As he stands there, in the exact same place that Sherlock had two years ago, as the wind tugs at his clothing and whispers in his ears, fighting for his attention, for a reaction, John feels nothing. For the first time in two years, he feels nothing. It’s bliss. It’s bliss to be able not to think. Because thinking leads to thinking about things, and no matter what John tries to think of, there is no escape from the dark tendrils of memory that drag him back to the bottom of Barts hospital. Looking up at sherlock. Knowing what was happening, but not acknowledging it. Not admitting, even in the face of his worst nightmare the one thing he was sure about. The one person he was sure about.
John remembers very little about that day. He remembers the phone call, of course; he had committed that to memory long ago, although he can picture the breathtaking baritone less clearly every day, much to John’s chagrin. He remembers his idiocy, his bumbling, fatuous response to everything. Never, even when Sherlock had ridiculed him most scathingly, had John felt so naïve. Because if he had payed the slightest bit of attention to his best friend, then he would have known he was planning something; there would have been signs if only he had payed attention. But he hadn’t. And the most vivid memory he has is his utter sense of helplessness. He can recall his frustration that Sherlock was up there, and John was down there. He calls on that frustration every day, just to remind himself of feelings. All others had long evaporated, stripping him down to one: frustration. He didn’t feel angry, just sad. But sad couldn’t even begin to capture the complete lack of anything in his chest. He clearly wasn’t happy, or hopeful, and he didn’t want his life to be anything but pointless, because that would mean he found a point in life other than Sherlock, and he couldn’t let that happen. In the end, John was simply frustrated. Frustrated that he hadn’t payed more attention. Frustrated that he hadn’t told sherlock how he felt. Frustrated that he only realised the extent of his feeling towards the detective until it was too late. He knows that sounds clichéd, but it’s true. He’s too late. Too late to tell him, but not too late to join him. Finally, John accepted that Sherlock want going to come back to him. With that realisation came a refreshing state of mind. He knew what he wanted to do.
Stood here now, he is at the top of the building, he isn’t helpless, this time he is in control of the life about to flicker out. And he feels empowered.
“I’m coming sherlock. Finally. You didn’t come back for me, so I’m coming to you.” Feeling nothing, John is finally ready. And he is sure that this was the way to do it. He recalls the countless times his finger hovered over the trigger, he can still taste the metallic flavour of the gun mingled with his own blood. He still feels shame when he thinks of the panic that surged up when his mouth was too full of water for too long. He wished he didn’t feel fear, like Sherlock, he wished he could embrace death. Well now he can, in the most fitting way.
“I’m coming.” With a final look at the city his flat mate had had such a fondness for, John spreads his arms, leans forward and breathes out as he falls.
But he never hits the ground. Strong, warm arms encircle his waist, drawing him back into a thin, lanky form. Shaking, John turns around. Sherlock’s face greets him, a mere 5 inches away, his brow creased in worry, looking scrawny and too pale. A sob escapes john, and then a horrendous, chilling wail. Sherlock’s arms tighten, and he pecks the top of John’s head.
“It’s alright, John.” At hearing the sensual baritone again, after two years of replaying and replaying and replaying the phone call, John melts entirely, collapsing into Sherlock’s arms.
“Y-you didn’t c-come back-k Sherlock. I-I didn’t know what t-to do. I w-was going to jump w-wasn’t I?” John stutters through his tears, appalled at what he was going to do.
“Oh John, I’m so so sorry my love.” At the endearment, John breaks down even more, going limp and dragging Sherlock down. He tangled his fingers through the matted, but still gorgeous curls, and places sloppy kisses on Sherlock’s mouth. Unexpectedly however, the younger man draws back.
“I’m- im so sorry sherlock, I- I didn’t think. Obviously you’re not,” John mumbles, his face heating,” I mean, you clearly don’t want, I mean-“ a long pale finger is pressed to his mouth.
“Shut up.” sherlock wraps his coat around John, drawing him on to his lap. “I love you, John. More than you know. The only thing that kept me going these past two years was the thought of seeing you again. I’m sorry my death broke you in this way, and I want nothing more than to make up for lost time, however I would rather our first kiss be in Baker Street, warm and familiar after you have gotten a hold on your emotions. I don’t want you to do anything you might regret.” The fact that Sherlock not only loves him, but cares about him enough to wait until he is of sound mind, makes John want him even more.
“I won’t regret anything, Sherlock, please, I just want you.” The detective shakes his head though, and holds the coat tight around John and himself, placing his chin on the shorter man’s head.
“I want you too John, but not like this.” John is so very shaky, and hasn’t slept in 5 days, though, and so accepts, sinking in to sherlock, soaking up his warmth.
“I love you.” He mumbles into the detective’s chest.
“I love you too John. I love you too.” his words fill John’s mind, silencing the constant orchestra of chaos. His words are the only thing in John’s mind as he lets himself sleep contentedly for the first time in two years, enveloped in the arms of the man he is so madly in love with. His words are like a drug, soothing, addictive and the only thing John needs. His words saved John Watson.