookstore—” he said, getting his scarf and tying it around his slender neck.
“Sherlock,”
“As for his brother, Lestrade’s messed up again. He has nothing to do with it—” Sherlock continued, paying no attention to John.
“Sherlock,”
“I’m going to visit the maid. She was obviously hiding something. Probably the fact that she was having an affair with the victim in question and—”
“Oh, for God’s sake!”
John reached out for the scarf and pulled Sherlock close. For a second, he saw the eyes as he had seen them through the metal bars when Sherlock had taken him “hostage.”
But there were no bars now.
He closed the gap between them, finally managing to shut Sherlock up. They drew back, cheeks tinted, breathing shallowly.
“You talk too much, Sherlock Holmes.”
You guys, IT’S CAS.
Seriously though.This show is SuperWhoLocking without even trying.
We got Cas, a heap of Doctor Who parallels (thank you, Moffat and Gatiss), and Sherlock himself. This show, you guys.cas leads a double life. dean isn’t the only gay he’s watching over…
dean isn’t the only gay he’s watching over
This show is so hetro.
Oh.
1. bath as flatmates: disaster
2. bath as best friends: adequate
3. bath as boyfriends: <3
theconjuredking: Could I request John taking a bath and Sherlock, ignoring such trivial courtesies like “privacy”, joining him for cuddling?
paperfrenzy: If you’re still taking requests, how about Sherlock in the bath? With John sitting outside the tub shampooing his crazy adorable hair. :3
anthony-richards: Are you still taking requests?? If you do… Can you please make Sherlock and John taking a bath together??
The first one XDFlat mates, best friends, boy friends. I cannot even.
Cause of Death: Overdose of Adorable
“He said you do that.”
#skdjajkaygh #i just think about sherlock being alone during his hiatus and talking out loud and then looking around and realizing john isn’t there
“…and then, when I told her about the cologne on her boyfriend, she tried to—” Sherlock looked up to find that, once again, John wasn’t there. It had been almost month since his ‘fall,’ but he still couldn’t seem to get used to not having John around. He had managed to get used to nearly everything else, but not having John around was going to take some work.
He sighed and got up, wishing he had his violin, even though he knew it wouldn’t help. He picked up his phone and flipped through the texts he had received since the fall.
Went to your funeral today. You would have found it boring. Sentiment and all that. You pretended not to understand it, didn’t you. -JW
I made two cups of tea again. I left yours by your chair. Maybe you’ll come back. -JW
The tea was still there when I woke up. Maybe you weren’t thirsty. -JW
I’ve started working again. Not at St. Barts, though. Can’t deal with that place right now. -JW
I got a call from Harry. Says I should go live with her. I can’t, though. I keep thinking that you’ll come back. -JW
Please come back, Sherlock. -JW
I won’t even complain when you play the violin at three in the morning. -JW
I met a new girl today, but could already tell that she was a chronic cheater. I guess you rubbed off on me. -JW
My therapist says I should stop texting you. Maybe she’s right. Then again, I don’t know what’s right anymore, though. -JW
You’re probably not even getting any of this. -JW
Lestrade visited today. Offered to let me stay at his for the night. Just for some company. I couldn’t do it. -JW
Anderson was gloating about how he knew you were a fraud all along. He left with a bloody nose. -JW
I don’t think Sally’s too pleased. -JW
They tried to take your violin away. I wouldn’t let them. I wouldn’t let them touch anything in your room, in case you do come back some day. -JW
I’m having the nightmares again. But this time, I just see you falling. And I try to catch you, but it’s always too late. Always. -JW
I was supposed to protect you. I guess I can’t do anything right. -JW
I thought I saw you at work today. My heart literally lept, but you disappeared. You always do. -JW
God, just give me a sign. Anything. I just need to know you’re alive. Please. -JW
Sherlock looked away from the phone. The texts still came in a steady flow every day. He didn’t know how much more of this he could take. He was already running risks, checking up on John in various disguises. He had nearly been caught a few times, too. He leaned back in his chair, his legs stretched before him, crossed at the ankles, phone dangling from a hand that hung off of the arm of the chair.
He missed John.
—
A year and a half passed. He was getting closer and closer to completely eliminating the web. The texts still came in a steady flow every day. It kept Sherlock sane. Kept him from using. Kept him alive.
I was watching crap telly again. Not the same without you shouting abuse at them now. -JW
Your brother was quite insistent that I go back to my therapist. I’d rather not, though. It’s not helping. -JW
It still hurts, Sherlock. It’s been over a year and it still hurts. Why does it still hurt? -JW
I still make two cups of tea a day. You still never drink yours. -JW
—
Two years later, he had finally cornered the last member of the web, taking care of him with one clean shot in the temple. After the man was dead, Sherlock sat down, staring at the corpse for a good two hours.
It was done.
The web was disintegrated.
And then, out of nowhere, he felt an almost manic explosion of laughter burst out of him. He was laughing uncontrollably, tears streaming down his face. Or was he crying? Emotions of glee and desperation racked his body, reducing him to a shaking pile next to a dead man. Finally, he managed to stand up and pull himself together, leaving the corpse where it lay and quickly typing out a text before heading back home.
Put the kettle on. -SH
Oh my lord :D
John stared at the text before him, rubbing his eyes a few times, not quite trusting his eyes anymore. It didn’t vanish this time, like so many of the others had before it. Was he dreaming then? No, he was definitely, definitely awake. Even though this felt like a dream, like a daze. Was it actually happening? He stared at the text again, willing the words to shift and change, twist or fade, something, before he started believing them.
Put the kettle on. -SH
The words were still there, no matter how many times he stubbornly screwed his eyes shut, trying to blink them away. Why wouldn’t they move? He frowned, his brows knitting together in thought as he even went as far as to prod the screen — move already, would you? They stubbornly stayed put, however. So, real then? The furrow in his brow deepened, the corners of his mouth stretching downward and his lower lip jutting out as he thought about this, the implications of the message finally hitting him all at once.
Sherlock.
Sherlock was coming home.
At some point in the future, he would wonder how Sherlock survived. Why he never told him. What he’d been doing all these years, damn it, but for now, for now, he pushed all of that aside, focusing only on the revelation.
Sherlock. Alive. Coming. Now.
He hit the reply button, carefully typing out a response. His insides were doing strange things — his stomach was falling through to his feet even as his heart was rising up toward his throat. His palms were slick with sweat, but his hands were steady — a natural reaction to stressful situations, wasn’t it? That’s what Mycroft had said at their first meeting all those years ago — he wasn’t haunted by the war; he missed it.
He and Sherlock had fought a war all those years ago, and they had won. Not without heavy casualties, of course — Sherlock himself being one of them until just a few minutes ago. That is, if this was actually happening… John couldn’t make up his mind, every few seconds changing his opinion — was it real, not real? Did it make a difference? He’d been sending Sherlock texts every day for the past three years, what difference would it possibly make if it turned out to just be his mind playing a trick on him?
What did he really have to lose?
He looked down at the typed message in his hands, reading and re-reading what he had written. To send or not to send? He took a deep breath, pushing SEND on the exhale.
How far away are you? -JW
His phone went off immediately, before he’d even had a chance to put it down.
Five minutes. -SH
A reply. Well that was new. Either he was going mad(der than he already was), or this was…
real.
This was real.
It hits him all at once, suddenly, and he lets out a startled chuckle, overcome with emotion. Relief, worry, nausea, anger, joy… everything rushing through him at once, coursing through his veins, filling him with things he had thought were long-dead. The chuckle soon turns into genuine laughter, though he cannot tell why exactly he was laughing — joy? stress? Was it the stress? Was he finally broken? He typed out another message, giddy from the thought that Sherlock, his Sherlock, would actually be coming back to him. He put his phone down and pivoted, heading into the kitchen to make the tea Sherlock had requested. Perhaps tonight the second cup would be drained as well.
—
Sherlock stood outside of the familiar door to his — their — flat. It had been a long time, far too long. 221B. He reached down into the pocket of his long coat automatically as he heard the chime — John’s customised tone — indicating he’d received another message.
I’ll be waiting. -JW
He smiled to himself as he returned the phone to its pocket. He extended his wiry arm, giving the door one sharp rap as he waited for the long-overdue reunion with the army doctor on the other side of the door.
Reblogging for the continuation. :D THIS IS BRILLIANT.
Wait… what happens next? what happens next?!?!?!!?
Welp. I’m bored and I feel like writing more for this. Do excuse the shoddy writing, m’dears.
—
John leaned against the door for a moment. Now that Sherlock was here, he didn’t quite know how to react. He jumped a bit as he heard a rap on the door before raising one trembling hand to the doorknob, swinging the door open to reveal Sherlock Holmes. He still hadn’t digested the fact that Sherlock was still alive, but seeing him standing there, physically standing there was a bit too much. He felt his legs giving out beneath him and a white fog taking over his sight.
“…ohn…John…”
John squirmed slightly, moaning and raising a hand to rub his aching head to find that someone was already doing it for him. His eyes flew open to find the eyes of a slightly worried Sherlock Holmes staring down at him.
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock whispered. “I didn’t know you would be so…”
John sat up, groaning at the ache in his head. “Sher…” he whispered, reaching out to touch Sherlock’s face, but stopping midway. “You…you’re not…you’re not just a hallucination…you’re real…you’re here…”
Sherlock placed a hand over John’s and bringing it to his cheek, closing his eyes for a moment and taking a long, shaky breath. “Yes, John. I’m here. I’m real. See?”
John wasn’t sure when he started to cry. Neither was Sherlock. However, within a minute, they found themselves clinging to each other, tears running down both faces.
“I’m sorry…I’m so sorry…” Sherlock repeated over and over again. “So, so sorry…”
John clung even tighter to the taller man, saying nothing. He couldn’t. His voice seemed to have vanished altogether. Sherlock held the army doctor closer, half afraid of breaking him, before leading him to the sofa.
John shook the tears from his eyes before getting up again. “Tea, right, I put the kettle on and—”
“John,”
“I’ll make it just the way you like it. You’ll drink it this time, won’t you? And—”
“John,”
“Your room’s just the way you left it. Nothing’s been touched, I made sure of that and—”
“John.” Sherlock got up, kneeling down in front of John, his hands on the smaller man’s shoulders.
John was still shaking. Sherlock used this as an opportunity to look at John. Really look at him. There were more lines around his eyes and he had gotten considerably thinner. The tips of his hair were already starting to turn grey and he looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. He stroked the lines on John’s face with his forefinger, wishing he could take them away. Take away the worry he caused. The depression.
“I was so alone, Sherlock,” John whispered. “So, so alone. This flat…I haven’t been able to sleep…the nightmares…God, Sherlock the nightmares…I couldn’t save you…” Fresh tears began to stream down his face.
At this point, Sherlock knew words would do no good. Instead he leaned forward tentatively before brushing his lips against John’s cheek. It was salty from the tears, but warm. He reached for the other cheek, kissing every tear away before taking John’s face in his hands and pressing his lips against the army doctor’s gently.
“You did save me, John Watson,” he said softly, pulling away. “In every possible way for a man to be saved.”
John was quiet for a moment before wiping away Sherlock’s own tears and placing a small kiss on his lips.
“Welcome home, Sherlock.”
“He said you do that.”
#skdjajkaygh #i just think about sherlock being alone during his hiatus and talking out loud and then looking around and realizing john isn’t there
“…and then, when I told her about the cologne on her boyfriend, she tried to—” Sherlock looked up to find that, once again, John wasn’t there. It had been almost month since his ‘fall,’ but he still couldn’t seem to get used to not having John around. He had managed to get used to nearly everything else, but not having John around was going to take some work.
He sighed and got up, wishing he had his violin, even though he knew it wouldn’t help. He picked up his phone and flipped through the texts he had received since the fall.
Went to your funeral today. You would have found it boring. Sentiment and all that. You pretended not to understand it, didn’t you. -JW
I made two cups of tea again. I left yours by your chair. Maybe you’ll come back. -JW
The tea was still there when I woke up. Maybe you weren’t thirsty. -JW
I’ve started working again. Not at St. Barts, though. Can’t deal with that place right now. -JW
I got a call from Harry. Says I should go live with her. I can’t, though. I keep thinking that you’ll come back. -JW
Please come back, Sherlock. -JW
I won’t even complain when you play the violin at three in the morning. -JW
I met a new girl today, but could already tell that she was a chronic cheater. I guess you rubbed off on me. -JW
My therapist says I should stop texting you. Maybe she’s right. Then again, I don’t know what’s right anymore, though. -JW
You’re probably not even getting any of this. -JW
Lestrade visited today. Offered to let me stay at his for the night. Just for some company. I couldn’t do it. -JW
Anderson was gloating about how he knew you were a fraud all along. He left with a bloody nose. -JW
I don’t think Sally’s too pleased. -JW
They tried to take your violin away. I wouldn’t let them. I wouldn’t let them touch anything in your room, in case you do come back some day. -JW
I’m having the nightmares again. But this time, I just see you falling. And I try to catch you, but it’s always too late. Always. -JW
I was supposed to protect you. I guess I can’t do anything right. -JW
I thought I saw you at work today. My heart literally lept, but you disappeared. You always do. -JW
God, just give me a sign. Anything. I just need to know you’re alive. Please. -JW
Sherlock looked away from the phone. The texts still came in a steady flow every day. He didn’t know how much more of this he could take. He was already running risks, checking up on John in various disguises. He had nearly been caught a few times, too. He leaned back in his chair, his legs stretched before him, crossed at the ankles, phone dangling from a hand that hung off of the arm of the chair.
He missed John.
—
A year and a half passed. He was getting closer and closer to completely eliminating the web. The texts still came in a steady flow every day. It kept Sherlock sane. Kept him from using. Kept him alive.
I was watching crap telly again. Not the same without you shouting abuse at them now. -JW
Your brother was quite insistent that I go back to my therapist. I’d rather not, though. It’s not helping. -JW
It still hurts, Sherlock. It’s been over a year and it still hurts. Why does it still hurt? -JW
I still make two cups of tea a day. You still never drink yours. -JW
—
Two years later, he had finally cornered the last member of the web, taking care of him with one clean shot in the temple. After the man was dead, Sherlock sat down, staring at the corpse for a good two hours.
It was done.
The web was disintegrated.
And then, out of nowhere, he felt an almost manic explosion of laughter burst out of him. He was laughing uncontrollably, tears streaming down his face. Or was he crying? Emotions of glee and desperation racked his body, reducing him to a shaking pile next to a dead man. Finally, he managed to stand up and pull himself together, leaving the corpse where it lay and quickly typing out a text before heading back home.
Put the kettle on. -SH
Oh my lord :D
John stared at the text before him, rubbing his eyes a few times, not quite trusting his eyes anymore. It didn’t vanish this time, like so many of the others had before it. Was he dreaming then? No, he was definitely, definitely awake. Even though this felt like a dream, like a daze. Was it actually happening? He stared at the text again, willing the words to shift and change, twist or fade, something, before he started believing them.
Put the kettle on. -SH
The words were still there, no matter how many times he stubbornly screwed his eyes shut, trying to blink them away. Why wouldn’t they move? He frowned, his brows knitting together in thought as he even went as far as to prod the screen — move already, would you? They stubbornly stayed put, however. So, real then? The furrow in his brow deepened, the corners of his mouth stretching downward and his lower lip jutting out as he thought about this, the implications of the message finally hitting him all at once.
Sherlock.
Sherlock was coming home.
At some point in the future, he would wonder how Sherlock survived. Why he never told him. What he’d been doing all these years, damn it, but for now, for now, he pushed all of that aside, focusing only on the revelation.
Sherlock. Alive. Coming. Now.
He hit the reply button, carefully typing out a response. His insides were doing strange things — his stomach was falling through to his feet even as his heart was rising up toward his throat. His palms were slick with sweat, but his hands were steady — a natural reaction to stressful situations, wasn’t it? That’s what Mycroft had said at their first meeting all those years ago — he wasn’t haunted by the war; he missed it.
He and Sherlock had fought a war all those years ago, and they had won. Not without heavy casualties, of course — Sherlock himself being one of them until just a few minutes ago. That is, if this was actually happening… John couldn’t make up his mind, every few seconds changing his opinion — was it real, not real? Did it make a difference? He’d been sending Sherlock texts every day for the past three years, what difference would it possibly make if it turned out to just be his mind playing a trick on him?
What did he really have to lose?
He looked down at the typed message in his hands, reading and re-reading what he had written. To send or not to send? He took a deep breath, pushing SEND on the exhale.
How far away are you? -JW
His phone went off immediately, before he’d even had a chance to put it down.
Five minutes. -SH
A reply. Well that was new. Either he was going mad(der than he already was), or this was…
real.
This was real.
It hits him all at once, suddenly, and he lets out a startled chuckle, overcome with emotion. Relief, worry, nausea, anger, joy… everything rushing through him at once, coursing through his veins, filling him with things he had thought were long-dead. The chuckle soon turns into genuine laughter, though he cannot tell why exactly he was laughing — joy? stress? Was it the stress? Was he finally broken? He typed out another message, giddy from the thought that Sherlock, his Sherlock, would actually be coming back to him. He put his phone down and pivoted, heading into the kitchen to make the tea Sherlock had requested. Perhaps tonight the second cup would be drained as well.
—
Sherlock stood outside of the familiar door to his — their — flat. It had been a long time, far too long. 221B. He reached down into the pocket of his long coat automatically as he heard the chime — John’s customised tone — indicating he’d received another message.
I’ll be waiting. -JW
He smiled to himself as he returned the phone to its pocket. He extended his wiry arm, giving the door one sharp rap as he waited for the long-overdue reunion with the army doctor on the other side of the door.
Reblogging for the continuation. :D THIS IS BRILLIANT.
