That Ship Has Sailed

John & Sherlock III

After that day, John didn't see Mycroft again.

After that day, John didn't see much of anyone again. He secluded himself inside his flat, always staring at the chair that sat across from his, gathering dust. The empty glass brandy bottles on the table tops proved how much this final loss of a 'William' from his life had hurt John. He was short tempered and had been fired from two different jobs since. Mrs. Hudson stopped asking if he'd like to join her for tea and would have kicked him out by now were it not for her sentimental attachment to him and Sherlock.

John often dreamed of his past with Sherlock, enduring the pain of losing him night after night, waking up in cold sweats and hands shaking, much like when he'd first returned from war.

His old cane, which had been stored in his closet, now lay by his bedside each night for him to use when he got up each morning. He looked aged and worn, always tired and was feared by several of the neighborhood children. One evening, three months after finding out he'd lost his real and true soulmate, he got a letter in the mail on his way back from the liquor store.

"I met with Lestrade. If I can do it, so can you. -MH"

John read the short note three times as he ascended the stairs and when he entered his flat, he threw the note to the floor, popping open the brandy bottle and pouring himself a glass, drinking it down within seconds.

"I thought I proved you didn't need that cane?"

"Goddammit," John muttered under his breath," They're starting earlier than usual."

He ignored the voice and picked up the glass and his bottle and sat in his chair, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Sherlock, if only you were here," he whispered almost inaudibly.

"John," he heard the voice again.

John groaned and leaned forward, clutching his head in both hands and pressing against his temples as hard as he could, "Stop it," he shouted, "Just stop torturing me!"

He took another drink before taking a fistful of his hair and holding it tightly, attempting to relieve some of the tension in his head. He had often hallucinated Sherlock's voice, but this time, it was different and he was nearing the end of his rope.

Then, a gentle hand reached out and took John's hand from his hair. John was startled at first, but then realized he'd had hallucinations like this before, too, though none this real. He closed his eyes and whispered, "If I could have one more day--one more minute--"

"John," he heard again, softer this time, though just as deep and steady as he remembered.

This time, John sighed and opened his eyes. What he saw shocked him and he didn't move or speak for a long time. He then shook his head and stood, taking his cane and the bottle, "It's getting worse," he grumbled, tipping the bottle back and glugging some of the dark liquid.

"John, I'm not a hallucination."

This was something his hallucinations had never said before. He turned back around and faced what he thought had been a hallucination and stared for another long minute. He then shook his head again, "No. It's not real. I watched you die. I was at the funeral. You died."

Sherlock stood from his chair and walked toward John, "I'm not dead. I'll explain everything later. It was a complicated reason and I apologize for what I had to do, but in order to protect you and Lestrade, I had to do it."

"Lestrade--me--what--" John stammered.

"I know Lestrade is my brother's mate, though he'd never admit it. I had to protect him and I had to protect you. I couldn't come out of hiding until now."

John then had a realization. The person standing before him was, in fact, a person. The bottle slowly slipped from his hand until it crashed to the floor, tipping, though not spilling, since he'd drank most of the liquid anyway. His free hand then hung empty for a moment until he slowly reached up. The hand holding his cane tightened it's grip as his fingertips felt a tingling sensation as he neared Sherlock's body. When his fingers came into contact with Sherlock's shoulder, feeling a hard, solid substance instead of going right through it as it had before, John dropped his cane and stumbled backward.

"No, you--you can't be alive!" he shouted, "I watched you die! Do you even know what that did to me? Sherlock, you--you bastard! I wanted to join you in death so many times--so many--" his voice cracked as he almost fell back against the coffee table while continuing to walk backward away from Sherlock.

Sherlock grabbed his arm to stop him from falling, but John quickly pushed him away, leaning back against the wall. His throat had a lump in it, but he tried to speak anyway, his eyes soon glossing over, "I wanted to join you so many times, Sherlock. I don't know how or why I held on--if you only knew--One night, I had a gun to my head and you--you were alive the whole time."

"Words cannot express how sorry I am, John," Sherlock spoke steadily.

John shook his head, "You don't get to do that--don't you try to explain--I don't want to hear it again. Mycroft told me your name, Sherlock. He told me the truth--I--I lost you all over again. I had to live with the fact that my best friend--the man I--that you--you were really gone."

John's voice was cracking and Sherlock's eyes were watering slightly, "John, I did it to protect you. I took my brother to see Lestrade. He told him the truth and he understood. Mycroft then told me I should do the same, so I came here. I must admit, I'd imagined it going a bit differently. You--you're not how I remember you."

John suddenly felt ashamed and self conscious about his grungy appearance. He looked down and stared at the floor. Sherlock took a step closer, "I don't care. I'm back now and things will be different now."

John looked up at Sherlock, not noticing how much the man had closed the distance between them, "How? How will things be different? You're still you and I'm--"

"John," Sherlock interrupted, "I know the truth, too."

John shifted uncomfortably for a moment, "What do you mean you know the truth?"

"Mycroft told me. I wasn't going to come, but when he told me, I knew I had to. My name, John. My name is yours. And yours is mine..."

John paused, looking up at the man who stood before him. He wanted this to be truly happening, but something inside him didn't feel right. Sherlock took one last step closer and looked straight at John, "I'm real, John," he said, taking the man's hand and placing it against his chest, "I have a pulse. I'm alive and I'm real."

"Sherlock," John croaked, glancing from his hand back to Sherlock's captivating eyes.

Sherlock let go of John's hand and took his head in his hands, guiding his lips to his forehead. Once his lips connected with his forehead, John sighed, melting against the touch that he didn't know he wanted. Sherlock pulled away, but did not release John's head from his gentle grasp.

"Are you afraid?" Sherlock whispered.

John paused, then shook his head gently, "No."

"Good," Sherlock replied, leaning further down to connect his lips with John's. John was surprised at first, but his hands quickly made their way into the curly locks of dark brown hair that he had so missed, though didn't know it at the time.

Their lips disconnected with a small sound and their foreheads touched. Their eyes remained closed as they held on to that moment for as long as possible, neither wanting it to end.