Tall Buildings and Pill Bottles - A Johnlock Story

Therapists and Thunderstorms

Sherlocks POV

That evening was fairly quiet, John and I watched telly and ate takeout. Greg and Mycroft had helped us get inside, and Greg had grabbed some takeout for us. The three of them had discussed that it wasn't safe to leave me alone, so at least one person had to be with me in the flat at all times. That would usually be John, but Greg, Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson would help out whenever he needed to go shopping or whatever was needed. They'd all deemed two weeks to be a reasonable time to check in with a psychologist to see if I was doing well mentally.

I was surprised that everyone was willing to do that, whether it be to grab dinner, groceries, or even to take a walk. They were all willing to help. I was surprised, well, because I'm still surprised that people still care about me. I'd always thought I was unlovable, people had constantly teased me, and hurt me.

But just looking at John, who had his arm around me as we watched some show on TV, I knew cared. He loved me, and his love was unconditional. Mycroft loved me too, a fact that I'd forgotten after my last attempt. And now, I had more people than I'd ever had.

John switched off the TV, glancing down at me. Despite the fact that I was nearly an entire foot taller than him, I was always the one who put my head on his chest, which often resulted in him looking down on me. Physically, that is. He couldn't ever admit it, but he loved it.

"Ready for bed?" He asked, his stormy eyes glowing softly. I nodded, reaching a hand up, and stroking his cheek with my thumb. He smiled at the touch, and kissed my hand gently. "Come on love, it's been an exhausting day."

He helped me into our room, despite the fact that I was using his old cane. I loathed the thing, but the fact that he'd had to use it out of necessity for what he thought would be the rest of his life... I didn't complain.

It felt nice to be able to sleep in our bed again, rather than the uncomfortable hospital bed. I fell asleep with my head on John's chest, his arms enveloping me.

I awoke to John calling my name, over and over again. I rolled to see that he was still asleep. His brow was scrunched, and he was twisting and turning. His voice was strained, terrified. "Christ, Sherlock, no, please." I began to shake him, trying to wake him.

"John, darling, wake up," I whispered. He jolted awake, eyes wide with panic., his breathing heavily. "Oh my God, Sherlock," he whispered. He flung his arms around me, "Christ, Sherlock." He whispered again. "John, are you alright?" I asked, confused. I rubbed his back, as he clung on.

He pulled back, keeping one hand on mine. "I had a dream, before you had woken up," he began to explain. "You died," his voice cracked, tears welling up in his eyes. Oh God, he's dreamt, oh God. "You died Sherlock, and I, and I felt empty. I couldn't feel anything. I'm scared that if I," he paused, collecting his breath. "That if I fall asleep, or if I let go. I'll lose you. My mind, it keeps seeing you, like that," his voice broke on the last word. I wound my arms around him as he collapsed against me.

"Oh darling, why didn't you tell me?" It all made sense now, how he had never let go of me when I was in the hospital, the way he tried to maintain some sort of contact with me the whole time coming home... he thought he could lose me again. "I am not going anywhere, do you hear me?" I whispered, pulling back to look him in the eyes. "I know I screwed up, and I wish with every fiber of my being that I could take that back, but I am not going anywhere. Ever."

The last word hung between us for a moment, it's weight hitting both of us. "I love you, Sherlock, but you can't do that again. I can't handle it," he whispered.