A Thousand Years

[klada]

It had been a year since Sherlock had faked his death. It hadn't been too hard to get the aid of his brother and Molly. Sherlock had made sure they were the only ones who knew, but he had still kept careful tabs on John Watson, his dear friend and army doctor. It hadn't been easy, but Sherlock had done what he'd had to do, and hopefully Watson would let him explain that.

He was surprised that Watson had not moved in the year that had passed since his death. He was still here, holed up in 221b, the flat they had shared together. Today was the anniversary of his death, Sherlock wasn't ignorant of that. It had been exactly thee hundred and sixty five days since then. John had taken the coat from his body, he remembered the feeling of the threads slipping over his shoulders as he held his breath, but he wasn't sure how he would react now, after it had been so long.

Sherlock listened to the sound of the road, rushing by baker street, hardly noticing the dead man hiding in plain sight. That was what Sherlock was good at, disguise. He did not have the thick, obvious trench coat anymore, which helped, and his physical appearance had grown more dishelved since he had been away from John. Sherlock had lost more weight, thinning away to just skin and bones, and his hair had gotten longer, if only by a minute measure. Sherlock brushed an errant curl out of his face, and tried not to panic.

Sherlock Holmes after all, did not panic.

But John had changed the indifferent Sherlock, and now, he could feel his body reacting to fear. Raised heart rate, flushed skin,(although it was still deathly pale) trembling hands. What was he supposed to do? John was bound to be mad at him no matter what he did, judging by the deductions.

Sherlock pranced across the street in that manner of his, before standing on the doorstep. The weight loss and the longer hair made him look different and the neighbors wouldn't notice him. But John would. John was not as much of a moron was the rest of them. He'd gotten a hold of a new coat, similar to the one John had taken, purple scarf tied tightly around his neck, and the same black gloves shielding his hands from the London cold.

Closing his striking blue eyes for a moment, Sherlock took a deep breath and decided the best way to do it was enter the house. He opened his eyes and grabbed the spare key from where it was hidden,(his keys were still in the pockets of the clothes that John had) and unlocked the door with shaky hands.

Shaking was not normal for Sherlock Homes.

Sherlock opened the door and shut it, whirling to face the flat that he had abandoned a year ago to save his friend. It had hardly changed. John had not touched the clutter that belonged to Sherlock, judging by the thick coating of dust over his belongings.

And there was John, who hadn't changed a bit, except for the cane that was in close proximity to him now. The limp had come back.

"John?" Sherlock said, tentatively, wary of the reaction that he was going to get as he climbed up the stairs to face his best friend and ex flat mate. Maybe even former best friend.

He was scared, and being scared and feeling guilty of his actions scared Sherlock more than anything. More than Jim Moriarty even.

His voice had trembled, wavered, when he said his friend's name.

"Let me explain, please."

[Eva]

One year. It had been exactly one year since John Watson had witnessed what could easily be labeled the most traumatic experience in his entire life. Sherlock, his best and only real friend, had committed suicide for a reason even he had never been able to understand. There had been times when he'd believed that there was a reason, some factor that he'd simply missed that would explain everything, but life was never that simple. He'd watched the only person he'd ever truly cared about plummet to his death without even bothering to give him an explanation. It didn't matter to John that Sherlock's last words had been to him. If anything, that did little but make him feel worse about the whole ordeal. His therapist had explained that it would take time for the wound to heal but a year had gone by and it was still as deep and painful as it had been that day; leaving him to think that the part of his heart that Sherlock had owned completely would never really heal.

With the anniversary of such a tragedy upon him now, John was trying to cope with his loss as best he could. The only problem was that he honestly had no idea how he was supposed to do this. He'd never exactly lost anyone who he truly considered important in his life and Sherlock had meant far more to him than most people could consider possible. Of course there had been rumors about the manner of his relationship with his partner and best friend but that was all they were; or so he continued to tell himself. Still, the date had delivered a rather harsh blow to his emotional state and so(against the advice of his therapist, mind you) he'd figured that the best way to spend it was alone. Having let Mrs. Hudson know of his intentions, she'd simply offered him a warm hug before hurrying off in her usual way to place a few calls to anyone who might have considered checking up on him. It wasn't that he was against company per say, but he really wanted nothing more than to be alone in the flat that had become home.

Grateful that she seemed to have understood his needs perfectly when the older woman came back to let him know she was off to lunch with a few friends, John had mustered up the smallest of smiles just to show her how much he appreciated the fact that she was giving him his privacy. As he heard the clock chime three times to inform him of the hour, Watson figured that today shouldn't put a hitch in his schedule. Reaching for the cane that was never beyond his reach these days, as his limp had come back even worse than before within a week of Sherlock's death, he gripped it tightly as he struggled to stand up from the plush cushion where Sherlock himself had relaxed on countless occasions during their months of living together. Having been unable to even consider either selling his best friend's possessions or leaving 221b altogether, the comfortable chair was one of the only pieces of furniture in the entire flat that had yet to acquire a light sheen of dust over its surface; a detail that indicated how often he sat there himself.

Finally managing to achieve a standing position, he slowly made his way over to the desk on which rested his currently closed laptop. Honestly, John wasn't even sure why he still had the appliance around anymore. He rarely used it with the exception of opening and closing it once a day in the hopes that he might find the will to write again but even that 'dream' was beginning to fade as not a single word had been typed in over a year considering the last post on his blog had been entered three days before Sherlock's demise. That being said, the attempt to write again had become something of a ritual again and so he leaned on his cane for support as he hobbled his way over to the pushed out chair before dropping himself into its hard and yet familiar seat. Setting his cane so that it rested within easy reach against the desk, John sighed once as he opened the top to his computer and quickly keyed in his password. With a push of a button, his blog's webpage popped up to reveal a blank text box simply waiting for him to pour all his thoughts and emotions into it. If only things were that simple.

I can do this, he told himself silently, moving his hands ever so slowly until they rested above the keyboard in the proper position for typing. Please just let me get out one sentence. Just one and I'll have made some progress. For Sherlock. The silent dedication proved too much for John just then, however, and a soundless sob slipped from his lips; racking his chest with ever ounce of the pain he'd kept bottled up for the last year. So caught up was he in his tearful mornings that he didn't notice the sound of the door opening and shutting downstairs. It wasn't until he heard his name, uttered by a voice he would recognize anywhere, that John's entire body locked up as he didn't dare even draw in a breath for fear that he'd imagined it. Praying that this wasn't a dream, he strained his ears to hear the slightest noise that might indicate that what he'd heard - that voice - was indeed real. Only when he heard the familiar creak in one of the steps did his eyes widen as his head shot up so that his gaze could locate the doorway in which now stood the one man he'd never believed he would see again; not alive anyways. Drawing in a breath so sharp that it was audible in it's intensity, he released it in a single word that let the man he was now staring at know all the pain and agony he'd been enduring for the past year. "Sherlock."

ATTIRE: Click!
WORD COUNT: 1,028 words
NOTES: Hope this works <3
LYRICS: Without You - My Darkest Days
CREDIT: SAM !? of Confronting the Faceless. Don't remove the credit or I will find you.

[klada]

Tapping his slender, emaciated fingers against his thighs, Sherlock realized that he wanted a cigarette. Or any form of tobacco. Much to Mycroft's dismay Sherlock had started up on his nasty habit again once he had moved out of their shared flat and went into hiding, while trying to hunt down those who had aided the consulting criminal. Now that the anxiety had slipped into his bones, he grew more restless, and all he could think of when he faced John was that he would have really liked to have a nicotine patch at the moment. It would calm the senses, and the road noise would melt away so that he could focus on telling John the truth. Sherlock was restless, and it did not help that he hadn't eaten a full meal in weeks, or slept, for that matter. For once, the lack of digestion and rest had not helped what he wanted to accomplish.

Sherlock clapped his palms together and pressed them to his lips when John spoke, as he struggled to find something to say. To do, even. John was not going to let this go easily, but for once Sherlock was puzzled. Lost. John would have laughed at him if this was under any different circumstances. But here was, a dead man standing in the flat, and John had obviously not moved on in the past year that Sherlock had lead him on. The dust, the cane, but he was still trying to write, although John obviously hadn't been able to.

Sherlock had been watching John's blog, too. There hadn't been a sign from him, and he could imagine the problems he was trying to deal with his therapist at the moment.

"John," Sherlock started, before his breath caught in his throat.

He hated this feeling, of not knowing what to do, or what oberservation to say. At least he didn't have to go through this with Mycroft and Molly, and even though he was going to have to tell Lestrade and the team, he feared John's reaction the most.

He hadn't cared about people till John.

"John, I..."

Sherlock was getting the feeling that he better explain himself now, in the moment where John was stunned, so that it was easier to get the words out. The sooner John could process what was going on the better, but he still couldn't think of the words to say. How to explain the greatest case he'd ever had. The Final Problem. The Reichanbach fall.

"They were going to kill you," Sherlock blurted out finally, at the speed he would have if this was just another case.

"If they didn't see me jump, Moriarty's men would have shot you."

Sherlock would answer any questions that John had, but for the mean time that summed up everything that Sherlock could say. He'd done it for John, for Mrs. Hudson, for Lestrade, for everyone he cared for. Three bullets, three victims. This had been the only way that Sherlock had managed to save them. John had been a soldier for years, a doctor, hopefully he would understand why he had done it, why he'd had to lie to him...

Sherlock reached into the front pocket of his shirt for a cigarette, pulling out the box rather unsteadily and then began to search for his lighter. Grace was always in his movements, but there was such an extreme lack of basic necciesties companied with the nervousness that he was not himself at the moment.

It took him a long minute to light his cigarette, (he remembered John once making a comment about how not being able to smoke was good news for breathing) and he could finally breathe again as soon as the nicotine entered his blood stream. But it was the last cigarette, and wouldn't last him long in this situation.

"I'm sorry, John."

Sherlock braced himself for John's reaction. John was the only person that Sherlock would ever apologize to, and he had done so during one of their cases, but this was so much more than that. He'd lied to John for an entire year, he'd even made his friend witness his false suicide so that he could crush Moriarty.

Two years ago, Sherlock would not have sacrificed anything to save anyone, but it was possible that he had sacrificed his only friendship to save his only friend.

[Eva]

Less than a minute earlier, John had been lost for what seemed like the millionth time in the deep despair that overwhelmed him every single time a stray thought that could be related to Sherlock entered his head. The worst part about it though, was that practically everything he saw or heard(or even did for that matter) reminded him of the one person he'd ever truly cared about. From the cup of tea he drank each and every morning without fail....to Sherlock's various possessions that were still scattered around the flat located at 221b Baker St; every single moment throughout the course of Doctor Watson's day seemed to rip the ever-present hole open even more as he couldn't think of anything except the fact that things would never be the same again. Sherlock was lost forever, buried six feet under, and he wasn't coming back. Still, he wouldn't...no; he couldn't let go. Though his therapist had told him on numerous occasions that a change of scenery might help him heal, it was the idea of leaving the home they'd once shared that pained him more than anything.

It didn't matter in the least to John that remaining in the flat might be doing more harm than good where his mental health was concerned. If anything, that was the last thing on his mind given all that he'd been through over the past year. All that he cared about was remembering Sherlock and this was only of the only ways he could think of to do so. Of course, that had made it all too easy for the world's only consulting detective to know exactly where he was; not that he would have ever considered such a thing. Though he wanted to deny it, the year without Sherlock had forced him to realize that he wasn't coming back. It was because of this that the emotional change which ripped through him at the ghostly sound of his 'dead' best friend's voice was instantly noticeable. Stiffening visibly as he desperately clung to the feeble spark that had been lit upon hearing his own name slip from Sherlock's lips, his head jerked up at that same moment so that his wild gaze could scan the room. Though he wanted to believe so badly that what he had just heard was real, the fact that he'd imagined hearing Sherlock's voice countless times before today certainly wasn't helping.

It's not real, he told himself firmly, closing his eyes tightly in an attempt to convince himself that he was indeed hallucinating the way his therapist had suggested he should. Sherlock is gone. He's been gone for exactly one year today and he's not coming back. Having managed to get his pulse back under control, he slowly relaxed the muscles in his eyes before allowing them to open once again. Of course, his blood pressure instantly went through the roof when his gaze landed on the all too familiar face that he would have been able to pick instantly out of any crowd. His breath catching in his throat as his eyes grew so wide that one might have thought they were about to pop out of his head, John couldn't even begin to process down the myriad of emotions overwhelming him just then. What he found strange, however, was the fact that he couldn't have spoken had he wanted to. Months of imagining this moment had seemingly flown right out of the window at the sight of what he prayed wasn't a hallucination, leaving him barely able to breathe - let alone speak. Could it be possible that he'd finally gone off the deep end? Oh dear god, he hoped not.

It had taken every ounce of John's strength to manage getting out that single word. The shock had taken far too much out of him already and so he sank back into the hard backed chair in what some might consider exhaustion. And he was exhausted, if not physically then mentally. Unable to think of how to translate his emotions into words right then, he instead chose to survey Sherlock's appearance; taking in every single detail just in case he suddenly vanished. Only then did he really wonder how Sherlock was doing as it was obvious by his unnaturally thin frame and pasty complexion that his best friend hadn't been getting enough nutrition or rest. Then again, he'd become aware of Sherlock's self-destructive habits when he was on a case and so wasn't nearly as surprised just then as he was worried. He hasn't had me around to remind him, he noted silently, that he needs to rest if he's going to be on the top of his game. Of course, he rarely listened to me back then anyways so I doubt it really would have made much of a difference.

Torn from his thoughts when Sherlock began to speak(or attempt to at least), John felt his brows furrow together as his emotions began shifting from shock to something else entirely. He was angry, undeniably so, but more importantly he felt...betrayed. Sherlock had to have known how badly his death would have affected him and yet he'd chosen to let him believe it anyways. That being said, the accusatory stare softened slightly when he noticed that Sherlock was fumbling for words himself. Having never witnessed such a thing since he'd first met the man at St. Bart's, John had no idea what to think except that this situation might be even more uncomfortable for Sherlock than it was for him. After all, Sherlock had known that he was alive while John had thought him to be dead. Still, that didn't prepare him in the slightest for the revelation that finally erupted from Sherlock's lips. Holding back a look of surprise, he simply nodded silently as he attempted to process the new information that he had just been bombarded with. Of course, there wasn't exactly an 'easy' way to say something like this which left him to figure it out for himself.

He did this...for me? John questioned mentally, unable to fathom such a thing being possible. While he would have given his life for Sherlock in a heartbeat, the infamous Mr. Holmes had shown time and time again that he cared for nothing except his work. Why then, was he any different? It doesn't make any sense. He died to keep me alive, and then didn't even bother to let me know. What was the point then? I haven't lived since that day so what was the point in saving my life? He didn't understand, not in the slightest. Granted, he'd come to term with the fact that it was highly unlikely that anyone would ever understand what went on in Sherlock's head but that did little to reassure him just then. What he wanted to know, above all else, was what on earth had made Sherlock believe that he had the right to make such a decision. Regardless of what he'd been dealing with in that moment, John couldn't help but think that he should have had a say in the matter. Sherlock possessed a gift that none could hope to achieve by normal means and that was more important than his own life any day.

Having been silent this whole time as he tried with no success to process everything, it took only three simple words to unleash the fury that had slowly been building within him. Eyes snapping up from their former position of seeming glued to the desk before him as he heard Sherlock utter an apology, John felt his expression quickly shift to a dark scowl as he jumped up from the chair where he'd been sitting since this encounter began. "You're....sorry?" he managed to get out, the words catching in his throat from disbelief at hearing those words fall from Sherlock's lips. "That's all you have to say for yourself? Sherlock, it's been a YEAR! ONE YEAR! You jumped off a building for Christ's sake! One phone call that made no sense, that wasn't you, and then I-" At this point his words caught in his throat as he wasn't sure what to say. How was he supposed to tell the man he'd watched commit suicide how heartbroken he was. How he'd wished every single day that he had been the one on that ledge with Sherlock out of harm's way on the ground below him.

There weren't enough words in the human language to explain the hurt he'd felt every day; the emptiness that had overwhelmed him for months after witnessing something that he now knew that never technically happened. It did though, at least for me. He was dead. Forcing himself to swallow once, John's voice when he finally continued was now little more than a whisper and yet still just as intense as before. "-and then I watched you die. You were dead. I visited your grave every day for months, you know that? Every day Sherlock, and I prayed that one day you might be there waiting. It's been a year and you couldn't even bother to let me know that you were alive? How am I supposed to feel about that? How does someone handle that, tell me." It didn't matter at that point if he was being unfair. All John could think about was the fact that everything he'd believed for the past year was nothing more than a lie. A lie that could have been cleared up with one phone call, or even just a single text. Obviously though, he wasn't important enough to know.

ATTIRE: Click!
WORD COUNT: 1,611 words
NOTES: I think my heart just broke *dies*
LYRICS: Without You - My Darkest Days
CREDIT: SAM !? of Confronting the Faceless. Don't remove the credit or I will find you.

[klada]

Sherlock could feel his head spinning. Rather tumultuously, in fact. Almost as if he were on a roller coaster. Sherlock himself had once said that sentiment was a chemical defect found in the losing side, and unfortunately, Sherlock had worked himself to the bone in order to get back to the friend that he had abandoned. His stomach had not had anything new in it for over twenty four hours, and he hadn't slept in seventy two hours and counting. His body was quite used to the depravation, but normally, he didn't have such a long wait time in between being able to rest from a case. As soon as he had killed the final member of Moriaty's spider web of criminals, Sherlock had jumped on the red eye flight back to London. And he could not sleep on the plane, not with all the noise, and the problems he could see people having. Without John there to stop him he had said some rather crass things to the flight attendant about how she was sleeping with the co-pilot. He hadn't slept, and he'd avoided the horrible food on the plane.

John was his link to society and what to say, or what not to say in certain situations. But without John he had become even more of an annoying dick than he usually was. Even though John had tried to stamp out the rumors that they were a couple, in all sense of the word, they were a couple. John needed Sherlock, and Sherlock needed John just to remember to eat, or even get a few hours of sleep each night.

Mycroft had taught the young Sherlock that caring was a disadvantage, that it would never help Sherlock in the long run. And perhaps Mycroft was right, because since he had met John Sherlock had cared. For once he had cared about Molly's feelings at Christmas, he'd learned that Lestrade's name was Greg, and all of a sudden he had emotions. In the course of the eighteen months that he had known John, he'd felt confused, afraid, and all of the emotions that other people felt on a daily basis. Of course, the annoying emotions had not gone away when he had separated from John, either. The sensation of being smothered by all of the noises, sights and smells around him had only gotten worse, and he couldn't handle it because his generous army doctor was not there to curb the boredom and the information overload. At the moment Sherlock was feeling pure terror of the impending reaction, and because of the way his body was reacting to the emotions.

His heart was pounding inside of his chest, and his fingers trembled. The high blood pressure only made the woozy feeling in his head worse, and all of a sudden every single part of his body felt like it was being weighed down by rocks. The adrenaline rush he'd managed to hold for an entire year was over now that he was home, home to John, and Sherlock's instincts wanted his body to collapse in bed, or anywhere at this point, really.

Sherlock had not realized how important John was to him until after he had faked his death. He had still tried to talk to John when John was not around, when John was at home thinking that Sherlock was dead. He had hardly slept, or drank water, or eaten, and now his body was tired out, now that his mind was finally done with the goal he'd had in mind. His stomach was even growling uncontrollably, but he could not eat with the butterflies in his stomach. He was tired, his eyelids were suddenly heavy, and all because John was a sort of buffer to his mind.

Sherlock was afraid as to what would happen if he sat down, although he could feel his knees beginning to shake. He was not sure that John would just let him waltz into an apartment that he had not lived in for a year. Sherlock had made his home out of stuffy hotel rooms where you could hear moaning from the next room over, and now he felt like John was going to reject him for the huge lie that he had told him.

Sherlock had grown used to rejection for years from everyone. From school yard bullies that he had humiliated, from girls, from people that he had revealed too much about, or from those like Sally who thought he was a freak, or the ones he had just pissed off too much in his attempts to show off. Or those who had misunderstand, envied, rejected, bullied and harassed Sherlock as a child.But not John, never John. John had always complimented him, been incredibly loyal, and now that Sherlock had ruined John's trust, he was afraid that John was going to tell him what everyone else told him.

Piss off.

He'd lied to him, that was breaching a code that even Sherlock didn't break. Sherlock certainly did not lie to people, but he'd done it to keep John Watson alive. He'd bribed off his entire homeless network to do it, Mycroft and Molly...He was amazed at the amount of people he had hurt in order to keep three, very special people alive, and only three. John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. The butterfly effect.

When John spoke Sherlock realized that apologizing had been the wrong thing, but he couldn't understand why. Saying those two words," I"m sorry" did not have a magical effect, but that was what people did. They apologized. But John didn't like that, and Sherlock found himself at a loss as to what to do now, now that John was angry with him and the fear of rejection was drawing closer.

For someone rather observant or just of average intelligence, Sherlock went another shade of pale, and his facial expression changed from the normal arrogance to surprise, to hurt, to confusion, all in an instant. The confusion stayed until John was done speaking and Sherlock managed to pull himself together again. It was a long moment before Sherlock spoke, and even then his answer was rather inadequate.

"I thought that you would want me to apologize," He said slowly. "That's what people do, isn't it?"

Sherlock took another puff off of his cigarette, attempting to clear the clutter from his mind, but it didn't seem to be working. He knew the adverse effects of hunger and sleep deprivation on the body, even though he did it to himself, and not being able to concentrate well was one of those things. But despite that, sleep had been a waste of his time when he was trying to get home to John as soon as he could.

"I needed to kill the rest of Moriarty's crime web, I didn't want to risk them finding you. I wanted to tell you but I couldn't. I tried to tell you when I called."

A shiver slid up Sherlock's spine and he closed his eyes for a moment, and tried to take a deep breath, but his body almost rejected it. His chest was tight, and he wasn't sure why that was. Could it be because of his elevated heart rate?

"It's just a trick, just a magic trick," He said, quoting the original conversation they had before Sherlock had jumped.

"I couldn't, if they found you John..."

Sherlock felt his throat close up and his eyes attempting to produce tears, and he shook his head violently in an attempt to ward them off, but it might have been a false attempt.

"I don't know John!" Sherlock found his himself raising his voice. "I'm a freak, remember? How the
bloody hell am I supposed to know how it feels?"

Arrogance was his fatal flaw, and he thought John would have understand what he had tried to do. He had tried to save him. That was all he had wanted to, all he had wanted to do was to make sure that John was safe. He felt like he couldn't breathe now, like he was struggling for air even though there was nothing wrong with his body. But his body had not had enough substance for a conversation as emotional and as aggravating as this one. And even though he'd just told John that he didn't know how it felt, he felt like he was being suffocated. Because it seemed like he hadn't done the right thing now.

Sherlock felt himself sway for a moment, his body tired of the harsh conditions that it had been put under.

"I need to sit down," He breathed, before stumbling over to his chair.

He plopped himself down into the chair, and pressed his hands over his face for a moment, trying not to let John see any of the pain that was leaking its way out of his tear ducts. He was supposed to be emotionless, and this was not the first time he had cried since he had taken his jump off of the roof.

He felt a hot tear slide down past his hands, and he took a deep breath, trying to stem them, but his body was out of his control.

Sherlock hated it when things were out of his control. Which only made him cry harder.

[Eva]

If someone were to say that John were new to the world of death, they would have been lying. The fact that he'd served as an army doctor alone had opened him up to the world of death long before he'd ever met Sherlock and yet the death of his best friend had turned his world upside down like never before. Perhaps it was the way that he'd viewed Sherlock or possibly how he'd depended on him like no one else but those were nothing more than semantics at this point. What mattered was that he'd been crushed after watching the person he cared for more than anyone else in the world jump off the top of a building and kill himself. What he'd never been able to understand was why? Sherlock had never been the type to give up or succumb to the whims of man before so why had he then? It was the one question that had eaten away at him for the past year, ever since that day. That, and why he hadn't been able to save him. Had it been up to John, he would have taken Sherlock's place in a heartbeat and yet he hadn't even been given the chance. It was a wonder he'd survived for this long, honestly, as his life had ended(for all intensive purposes) the same day that Sherlock's had.

Still, he'd known that his best friend wouldn't have wanted him to give up and so he'd managed to keep going. If not for himself, then for Sherlock. It was one of the only ways he'd been able to keep the memory of his best friend alive. Of course, there had been no way for him to ever put back together the broken shards that had once been his heart but he'd managed to keep himself fed and alive; if not in spirit than at least in body. It was all he could manage. Though he hadn't known it that day at St. Bart's when he had first encountered the genius that was Sherlock Holmes, the man had completed the part of him that he'd never realized was missing. They had been two separate pieces of the same puzzle and it was only after losing him that John had realized this. It had been too late then, however, to explain to Sherlock just how much he'd meant to him. It was because of this that he'd visited the cemetery every day. Only there had he been able to disclose everything. It hadn't mattered that Sherlock couldn't 'hear' him per say as he was no longer alive. It was simply a way that he could deal with all the pent up anger and betrayal that had surfaced after Sherlock's death.

After all, his therapist had told him that he needed to get it out and that's what he'd done. Hours and hours of ranting and raving at the engraved headstone had often ended in tears as there had been nothing left to say. John was getting it out though, and that's what mattered. At least, that's what he chose to believe anyways. Once again, however, his world had been turned upside down as seeing Sherlock in the doorway of their flat brought what little peace of mind he'd managed to erect crashing down around him. He simply couldn't believe it, that he'd spent the last year believing that his best and only true friend in the entire world had been dead when in fact he was very much alive. Far more pronounced than the anger or any other emotion, however, was the harsh taste of betrayal that lanced through him before filling his mouth with bile. Sherlock had to have known the impact his supposed 'death' would have on his best friend and yet he'd kept John in the dark. It was only then that he wondered who else had truly believed him to be dead. had Lestrade known, or Mycroft, or Molly even? Questions were now being raised in his mind with the only man who could answer them now standing before him: Sherlock Holmes.

The worst part about the reunion though, was that he couldn't really blame Sherlock considering the personality of the world's only consulting detective and yet he did. Oh god, did he blame him. He wasn't entirely sure what blame he could place on him, however, but he blamed him. Maybe it was the fact that he'd been alive for the past year and not bothered to contact him in any way whatsoever or perhaps it was that he no longer knew who(if anyone) he could trust in this world. Either way, he had no idea how to react in any case and so he'd simply stood there; stunned into silence by the out of the blue return of the one person he'd never thought he would see alive again. As he appraised his best friend's condition though, the anger and myriad of other negative emotions whirring about in his head began to fade as worry replaced them all. It didn't take a genius(or even a doctor for that matter) to see that Sherlock wasn't well by any means. He has to have lost ten pounds at the very least, he thought to himself absentmindedly, still unsure of what to say, which means that he can't have been eating. Of course, I haven't been around to practically shove food down his throat either. I bet he hasn't slept in days either, considering those circles under his eyes. God, when is he going to learn that he needs to take better care of himself?

Though he did his best to keep his thoughts from tainting his expression, John couldn't keep them out completely and so his formerly icy gaze began to melt as he worried about Sherlock's health. It was an attitude that he'd adopted quite easily during the eighteen months he'd spent living with Sherlock and it was all to easy to fall back into the same pattern. After all, this is what he'd been hoping for, right? That, by some miracle, Sherlock would somehow come back and everything would be as it was before. It was only now that he realized how foolish the latter portion of his thoughts were. No matter how hard they tried, things could never be exactly the way they were before; not in a million years. His right eyebrow arched unintentionally though, when he happened to notice the slight quake in his best friend's stance. Shaking his head to dispel the unpleasant thoughts that had been flowing through his head, John was about to tell Sherlock to take a seat before he passed out when his best friend happened to say the worst thing possible. A scowl quickly replaced the worried expression that had adorned his faces only moments earlier as his gaze hardened once again when his former thoughts resurfaced.

He thinks a simple apology can fix everything? If that's what he thinks, he's sorely mistaken. Unable to hold it in a moment longer, John began talking. No, talking wasn't the right word to describe what he was doing. Ranting and raving were far closer as his voice became significantly louder within seconds of his mouth opening. It was as though the dam holding all his emotions in had finally shattered, leaving no barrier to censor all that poured forth from his lips. Unable to stop speaking once he'd begun, there was really no option but for him to get it all out. Besides, if he'd stopped long enough to consider what he was saying, John knew that what little courage he had would evaporate leaving him without the strength to continue. It was only when he no longer possessed the ability to breathe that he was forced to quit talking and he drew in a long, deep breath in an attempt to calm both his racing pulse and the now noticeable quake that had overtaken his hands. It was the shake of his hands that surprised him more than anything though, as his hands hadn't even trembled when he'd retired from the war and yet they were betraying the height of his emotions in front of the one person that he had no doubt would notice their unintentional movement.

Sherlock was the most observant person he'd ever met and that alone seemed to be just enough incentive for him to mentally force the tremors into submission. Slowly raising his gaze until it met that of his best friend's once more, he visibly cringed when Sherlock spoke as the memories associated with the latter part of his statement weren't the most pleasant. "Yes, that's what real people do," he said after a long moment, his voice laced with the pain that had been resurrected with four seemingly harmless words, "but don't say it like that, would you? The last time I heard that, I ended up watching you jump off a building and before that Moriarty was about to kill us both so forgive me if I'm not exactly partial to that phrase. Besides, you were the one who had arch-nemesis' and the like so since when are you trying to be real?" John knew that he wasn't exactly being reasonable or kind in this situation, Still, he couldn't help but feel as though he deserved more than a little leeway considering the fact that everything he'd known for the past year was nothing more than a lie. Honestly, he believed himself to be handling the shock of their reunion rather well considering the size of the bombshell that had just been dropped on him at the mere sight of Sherlock.

That being said, his eyes widened as he listened to his best friend explain why he'd been kept in the dark. A crime web? Even with every possibility that he'd considered in the first few months following Sherlock's jump, he would never in a million years considered something so extensive. It was with that thought that he recalled something Sherlock had said not long enough after they first met. "Most people are idiots," he'd said on their first case together, if he remembered correctly. I should have made the connection, he thought irritably, his anger directed at himself this time. If I had, we wouldn't be in this boat now. Of course, that's didn't truly alleviate the pain that he'd been subjected to over the past year but it did provide some comfort. Pure shock overcame his expression though when Sherlock stated that he had tried to tell John his plans during the short phone call they'd shared directly preceding his jump. Unable to let that go, his next words were hanging in the air between them before he realized they were slipping past his lips. He wasn't trying to be cruel or anything like that but he needed Sherlock to understand. Understand what, he wasn't exactly sure but he had to make him understand. For some reason, it was important and that's what mattered.

"You tried to tell me in...code?" he spluttered, rage causing him to stutter momentarily while he's had to wrack his brains for the right word. "Why the hell would you think that I could ever figure it out? Not everyone's brains work like yours, Sherlock. In fact, no one's brain works like yours, least of all mine! I'm not a genius Sherlock, so how could you ever think I'd manage to work out what you meant?" Forcing himself into silence as he couldn't risk pushing Sherlock away, John fought back the tears that threatened to spill down his face. They would do little more than reveal how broken he felt and he couldn't bear the thought of appearing weak. Not in front of Sherlock. The thought that he hadn't exactly been in his right mind that day wormed its way into his brain as well but he had a feeling Sherlock wouldn't exactly understand that bit of information and so he didn't bother adding it on. He's never had that issue before so trying to make him understand such a concept would be pointless. After all, I should know better than anyone just how limited his ability to empathize is. I've been subjected to that side of Sherlock on more than one occasion, possibly more than anyone.

Sherlock's strangled words acted like the sharpest dagger as they pierced him straight through his core, causing his eyes to water once again as tears threatened to burst forth. Still, the anger inside John had been rekindled and he couldn't stop his words as they continued pouring forth from his lips; unbidden at this point and yet unable to be contained. "How could you possibly think that my believing you were dead was any better for me, Sherlock?!" he asked incredulously, unable to keep the break in his voice hidden as he uttered the word 'dead' in reference to his best friend. "I don't think you get it. The day that I saw you jump was the day that I died. Maybe not physically, but emotionally there was nothing left. Do you understand? I DIED that day Sherlock, so how was that protecting me?" Even with all that he'd said and how angry he felt inside, however, there wasn't a single hint of malice in John's tone as he spoke. Pain and betrayal? Definitely. But no anger. It was for this reason that it came as such a shock to him when Sherlock raised his own voice. More astonishing than that even(as he'd only ever heard Sherlock yell twice before), was what he said.

Shaking his head as he attempted to process his friend's words with no such luck, his gaze met Sherlock's at the same moment that a single tear fell from his eye and coursed down his cheek. "Don't you dare say that," he said, his words warmer than they'd been since the conversation started. "You're not a freak and anyone who says so is an idiot and obviously quite uninformed. You're smart and can be the most annoying prick at times but you are not now nor have you ever been a freak." Catching the motion that Sherlock's body made unintentionally, John felt his heart stop momentarily as he found himself terrified that Sherlock might have pushed his body too far. The thought alone was enough to spur his own body into action as he rose from his seat as though his ass were on fire. Oh god no, he prayed silently as he moved like someone possessed from behind his desk and hurried across the room(cane forgotten once again in his rush) to help Sherlock into his chair. I can't lose him again, not now. Not after I've only just gotten him back.

It was only after he'd gotten Sherlock safely into his chair that John registered the smell of tobacco. Glancing downward, his gaze narrowed as he snatched the still smoldering cigarette from his friend's grip. Moving away just long enough to toss it out of the open window behind his desk, John then hurried back over to stand beside the chair where Sherlock was now seated. "How many times to I have to tell you that smoking is bad?" he said in an exasperated tone, unable to handle the idea that Sherlock might put his body under any more stress than it already was. "I swear, you care nothing for your own health or well-being. Are you always going to need me around to make sure you eat and take care o-" His voice died in his throat just then as he noticed the slight heaving of his best friend's shoulders. Unable to get another word out of his now closed throat, John couldn't believe what he was seeing. Sherlock Holmes, his best friend and the very man most believed incapable of emotion, was crying. Though his mind was unsure of what to do, his body seemingly acted of his own accord as his knees gave way and he dropped to the floor beside Sherlock's chair; his own tears falling freely now as there was nothing more to say.

ATTIRE: Click!
WORD COUNT: 2,701 words
NOTES: I just cried my eyes out *sobs*
LYRICS: Without You - My Darkest Days
CREDIT: SAM !? of Confronting the Faceless. Don't remove the credit or I will find you.

[klada]

Sherlock had grown used to being alone throughout his childhood. The Holmes family had grown increasingly dysfunctional after the birth of their second child. After the doctor's appointments and the therapists, and the bullies at school, and Mycroft's words on isolation, Sherlock had preferred to be alone for many reasons. Alone was away from the many who misunderstood him, the ones who he had accidentally shamed and humiliated as an impulsive child. Being alone meant he could avoid the feuds of his mother and father, and at the same time avoiding the information overload that would over throw every sense of his and leave him feeling overwhelmed. He had not needed a flat mate, Mycroft and the Holmes estate were enough to pay his bills, but John had intrigued him. After Sherlock had faked his death, he was alone again, and he'd been forced to adjust to it all over again, but this time it was different, because all he wanted to do was to see the face of his best friend again.

He had done the deed for Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and John, the people he couldn't lose. Witnessing John's reaction did not surprise him, and Sherlock certainly did not blame John. But at the same time, he was hurt, and more scared than ever before, because he had tons more angry people to face before this was all over. He felt like what he had done was right, and once again, everyone was too stupid to notice what he had done. Sherlock had never wanted to be a hero, and the one time where he had done something that would be considered heroic,(killing himself to save the lives of three others) he was berated and scolded for the lie he had told to save his friends.

Sherlock had stuck around London(incognito of course) for a week after his death. He had watched John crumble, Lestrade in a desperate position, and Mrs. Hudson was still attempting to mother everyone she came into contact with. No one would be able to consider how Sherlock had felt in his terrible position. They would only be able to consider that they had been lied to for an entire year of their lives. Sherlock had still talked to John, even though he was well aware that John was not in one of the stuffy hotel rooms with him. But he had still asked for advice as he pieced together the puzzle of a lifetime. As soon as he had killed Moriarty's first loyalty, the threats had come pouring in. Any thought of revealing himself to John had been banished at that instant.

So he had continued to talk to him as he built a map of criminals on the floor of a hotel, as he deprived himself of basics. The only reason he did was to get the job faster. Less sleep meant more waking hours in which he could solve the puzzle, the faster he could get home to John. Less food meant that he did not waste even more time. He ate and he slept in minimal amounts, and only when he was completely desperate for them, only at the reminder that John would have been furious if he had seen what Sherlock was doing to himself. It was highly probable that with the state John was in at the moment, that Sherlock would never be able to tell him that he had been through the same thing John had.

No one would believe that because Sherlock Holmes was the freak without emotions. At least he had been until John entered his life. Now everything he had ever owned had a thick coating of dust over the top, things that had not been touched by finger tip oils in the year that Sherlock had died. He would have made sure that his possessions stayed safe by using his older brother, but it seemed that it had not been needed. John had stayed as loyal as Sherlock needed him to be.

Sherlock's stomach tumbled, almost as if he was jumping over the building again. John was not normally an intimidating person, but now Sherlock could understand how he had been a force in the British army. Sherlock would have been able to fight John down in a heartbeat, it was not fear for his safety, but fear because this was finally a situation that Sherlock did not know how to handle. For once he did not know what to say, or do.

Sherlock licked his lips, and he could feel the saliva in his mouth drying up as he racked his brain for what to do. Things like this did not happen in the movies, Sherlock thought, as he clenched his fists and his nails seared into his palm. Reunions were never so bittersweet. The telly had taught him valuable lessons about body language, but they had never told him how to tell his friend the truth.

There did not seem to be any way to alleviate the pain, no opiate, and even the fag he had lit was no longer working for him. Sherlock spun the stick in between his lithe pale fingers. Sherlock was attempting to not let the words John said hurt him, but it was a futile effort. An ache throbbed in his chest, and the once annoyingly articulate man was brought to as loss as to what to say. He focused his attention on John's trembling hands, the acute shiver resembling the one that Sherlock had in his knees at the moment.

Real people. Sherlock would never fit into the category of the average person and he had said something else stupid, something else that had upset the army doctor. He remembered, of course, but had not realized that the experience had such a traumatic effect on John's mind. The doctors had concluded that he was a high functioning sociopath, coupled with other disorders that had blocked off his heart and emotions to others. The upbringing of the youngest Holmes was also a major factor into his behavior. Rich families still did not have everything perfect. He had never tried to be normal before, never tried to be real, but John was right. What was his motivation?

He had always been some wooden puppet, merely going through the throes of life and work, but not anymore. Animation had ignited his bones, lighting the tendons and muscles with new fire, and the experience was overwhelming. Sherlock Holmes had fallen from grace, and when he had pulled himself from the pavement wet with blood, he was a changed man.

"Real people?" Sherlock repeated indignantly. "I was trying to protect my friends, John. "

Sherlock could not help but feel the hypocrisy of John at the moment, and he could not figure out what John wanted from him. He tried to apologize for his misdeeds, and now everything was going to hell.

"I became a real person the moment three snipers were going to murder my friends," Sherlock said through gritted teeth.

Sherlock was beginning to see that Moriarty had still won.He could probably never get John to see his way ever again, he would never have the ultimate loyalty of John Watson ever again. He had to lie, to cheat the people he loved into thinking he was dead so that he could protect them. He was always going to be alone, because now, even though his heart was beating, everything he had built was tumbling down.

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest, throwing another temper tantrum like the child he was. Physically he was in his thirties, but emotionally he was much younger than anyone realized.

"I thought you understood me, John," Sherlock snapped, removing his arms from his chest to take another drag from his cigarette. "I thought you'd know how I think, but maybe I've made a mistake."

The words were harsh, but now Sherlock was feeling the blunt blow to his chest, heartache in its purest form. John was supposed to understand him, he was one of the only people who ever had, and now he'd ruined that. It seemed that his one attempt to do something right, was wrong.

"Bloody hell John! At least you'd have a chance! "

Sherlock grimaced, closing his eyes. He had never imagined that John had been through so much pain because of him, because of something he had tried to do. To fix everything, to repair it. It had all been for nothing. He had just made it worse. Sherlock wondered if he just should have let himself die when he threw himself from the building. It seemed that it would have been better for John. And in the end, he would have someone to go home too, then he would not be alone again.

"Fine. You tell that to everyone else then. To Anderson and Sally, to the doctors and to the therapists."

Sherlock had been told that he was abnormal, a freak for so long by everyone (but John of course) that he had begun to believe it. He was not like everyone else. Normal, full of emotions. No one else seemed to be overwhelmed with the sounds (the whirring sound of the refridgator told Sherlock it was going to die soon) and the smells (the garbage disposal was clogged) and the problems that they could not see.

John's touch was overwhelming as he lowered himself into the chair, the leather forming to his body perfectly, the way it always had. This did not feel normal, or perfect. Sherlock Holmes felt broken by Moriarty, and incensed because the man had still won the convoluted game that they had played. Sherlock Holmes had lost, and the wound was still sore and the tears fresh.

But the cigarette was yanked from his hands roughly, distracting him from the tears for a moment, as he jumped to rescue the tobacco, but it was too late. Sherlock practically pouted, sitting down in the chair once more with a huff.

"I don't care if it's bad, it helps me think. Clears the mind of clutter."

But then John collapsed at his feet, and Sherlock wiped his eyes before looking down at his friend. Sherlock had watched John in that week, watched him crumble from afar, watched him cry at his headstone. John had always seemed like strength to Sherlock, and now he was still mourning, for something that Sherlock had done to him. He did not know what to do to comfort John, he'd had never had many hugs and kisses as a child. But he had seen the movies, he had observed people at airports, at bus depots, in street corners. He knew the basics, but they probably wouldn't be enough.

At first, Sherlock merely rested a hand on John's shoulder in an attempt to be comforting, distantly. Sherlock was not good with the touchy feely, after all.

"There, there," He mumbled, but the words caught on his tongue and they still did not feel right.

Hollywood had lied to him.

Numbly, Sherlock knelt down on the floor beside John, awkwardly, unsure of what to do or say, if he was even going to answer John's question, if this was even a right time. If he even meant what he was about to say, it felt so out of character and strange, but the words came anyway.

"Yes, John. I will always need you around."

Taking another cue from the lessons he had learned from a plasma screen, Sherlock wrapped his frail arms around John in an awkward hug. Perhaps the only hug that Sherlock had ever offered in his life, the only one willingly given. Even though his arms wrapped around the entire length of John, it was still awkward, still unlike Sherlock, the freak. He was tired, starving, his stomach rumbling, but it was still ignored as he clung to John, pulling the shorter man into his chest.

"I don't know what to do," Sherlock admitted. "I'll do anything, just tell me what I'm supposed to do."

Sherlock wanted to fix it, but the damage was done. What else in the world was he supposed to do?