Work Text:
The last days had been the worst of John's life. He hadn't left his flat in what felt like an eternity, caught in a cycle of little sleep, eating nor drinking. His physical and emotional state mirrored the disarray around him. The once-tidy flat (he moved out of Baker Street, into his old flat) now echoed the chaos within him.
Venturing out only once to meet with Mrs. Hudson, they attempted to reclaim some semblance of order in what used to be Sherlock's and, in a way, their shared space. However, the weight of memories proved too overwhelming, and John crumbled at the doorstep, unable to proceed because he couldn’t face the flood of memories within.
Since that heart-wrenching breakdown, John became a prisoner in his own grief, avoiding the outside world. He knew he needed to confront the pain, but every step felt impossible.
The impact of Sherlock's death was far more profound than John could have anticipated. It wasn't just the loss of a friend; it was much more than that. Regret loomed large as he acknowledged that he had never took the chance to confess his feelings to Sherlock. The opportunity was forever lost, and the burden of unspoken words weighed heavily on his heart. John's emotions were a storm of longing and unspoken confessions, the weight of missed opportunities pressing down on him. The ache of 'what could have been' echoed through his sobs, a cruel reminder of irreversible time slipping away.
His unspoken love for Sherlock, buried deep within, haunted him. He had denied those feelings for far too long, convincing himself that it was a mere admiration. Now, the truth surfaced, and the regretful sobs couldn't be held back. John sought refuge in futile distractions, but Sherlock's memory persistently invaded his thoughts.
If only his mind could be a blank slate, free from the relentless, beautiful images of Sherlock. Yet, every attempt at distraction only reinforced the glaring absence, amplifying the ache of a love he never had the chance to confess.
Following his therapist's advice, on the 31th night after Sherlock's death, John reluctantly decided to resume his blog. Yet, as he stared at the blank screen, minutes slipped away without a single idea to transcribe. The clock ticked on, its rhythm emphasizing the silence in the room.
Abruptly, a noise from downstairs disrupted the quiet, prompting John's hesitant inquiry, "Hello?" Unanswered, the staircase made another sound. His unease grew, leading him to reach for the drawer containing his gun – a product of the newfound paranoia that clung to him after recent events.
The noise persisted, louder this time. Fueled by a mix of fear and frustration, John commanded, "Who the hell is here? Show yourself!" In response, a figure emerged from the shadows, a figure all too familiar – Sherlock. Time stood still as John's frozen grip released the gun, letting it fall to the floor.
Sherlock's appearance was strikingly altered – paler than usual, dark eyeshadow beneath tired, swollen eyes that hinted at recent tears. Despite the disheveled state of his hair, he still wore his familiar coat and scarf. The air hung heavy with unspoken questions as their eyes met.
"John, let me explain..." Sherlock began, but his words were swiftly cut off. "This is a dream… This must be a dream," John muttered, his breath catching as he clutched the stair for support. The verge of a panic attack loomed, and he struggled to comprehend the surreal moment.
"No, John, this is real," Sherlock asserted. "Oh, god. It can’t be. You’re dead. You weren’t breathing as I…" John trembled, his vision blurred. Sherlock caught him before he could collapse, guiding him to a seat. John flinched at the touch, realising he was in fact undoubtedly real. "You're really here. It's not a dream."
"Good deductions," Sherlock quipped, attempting to lighten the mood. But it only served to clear John's mind, transitioning his shock to anger.
"How?" John inquired, maintaining a calm façade that barely masked the rising fury in his voice. "How could you do this to me?" His volume increased, a gush of emotions flooding out. "You let me grieve, you ripped my heart out just to step in here one month later." Tears welled in John's eyes as he berated Sherlock. "Do you have any idea how hard I mourned for you? One month, you utter cock!"
John's restraint snapped, and he forcefully pressed Sherlock against the wall. "Tell me, Sherlock, WHY? WHY?" He screamed at him with fury in his eyes, then faltered into a broken murmur. "Why did you pretend to be fucking dead for one damn month?" The words hung heavy in the air as John's anger melted into tears. His hand sank onto Sherlock's chest, tears streaming down his cheeks onto Sherlock's suit.
Initially unsure how to respond, Sherlock hesitantly wrapped an arm around John's shoulders, using the other to gently stroke his back. As John's crying persisted, Sherlock risked laying his head on John's, the wetness from tears seeping into his suit. Sherlock held John tighter, offering solace as the flood of emotions slowly subsided.
"I heard you," Sherlock said after some time, prompting John to finally look up, his eyes swollen and red. "What?" John stammered, still held in Sherlock's embrace. Their bodies pressed together.
"Your wish for one more miracle. That I would stop being dead," Sherlock explained. The revelation left John speechless, the weight of the truth settling in. "Moriarty threatened to kill you. You, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. I could only prevent it if I'd kill myself by jumping off the roof."
"What? Why didn't you leave me a hint or something? You could have told me some way. Why did you let me believe this?" Sherlock's hands released John from the embrace, though the absence of his physical touch was already missed. John needed to hear the explanation.
"It was too dangerous to let you know. Your safety depended on you being in the dark, not knowing anything but the truth Moriarty wanted to," Sherlock reasoned. John paced the room in frustration. "My god, that bastard," he muttered. Then, he suddenly stood still. "But if it's too dangerous for me to know, why are you here and confessing all this?"
Sherlock swallowed, struggling with his words. "John... I'm here because I realized..." He hesitated, trying to articulate his feelings. "After the first few days, I felt terrible—guilty, consumed by this profound sense of misery. So maybe it’s incredibly selfish for me to be here, putting you in danger.” Sherlock couldn’t look at John, knowing what he was planning to confess now “Originally, my plan was to dismantle Moriarty's network, but my usually brilliant mind faltered. Because..." Sherlock's voice trembled, revealing vulnerability. "Because all I could think of was you. How intensely you must be mourning, what you were doing, whether you had found another flatmate or someone else. I wondered what you would do with my stuff, if you would keep it or not, if you are sleeping well or if your nightmares are back now. I even thought about what you wear, your jumpers, if you will continue your blog and if you also think so much about me. Every memory of you, of us together flooded my mind… Despite always feeling alone, you brought meaning into my life. You were the only one who didn't thought I was a freak when you first met me. No, quite the opposite.That night, one month ago, you stayed with me, doubting the fake but very believable story Moriarty spun. I realized I couldn't live without you anymore. I owe you my life. People always say I have no emotions, but I realised it’s not entirely true. That’s why I’m here - I want to you to know that,” the next words only came out as a whisper “I love you."
John absorbed every word of Sherlock's confession, his eyes locking onto Sherlock's with unwavering intensity. Without a moment's hesitation, he closed the distance, placing his hand on Sherlock's face, and their lips finally met. Sherlock took a moment to process before reciprocating. The kiss was tender, filled with a shy exploration of long-repressed desires.
So long yearned John to taste Sherlock’s lips, they were soft and full, surpassing John's expectations. Sherlock's hands found their place on John's hips, drawing him closer, pressing their bodies together. John ran his hand through Sherlock’s dark brown curls and took the opportunity of Sherlock's soft moan to deepen the kiss, letting his tongue slip into Sherlock's mouth. The kiss intensified and became more passionate. All of the unspoken and denied emotions transformed into a mixture of desire and need.
Minutes passed in this heated exchange until they reluctantly separated, their bodies still close. "Sherlock, I love you too," John declared. Relief and joy lit up Sherlock's face, prompting him to kiss John again, unable to resist the overwhelming connection that had finally found its expression.
"I never thought the slightest of looking for another flatmate. All I could think about was you and that it was to late to confess my feelings. You have no idea how hard I mourned for you," John confessed. "I'm so sorry, John," Sherlock replied, tears forming in his own eyes. "No, no, sweetheart, don't cry. It's all fine,” John said his hand gently caressing Sherlock's cheek “It's not your fault. It's Moriarty's. And all that matters is that you’re here with me now and my deepest wish is fulfilled. Still, you need to tell me how the hell did you make it look so real?" Sherlock chuckled, "Yes, I will. A brilliant idea of mine." John joined in the laughter, saying, "Yeah, I bet." But Sherlock's expression turned serious again. "I don't know what to do with Moriarty. His men will come if they find out that you know the truth. But I will protect you."
"We will find a way, but just don't fake your death to protect me. I need you as much as you need me," John said with a smile. "I will," Sherlock promised.
They kissed again, and eventually, they went to bed, cuddled up together. This night, both finally slept well again, finding solace in the shared warmth and security of each other's present.