Daydream Believer

Chapter 9

December 23rd, 2020 - 11:38pm.

I'm bored, John. Fix this. -SH

Sherlock, I was on the verge of sleep. :( -JW

I don't care. Meet me. -SH

No, I'm in my pj's you idiot. -JW

Sent at 23:08

There's someone throwing rocks at my window! -JW

Sent at 23:47

Open it. -SH

John slid his phone into his hoodie pocket and stood up before approaching the window. Sluggishly, he dragged his eyes to the icy concrete below - his eyes meeting with none other than Sherlock's.  A sigh of relief followed by a smitten smile plastered the future army doctor's face, before he pushed the window open.

John's POV.

"Do you KNOW what time it is, Holmes?" Chuckled I, shaking my head in disbelief. Was I dreaming?

"I'm not coming out. It's too cold." I follow, leaning against the window frame.

The tall, devastatingly handsome boy who I called my best friend looked up at me with a pout.

"Not going to work."

"Fine then, I'm coming in!" He declared, climbing the gutter pipe which was next to my window. I stepped back, tripping over my duffel bag before hitting the bed with a thump.

"Fuck..." I gasped, hoping to god that I hadn't woken Harriet up. It was hard to listen as all I could hear was the pipe clattering and vibrating.

With a thwack, Sherlock crashed onto my floor and looked up at me with a sinless grin. Not saying another word, he joined me on my bed, the two of us laying on our backs trying to hold in girlish laughter.

"You haven't contacted me since you left the hospital and the first thing you do is climb through my window? you're a nutter, you know!" We lost it. Sherlock began wheezing and I chuckled until I looked like a tomato, because God, despite joking about it, I'd missed him so much.

Everything about him was ethereal. His alluring twilight eyes which glistened like the orb on Tom Buchanan's dock, his midnight curls which framed his wiry, vivid face and his smell. The scent you get after blowing a candle out, but sweeter.

I wonder if he knows.

Flashback.

"I love you." The three words I'd held back for God knows how long finally escaped, dancing through the air. To my horror, Sherlock's eyes rolled back into his head and he began convulsing on his bed. Tears flooded to my ducts and it wasn't long before they fell onto my cheeks. Nurses came rushing in, ushering me away from the bed in dismay as they tried to figure out what was happening to the detective. Seeing him in a state like this was something I couldn't handle, so I fled the room and slumped into a leather chair with wooden armrests, sobbing worse than ever.

Many, too many thoughts were leaping my head which caused it to spin. If this was how I was feeling, then Sherlock must be feeling it ten-fold. Pulling what little strength I had left together, I tensed my muscles and stood up, sauntering ever so slowly toward the exit.

Crunch.

"Eurgh!" I cried as I was pulled out of my whirl of thoughts inelegantly. The snow melted under my touch and seeped inside my converse as I trudged my way through the busy streets of London.

Present day.

"I missed you." John blurted, his fatigued brain turning into putty.

"I know you did." Smirked the detective, his eyes flicking over the shorter, lean boy.