Johnlock oneshots (2009, RDJ version)

He isn't dead

Couple of notes: One - in the books, Sherlock was 'dead' for three years, in the BBC version it was two, but it's unclear in the RDJ version. But considering Watson was still writing up their adventures and he and Mary still hadn't gone on their honeymoon, I've used the number six months for simplicity's sake.

The day Sherlock shows up in Watson's living room is an emotional rollercoaster for both of them. Sherlock dressed ridiculously, his 'urban camouflage' bright in stark contrast to his pale nervous face, Watson's elegant suit painting the perfect picture of a composed gentleman, while a flush begins to show above his collar, his face twisting with conflicting emotions.
"You... you're dead." Watson says, somewhere between a whisper and a hiss.
Sherlock shoots him a quick smile. "Only inside, my dear Watson." He quips, trying desperately to cover up his nerves.
Watson says nothing and the smile drops from Sherlock's face. "John, I — "
"Don't." Watson clenches his fists, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "Just... don't."
Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but thinks better of it and closes it. He reaches out to touch Watson's shoulder. The doctor flinches away and Sherlock's heart drops. No. His hand falls to his side and he tries to swallow the lump in his throat. His eyes sting and Watson's face starts to blur. He blinks away the tears and looks at the floor.
"I'm sorry." Sherlock's voice quakes.
"No. No." Sherlock winces at Watson's harsh tone. "Six weeks is sorry, Holmes. You've been gone for six months."
"I know, but — "
"Why?" Watson doesn't need to be loud to be listened to. He barely whispers the word, but Sherlock bows his head and answers.
"You... you're the only person who matters to me and I..." He stops and shakes his head. Not yet. He swallows. "I got back to London four months ago." Sherlock sees Watson stiffen out of the corner of his eyes. He takes a shaky breath and carries on. "I've been staying in Mycroft's London house since. It's not the same as Baker Street but I can't go back to our flat without you." He hears Watson's breathing slow. He takes it as a good sign. "I've stood at your door so many times, Watson. I wanted to come back, I promise. But..." Sherlock paused. "I was afraid." He glances up to meet Watson's eyes. Sherlock can't read the expression on the doctor's face. "I was afraid that you wouldn't want to see me. That you'd tell me to leave. I was afraid that I'd see you and I'd realise that you haven't missed me and that I never meant anything to you  — " he's crying now, his breathing is ragged and he can barely see through the haze of tears, " — and that you were glad I was gone and the thought of that — "
Watson cuts him off. "Holmes, no..." He's crying too now, and he steps forward to take Sherlock in his arms. The detective flinches — for a fraction of a second he thinks Watson might hit him. Watson falters. "Sherlock." He whispers.
Upon hearing his first name on Watson's lips, Sherlock melts. He lets Watson wrap his arms around him and in turn he grips Watson's waistcoat in his fists. He leans his head on the doctor's chest, his tears soaking into Watson's shirt, guttural sobs wracking his entire body. He's never cried like this before. Even alone, he only allows himself a sniffle or silent tear or two, yet here he is, sobbing in the arms of the person he loves more than anyone.
"Sherlock, Sherlock of course I missed you, I missed you every single day." Watson whispers. He reaches one hand to the back of Sherlock's neck and runs his fingers through the dark locks, pulling Sherlock's face from his chest to look at him. "I love you, you idiot."
Watson presses his lips to Sherlock's forehead. "I love you more than you know." Sherlock's mouth twitches up. He stares unabashed at Watson's lips. He watches those lips smile at him. He watches those lips move closer to him, and he leans up to meet them. Their mouths touch softly.
"John?" The soft high lilt of woman's voice runs through the room.
The two men spring apart. Sherlock's hands are still fisted in Watson's waistcoat — he's isn't sure he can let go.
"John?" Mary says again. She looks shocked and vaguely ill. When Sherlock looks back at Watson, he sees Mary's expressions mirrored on his face.
"Mary, look — "
"He isn't dead?" Sherlock meets her eyes. She doesn't look angry at finding her husband kissing another man, just... surprised. And even that surprise is directed at his being alive.
"I — no." Watson says. He looks at Sherlock. "He isn't." Sherlock smiles at him.
Mary's gaze flickers between the pair. She smiles sadly.
"Mary, I need to talk to you." Watson gulps. He covers one of Sherlock's hand with his own. "We — "
"I know." She says softly. "I've known since I met him." Sherlock meets her eyes. "Friends don't look at each other the way you two do. I always wished you would look at me the way you look at him." She says to Watson.
"I'm sorry." Watson is trying not to look ashamed.
"Don't be." Mary says. "Go back to Baker Street with him — with Sherlock." She corrects. She hasn't said his name the whole time she was married to John. Sherlock was always 'him'. "Keep solving crimes." She smiles. "I'll be fine."
Watson smiles back. "Thank you." He whispers.
Mary turns and leaves the room and Watson looks back at Sherlock.
"John..." Sherlock says tentatively.
John kisses him just to shut him up. He murmurs against Sherlock's lips, "Let's go home."