Strange Coincidences: Johnlock AU

Chapter Nineteen

 Two Years After

  

With groceries in his hand, John stumbled up the stairs of his new flat, not quite used to the steep stairs; he'd gotten used to the short steps of Baker Street.

He reminded himself for the twentieth time to not think about Baker Street.

His steps sounded heavy when he walked into the kitchen. Without the presence of Sherlock, it seemed as if the ghost of his psychosomatic limp was returning slowly.

Without a crazy detective dragging him through half of London to chase a taxi, it seemed to John now that every adventure he ever shared with Sherlock had faded now into a bleary dream.

John: Two Years ½ After

John's mouth fell open and his heart thudded erratically in his chest. He rubbed his eyes and his body tightened with hope.

He told himself it was just a fantastic dream that would just turn into one of his nightmares. He's seen Sherlock's lifeless and bloody body after they pulled him in from Moriarty. It was more than enough to elicit hundreds of nightmares.

But the sickening paint vapor of his new flat was still there, and he could swear that he could almost smell Sherlock's ridiculously expensive cologne. The unmistakable scent from Sherlock's old sheets and pillows that he never had the courage to get rid of.

"John." One simple word traveled from the pale man's parted mouth, but the sound was enough to confirm it all.

All the days of crying at his grave-stone, all the never-ending pain wrecking his mind, all the times he cursed at himself for not admitting that he loved Sherlock before he left on that fateful day, all those times he thought about the god-forsaken letter Sherlock wrote.

Sherlock sat gracefully on a stool, looking ever so impeccable and completely unfazed, as if he hadn't written that incredible letter, as if he hadn't gone off and be "shot" by Moriarty.

John had tortured himself with millions of things he could've said or done if he had known that morning that it was going to be the last time he'd ever see Sherlock, what he might've said. It all failed John now, as he was by far too overwhelmed with the rush of emotions to even consider saying what he had planned so meticulously in his head. His nerves thrummed, drawing into a tense string.

He took a shuddery breath and uncertainly stepped towards Sherlock. The detective's mouth opened to say something, but before he got a chance, John tackled him.

As if expecting a blow, Sherlock covered his face. Instead John threw his arms around him and pressed his forehead to Sherlock's shoulder. John inhaled deeply, Sherlock's familiar scent swirling around John and creating a safe haven, even if for just a moment, where John could be happy again.

 

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Once he'd composed himself, John took a step back to truly look at the detective.