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John absently meandered down the streets of London. It had been nearly two years since he had lost Sherlock, but the feeling of bereavement never truly faded. Then again, neither had the feeling faded from John that Sherlock was still in his world. John could feel his presence, could feel his genius permeating the world. Every mysterious police case that was solved, every government conspiracy that was uncovered, John felt as though Sherlock were behind it. John often found himself wondering if it was truly Sherlock, or if it was Sherlock’s influence that had made him more observant.
As ever you see, but you do not observe, Sherlock used to say to him. But now John observed. John didn’t just see things anymore—he perceived. He beheld and he viewed and he witnessed. Unfortunately for Sherlock’s façade of death, John observed well, even better than Sherlock had been expecting.
As John turned a corner, Sherlock barely had the time to duck out of sight. John stopped in his tracks, staring down the street at the wrought-iron fence behind which Sherlock was hiding. Sherlock leaned harder against the wall, silently praying for it to envelop and encase him. He held his breath as he heard the army doctor’s heavy, determinate footfalls growing closer. Sherlock sidled further along the wall and up a stone staircase as John gently pushed the gate open. The consulting detective had less than a second to jump behind a wall opposite the fence, but John caught sight of the black, swirling jacket.
His heart stopped. He swayed, stepping sideways in order to avoid falling. “…Sherlock?” he whispered.
And he stood there in the deserted stairwell, his heart pounding in his ears over the faint sounds of the city, his breath frozen in his chest, hoping for a response. He inched forward and up the steps. Part of him wanted to see Sherlock, wanted the validation that the genius’ aura was being felt for a substantial reason beyond John’s sentiment. Part of him wanted confirmation that the man he had truly loved more than himself hadn’t left him alone in this world. But then he stopped. And he stared toward the top of the staircase. Only he didn’t observe. Nor did he see. Just stared. His heart ached for his friend and better half, but his mind was reeling and his stomach was churning and his breath was coming in short gasps and shaking.
He leaned against the wall behind which hid his friend and sunk to the ground. He put a hand out to steady him, the pavement rough and dirty and cold, but real and tangible and concrete.
As real and tangible and concrete as the long, artistic fingers that caressed his face and the hands that held it.
“John? John, are you all right?” Sherlock frantically asked.
John smiled a weak smile and teared up, reaching up to touch Sherlock’s face. He felt the cheekbones, the inky curls, the woolen scarf that he so loved. “Never been better,” he replied. Sherlock smiled in response, but then regained his composure. He opened his mouth to speak, but John silenced him by moving in and planting a kiss, fiery and full of remorse; a kiss that screamed “I need you back in my life. Don’t ever leave me. Please, I’m begging you…don’t leave…”
And Sherlock pulled back. “John…” His voice was surprisingly soft. “John!” he cried out, his voice high-pitched and feminine.
John stared, confused and hurt. “Why are you yelling, Sherlock? I’m right in front of you.”
Sherlock shook his shoulders. “John!”
And then John awoke. Mary was sitting in bed with him in their flat, both hands on his shoulders and alarm splayed on her face. “John! Thank God, you’re okay.” She kissed him gently and stroked his hair. “You had another nightmare while you were sleeping, I think.”
John rolled away from her and bit his lip. He whispered, as a salty tear rolled down his face, ”No, I’ve awoken to one.”