the richenbach hero // johnlock

Chapter Eight

"I love you too"

John smiled brightly, but it faded slowly. Mary flashed across his mind and he pulled away from Sherlock slowly.
"Sherlock...I...I can't"

"What?"
Sherlock had forgotten about Mary. In the bliss of being with John, he didn't want to remember her. His face scrunched up in slight disgust.
"Oh, yes. The lovely bride to be"
His tone was thick, laced with venom.

"Now, Sherlock, you were gone, and I was very alone. What did you expect? Me to sit around and wait for a man whom I knew to be dead?"

Sherlock huffed.
"No. No, I-I suppose not. And, honestly, would us as a couple ever have lasted?"
Sherlock begged to god that John said 'well of course it would have',
But the turn of Johns head made Sherlock's heart sink into his feet.

"No, no I guess we wouldn't have, eh? For the better that I have Mary now"

"Yes, for the better"

"Well, I better, ah, get going. Mary will want to know where I've been"

"Yes, yes of course, wouldn't want to keep the misses waiting?"
Sherlock tried making his tone light, but every bone in his body was screaming at him to grab John and not let him go. The door shut firmly behind John, and the flat was quiet. The dim morning light was pouring through the curtains. The dust of the flat was swirling up into the air, and coating everything like a layer of snow. The chairs worn and faded. The kitchen still holing his microscope and test tubes. Everything seemed so alien. As if just a memory. The flat seemed grey, dim, and dull. The colours sucked out of the place. John had left, taking everything with him. Sherlock went upstairs, to Johns old room. It was barren. Nothing but furniture remained. A bed in the middle, a wardrobe to the right, a small dresser to the left, and a nightstand next to the bed. None of it was Johns anymore. The room felt cold. Sherlock walked around it, lightly tracing his fingers across the wooden wardrobe and he approached the bed. He sat on it and laid down, hoping to catch even the slightest hint of John. The bed was void of John, like the rest of the room. Sherlock sighed heavily. He rolled over and pulled open the drawer of the nightstand. Empty. He stood and began pulling open all the drawers. All turned up empty. He was at a loss. No John, no anything. When John left, Sherlock had lost his whole world. Tears pricked in the corners of his eyes. Sherlock curled up into a ball, and cried.
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John felt the cold nip at his fingers. It was a chilly morning. No cabs seemed to be passing by, so he walked. There children running about in the street, parents telling them it wasn't safe for them to be there. The slapping of shoes on concrete and the sound of laughter made John smile. He kept walking, past the parks, past the groups of children, past the cars. The closer he got to his flat, the more John wanted to turn around and run back to Sherlock, back to warmth of his love. John didn't regret kissing Sherlock. He felt bad, but he didn't regret it. John sighed, and it swirled up in a cloud and disappeared into the air. He tugged his jacket closer to his body, clinging to warmth. His flat came into view and he felt his heart drop. The thought of going back to Mary sickened him. The white door was grossly happy as he approached it. He knocked softly. Feet shuffled to the door. A soft 'who is it' came from somewhere inside.

"It's John, Mary"

"Oh John!"
Mary rushed to the door and flung it open, throwing her arms around his neck. He wrapped his arms around her waist and hugged her tightly.
"I was so worried! I had no idea where you'd gone too! Are you okay love?"

"Yes yes, I'm fine"

Mary fussed over him for a little while after that, making sure he was okay ten times.
"Where in heavens name did you even go?"

"To see Sherlock"
John replied simply.

"For four hours John!"

"Four hours? That can't be right...we only went to breakfast..."