the richenbach hero // johnlock

Chapter Nine

John walked a familiar path. It was early true, but John couldn't feel the warmth of the morning sun on his back, or the occasional splash of water onto his trouser leg. He couldn't feel anything. Not a damn thing. Everything was numb. And it hurt. Mary had hurt him deeper than a bullet. As much as John hated to admit it, he was in pain. Mary, the woman he had loved dearly, the woman who he proposed to, the one he was going to marry, had cheated on him.
'Six months. Six months a goddamn waste. And what do I have to show for it. About one thousand dollars in debt a broken heart. Some love..'
John cured the word love. John cursed Mary. John cursed everything. He was angry. He was so angry. Not with Mary, not with Sherlock, no, with himself. He had been selfish, expecting Mary to just love him, even though he was as cold as ice. The wooden door came into view. John must have been walking for an hour now, and his feet were tired. He was tired. But here he was anyway. The heaviness of the door was familiar, and the warm yellow lighting inside was homey. It was small in here. A few stools set up, a table here and there, stained glass windows covered the walls. It was a warm place, but run down. Money had been tight here for many year, John knew this to be true, he had spoken to the barkeep about it on many an occasion. The selection wasn't too great, but they had whiskey, and that was what John needed right now. A strong whiskey. He plopped down at the bar stool, and buried his head into his arms. The people in the pub made his head hurt and his stomach churn. Happy people, laughing, chatting, couples sodding drunk and snogging in some corner. It was sick. All of it. A whiskey came sliding at him and John chugged it down, and the next, and the next. Minutes melted into hours, and what felt like days. John sat on the bar stool, drunk, alone, and sad. The tender placed a hand gently on his shoulder, signaling John to leave. He stood, swaying a bit, and stumbled to the door. Shoving it open with all his might, the short man fell into the street. Jumbled thought and distorted images passed through his mind. His mobile buzzed in his pocket. After spinning around for a few moments, he finally found it. A text. From Sherlock. However, in the moment, that is not what John read. Here is a transcript of the texts from John and Sherlock.

'John, where are you, you've worried Mary sick
-SH'

'I d u nnnnno soehwer pro b sly'

'John? What's wrong?
-SH'

'Noyhibs wtond sjjjerlozk'

'Are you drunk?
-SH'

'Mmmaaaaayyyvvveeeee'

'John, I'm coming to get you, where are you?
-SH'

'John?
-SH'

'John!
-SH'

In all honesty, John had no idea where he was, or what was happening. The world around him was blurring together and John was feeling very tired. He laid down on the pavement, and curled up into a tiny ball, fighting the cold turning his bones to ice.
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The morning found him in a bed. A warm bed, surrounded by blankets and pillows. The bed was familiar, but John took no notice. He stood slowly, head pounding, and shuffled to the door. He tugged on the handle and shuffled down the steps, half expecting to see Mary. But this wasn't his house. The wall paper, the smiley face, the paper, his chair, and his chair. John was at Baker Street. Sherlock was in the kitchen, attempting to make John a breakfast in bed, but failing miserably. John smiled at Sherlock's back. He flopped down in his chair, causing Sherlock to turn his head. His smile was warm and comforting.
"Good morning, John"

"Mornin' Sherlock. What's for breakfast?"

Sherlock grimaced in response and turned back to his food. John laughed and walked up to Sherlock, placing a hand on his shoulder to draw him back. John wound his arms around Sherlock's waist. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and drew him in close, burying his nose in John's soft blonde hair. John's scent was masked slightly by the alcohol, but was still there. A warm scent, like a field on a summer day. Sherlock missed that. John felt tears prick at his eyes again. Being here, in Sherlock's arms, it was still surreal. And Mary. Oh Mary. John's heart was still heavily broken. Just the thought of Mary in someone else's arms broke him. He felt hot tears streak his cheeks and he wiped them away quickly, but more followed, and before long, he was sobbing. Sherlock hugged him tighter, kissing the top of John's head.
"John? What happened?"

"M-mary"

"Yes?"

"S-she...she was..."
John choked on his tears.
"She was...with someone else"

"What?"

"Mary cheated"

Sherlock froze. The thought of someone hurting John, his John, his blogger. John was a soft, gentle man, small in his own regards, and quick to trust. And Mary had hurt him. John had put all his trust in her, and she threw it back in his face. Sherlock felt angry. He clenched his fists so tightly, his knuckles turned white.
"John, she is going to pay"

"What?!"
John jerked his head up
"No, Sherlock, no! You can't hurt her!"

"But she hurt you"
Sherlock cradled John's face gently in his hands.
"I can't let her hurt you and not get punished for it"

"I didn't say she wouldn't get punished, I'm leaving her. I want to come back here. I can't stay in a house with her"

Sherlock's heart leapt. John was coming back. Back to him. Back to Baker Street.
"Yes. Yes of course. Your room is as you left it"

"I...thank you Sherlock"
John reached up and kissed him on the cheek. Sherlock looked at John, his eyes were filled with pain. Sherlock leaned in and softly kissed him. It was a gentle kiss, a promise. A promise that John would be okay.