Oneshots of John lock<3

The phone call he waited for, (bbc)

It was a Saturday morning, winter had finally come to an end leaving the uk with a cold start to spring, flowers were blooming. Leaves were staring to regain their Colour as they hung onto their branches, though even with this beauty coming to life people huddled in their homes for warm. Though this day wasn't just an awakening to spring, it was the one year mark of Sherlock Holmes death, after jumping off the hospital.

John was sat in his living room flipping through the newspaper, barely skim reading the text not too bothered by half the content. Sometimes he had dreams of his past with sherlock, how their bodies huddled together under blankets, or how their fingers were intwined as they ran from the public eye. Though none of this would ever occur again, the memories that were worth holding onto would never leave his heart. "Bullshit." He muttered, seeing a small column on sherlock for the date of his death. Though was soon shrugged off, knowing nothing further can be changed.

The day proceeded, nothing much happening rather than sitting around in his joggers watching crappy tv. Though, as the evening came his phone started buzzing with the label no caller ID. John wasnt the type to answer these calls, so quite simply he hung up. Though the number called again, he groaned thinking it was a clingy sales man. Though the number called again, and again, and again. He finally clicked the accept button, holding his phone against his face.

"What do you want?!" John yelled, arching his eyebrows at the breathing.

"John." The familiar voice of the detective rang through. The doctor didn't know how to reply, a sickly feeling ran through his throat.
"Sherlock?"
"I missed you." Sherlocks voice sighed.
"You're  dead, Sherlock you're dead!! Where have you been?" The doctor felt as if he were going to be sick.
"I'm sorry, I ha-"
"No, no I grieved, I grieved for so long. And what? Your living abroad?! Your.. you're what? What are you doing?" Johns voice trailed off, none of his emotions felt as if they made sense. Love? Happiness? Rage?
"You don't understand."
"You fancied someone else?!"
"John! God no,'don't even. I don't have alot of time."
"What? For the last year youve never had a second to think how I felt?!"
"John, ple-"
"No, I've been alone."
"Jo-" the younger man kept getting interrupted.
"I've suffered."
"I love you! I haven't stopped, now will you listen to me?!"
"Youre killing me." John cried back.
"I'm trying to come home."
"This isn't your home, you left it." A defensive tone backed John up.
"Have you moved on?" Sherlocks voice fell to a more gentle tone.
"I.. no. You know what, don't bother okay. Take your fucking time."
"I love you, john."
"Fuck you, Sherl." John pressed the hang up button, throwing his phone onto the opposing couch before covering his mouth in shock. Ofcourse he wasn't dead, Ofcourse he just left John with no warning. The older man leant down, wrapping his arms around his stomach to hold back the feeling of illness. Did he throw away his only chance to see Sherlock again?