Made by:Thinole
Finally, John looked up.
It seemed like his entire world stopped for a moment while he stared into these eyes he knew all too well and had been certain of never seeing again. The universe held its breath while John's brain tried to comprehend what was right before his eyes.
This was Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. And he was alive.
After the first shock, John's legs threatened to give away beneath him, so he stumbled a small step backwards, but was suddenly stopped by a hand catching his own. It was only after it let go again, now certain that John would remain conscious, that John realised how real it had felt, not at all like an illusion of his best friend, but actually... quite like he was really here with him.
John tried to find words, to say anything at all, but the only thing that came to the surface of his mind was:
"Sherlock."
How had the evening taken such a turn? When had this happened? Why had John been this indescribably unprepared? The last thing he remembered was him walking home alone after going to get the groceries alone and spending a dull day at work alone. Alone was what he had had these last two years. Alone protected him from ever feeling again, from ever letting someone get so close to him again, only to lose them when he cared the most.
And suddenly, this tall man in a somewhat familiar coat had bumped into him. The only thing that had struck the former soldier as odd about this had been that the man had not apologised, in fact, he had not said anything at all and not continued walking, either. Instead, he had just stood there, staring down at John until the latter raised his eyes off the pavement and recognised the friend he had long thought dead and buried.
"John, I am so sorry..."
Sherlock stopped momentarily as he saw what an effect his voice had on his friend.
'He looks tired - sad - hurt... betrayed' he deduced in his mind.
"Sh- Sherlock? You're not... dead? This is real?"
John's voice came out weak and unbelieving. As Sherlock noticed tears forming in the army doctor's eyes, he quickly continued:
"No. I truly am... so sorry. I realize... Well, what does it matter now or then, it wouldn't have made a difference. You see, a sniper had had eyes on you that day and the only way I could make sure you survived and were unharmed was to- well, to jump."
John's flinch at these words didn't go unnoticed by the detective.
"...and so, you see it was necessary to keep you in the dark about my location until now, John..."
Sherlock saw so many mixed emotions in his friend's eyes, but it seemed to him betrayal, pain and - understandably - anger were the most dominant ones. As his friend still didn't talk, Sherlock continued:
"Now, if you are going to punch me, which I would completely understand, can you please give me a warning so that I might at least brace myself? I think th- "
The sudden collision of their two bodies interrupted Sherlock. John had thrown himself right into the consulting detective's arms and was now leaned against him, face buried in Sherlock's collar. Without missing a beat, Sherlock lay his arms around his friend and pressed him against his chest.
'He's trembling' he noticed but kept the thought to himself. 'Does he have a cold? NO. That's clearly a sign of heightened anxiety.'
While John started to sob against Sherlock's shirt, the detective noticed a row of other things he had rather not known, as they caused him a deeper pain than he would ever admit.
'John' he thought, 'thinner. 14Ibs. And weak, he hasn't slept in days, that means he has nightmares. Because of the war? Unlikely.'
Sherlock meant to say so much, but all he was capable of bringing over his lips in that moment was comforting nonsense.
"John... my John- I'm so sorry. I'm here now."
From his sobbing friend's posture and behaviour Sherlock deduced that John was in dire need of familiarity, safety, home.
Just as he was. All Sherlock needed and had needed over the course of these horrible two years was John. The casualness and amity he provided, the secureness Sherlock always felt in his presence and the warm feeling he never ceased to inspire in his heart.
Without lifting his face up from Sherlock's chest, John mumbled with a tearful and hoarse voice:
"Do you have any idea what I've been through because of you?"
Sherlock hesitated for a moment, then, almost as huskily replied:
"... I missed you just as much... Even though I would never assume I knew your pain... I'm sure it's diff- Oh John, I'm sorry. Will you ever be able to forgive me?"
"Just- never leave me again, alright?"
"I wouldn't ever. It has been hard - so incredibly hard - knowing you were here, lonely, waiting for me, but I couldn't come to see you, John"
"I understand."
"You do?"
"Yes. Now, please, will you come home with me?"
"There's nothing in the world I would rather do"
Slowly and carefully, John pulled back from the embrace and looked up at Sherlock. Upon seeing how distraught and desperate his friend really was, Sherlock quickly fished a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to John.
"It's ok now. We're back together, just like in the old days"
He assured John while the former army doctor wiped off his tears.
***
Later that night at 221B, the two men were sitting on their usual armchairs in the living room. Sherlock had been amazed to find out that John had not moved anything in the flat, not thrown out a single one of Sherlock's possessions.
"That's not sentiment, is it?"
He had asked, half-jokingly.
"I suppose it is- in a certain way. I had always had the thought in the back of my head that one day you would just pop in and fill me in on the cases you have solved. You see, every time I tried to get rid of one of your things, I thought 'He's going to need that, later' and I just couldn't. I just couldn't accept your death."
The doctor had replied, staring into his mug of tea.
Upon arriving, Sherlock had immediately started deducing everything John had done in the flat while he had been gone, judging by the different layers of dust on tiles and wardrobes. He had only stopped this little game of his when he noticed that there was no dust whatsoever on the drawer that contained John's gun. It had obviously been opened and closed again many times. A lump had started to form in Sherlock's throat, but he was unable to bring the matter up, it just was too close, too painful for this night of reconciliation.
Now, they were just looking at one another, taking in all about each other's features as if they had to make up for all the time they had spent apart. They hadn't really talked about those two years, as neither of them was ready to do so just yet, so they just sat there, drinking tea, thinking about how much both their lives had been changed today.
