Domesticity//Johnlock

4- Breathe

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Contrary to what Sherlock believed, John noticed when tiny, important things happened. Details.

He noticed when Rosie's bottle rolled under the sofa (he pulled it out for her).

He noticed when Sherlock forgot to turn the oven off.

He noticed when Rosie grabbed at Sherlock's leg and giggled, eliciting the rarest of reactions from him. A particular smile, unlike the ones Sherlock made when he was showing off and knew he was astonishing people, or the ones when he got an interesting case, or the ones when he solved said case.

It was a sincere smile. Not amusement, not inquisition, and not large, but rather the upturn of lips is what could only be described as adoration for the child.

And, in a way, it vaguely reminded John of the fondness Mary had expressed when she held Rosie.

So yes, John did notice the "little details", no matter how much Sherlock called him oblivious or ignorant.

But, then again, a smile that sincere from Sherlock—he could spot it from a mile away. It was unusual. It was uncommon.

And John found that he kind of liked it.

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

Confusion. Then panic. Fear. Terror. Sherlock, god, Sherlock where are you? Sherlock—?

Oh, no.

He was there. Above John, so high up. In the sky, unable to come down.

What is this? What is this? Sherlock, so help me, I will scale the walls to get to you, Sherlock, what do you mean?

Scared. Scared. No, no, no, not like this. Never like this. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. After all the death, and the violence and war, you were my savior, Sherlock. You saved me, and in a way, I saved you. Sherlock, stop.

You tossed the phone aside. Was that really all over phone? It can't have been. He was right there, right bloody there, and now he's falling, falling, falling-

"Sherlock!"

I wasn't there when you hit the asphalt. But I saw you. God, there was blood. Your blood. Did he do this to you? This wasn't you. You were real. You wouldn't lie to me. You wouldn't do this to yourself. You're too stubborn. You're just too bloody stubborn to give up.

"He's my friend, please..."

.

I can't unsee it. Unthinking it isn't an option, either.

What happened? I was supposed to be free. Have I not been through enough? I was alone. And then I had you. So why—why would you leave me?

The news lies. It lies and lies and lies. That's all it ever does. They didn't know you. I knew you. And you weren't a conman, they are all wrong.

But I still hate you. No, I love you, I'm sorry. No, I hate you, Sherlock. Except that isn't true. I could never hate you, which is a mystery, because most people do within the first thirty seconds of knowing you. But I'm not most people. What I am is alone. Why did you leave? Was it all a ploy? Or were you really in pain, and I'm just cursing at a tortured ghost?

.

I miss you.

Every night, I miss you. Every morning, I miss you. I left the flat. I still miss you. I met a girl, she's really nice. I still miss you.