Rated: Fiction T - English - Romance/Hurt/Comfort - John W., Sherlock H. - Words: 1,457 Status: Complete
FF.NET: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9995337/1/Reunion-InTENsity
Also available on AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/1122623
Author's Note: The brilliant characters from Sherlock do not belong to me but to the show’s awesome creators. This is my first time writing a Johnlock Fanfic so do let me know your thoughts on this. Comments and constructive criticisms are welcomed! Don't forget to give your support follow/fav it if you like the story. Your support means the world. Enjoy =D
No words could describe the grief and anger I
felt when I saw him jump off that roof. I could not believe that he was
gone. I refuse to believe in what everyone else was saying. He was many
things but a fraud was not one of them. I believe... no, believed...
no, still believe in Sherlock Holmes. Despite being an arrogant,
know-it-all bastard, Sherlock brought me back from my darkest depths.
And now I fear that I would now descend further into the abyss. I could
not feel anymore. Not the tears. Not the sleepless nights. Not having
him by my side anymore. Facing his grave, Sherlock’s grave, I asked him
for one more miracle - Stop Being Dead.
In the two years that he was gone, I grieved for him in silence. I moved out, got a job as a normal clinic doctor and lived my normal boring routine life. I even grew a moustache to change my appearance. A sign that I am no longer the youthful John Watson who loved the thrill of chasing down psychotic criminals, together with my very own high functioning sociopath. I could never bring myself to pick up the phone to see Mrs. Hudson, neither did I keep in touch with Lestrade or Mycroft. It was better for me. That the very thought of seeing anything associated with Sherlock would rip open the tightly sealed lid of screwed up emotions, which I had shoved down so deep within me. In large part, Mary, the woman whom I now plan to propose to, saved me from falling down into the pit. Mary has always been so understanding and patient about what happened. She picked me up when I was completely shattered. She’s not him, but she understood my nature. I sometimes catch myself unconsciously thinking – how would Mary and Sherlock react if they met each other?
I had absolutely no idea he was the waiter taking my order - in that tuxedo, holding the menu with that silly moustache and over-the-top French accent. My mind was so focused on how do I go about proposing to Mary. She playfully gazed and smirk as I stumbled and babbled my way into my proposal, confidently concurring that she was indeed the best thing that has happened to me. So far, the proposal sounded a lot more romantic in my head but at least she was smiling. The night was going well. The one time where I had completely wiped him off my mind, he shows up. I stood up the moment I recognised that same face which has been haunting my dreams for the past two years. I ignored Mary’s confused queries and continued staring at him. It can’t be him. It can’t. I have wished and wished that he was not dead and just when I was ready to accept that, he stands in front of me saying the two words I wanted to hear the most – Not Dead. Sherlock was alive. I could not contain the anger erupting inside of me. How could he?? After all this time and he has never said anything, not even a whisper of a word that he was alive??!! And...and...the nerve of him, after randomly showing up from the dead, appearing back into my life just as I finally had the courage to move on... and all he asks if I’m keep going to keep my moustache?? Screw you Sherlock Holmes. That was the first time that night that I wrapped my hands tightly around that smug arrogant bastard’s neck. Later on, upon learning that I was one of the few who were intentionally kept the truth, I took out all my anger, frustration and grief onto him. Three times I attacked, tackled and punched him in the face within the last 24 hours of reuniting with Sherlock Holmes.
I was determined to never speak to him. Not after how he treated me - as if this was all a joke. Mary kept me grounded but surprisingly enough she favours him. Why? Nobody likes him. He is the most egotistical know-it-all that I have ever met. And they feel like I’m overreacting?? Am I the only sane person around anymore? Does he not realize the wrecked state he left me in? How hard it was for Mary to hold on to me crawled out from despair? I barely made it out the last time. That is why I know that I can never go through that ever again. Holding myself together, I went through my daily work routine of seeing patients. I believed with work as a distraction, I could keep my mind off this whole issue. But the more patients I saw, the harder it became for me to focus on them. My heart and soul kept returning to him. As the clock struck four thirty, I found myself wishing that I was seeing him instead of a patient.
At that point, I decided that I had to see him once more. I began looking forward to leaving work on that faithful day of the fifth of November. Off course, the moment I went to see him, I had to be drugged, kidnapped and stashed under a Guy Fawkes commemoration bonfire to burned alive. As I felt the flames licked with their fiery tongues onto my skin, my thoughts was not of Mary but him. As crazy as it was, Sherlock was right. I still missed the thrill of the chase, the blood pumping my veins, just the two of us against the world. More importantly, I realised how much I miss him. Damn you Sherlock, you bastard. Just when I thought I was never going to see him again, he comes along with Mary, saving my life just as he has always done.
That ordeal was enough for me to tag along on one of his crazy adventures as we attempt to decipher the mystery of Sherlock’s missing ‘rat’, which was supposedly linked to a terrorist attack on London. We began pouring through the possibilities of how the passenger, Sherlock’s key ‘rat’, would have possibly got off the train when there were no stops in between whatsoever. God, I miss watching him work as he paced around, his mind never stops analysing like machine, with that mad glint in his clear blue eyes. Like he always does, he eventually figured out that it was only six train cars arriving at St. James’s Park, when seven train cars left the Westminster station. Brilliant deduction as always but I could not help but wonder why he could not solve this one on his own. Why did Sherlock Holmes, of all people, need my help in solving the case?
Thanks to some good old research, we, or rather Sherlock, deduced that the last train car was intentionally split and left in an unknown and abandoned Sumatra Road station in between the two stops. The bomb in the train car was placed under the House of Parliament to vote on the new terrorist law. I raced on with Sherlock to the site as we attempted to diffuse the bomb that actually turned out to be the whole car. It was only us and even to the best of his abilities, Sherlock claimed that even he could not dismantle the bomb. For the second time tonight, I, together with Sherlock, was going to die. Funny how this morning I was trying my best to convince Mary that I don’t sha(eight) for Sherlock Holmes, yet here I am, risking my life and future for this brilliant fool.
He looked at me with tears streaming down his face, giving me those blue puppy dog eyes. He said: “I’m sorry”. As the genius and selfish bastard that Sherlock was, he asked for my forgiveness. For all the hurt he caused and the future he was about ruin for me. In that moment, I saw how much I meant to him in his eyes. He would jump off that building and fake his death nine times more if it meant keeping me safe. Even if it meant that both of us got hurt in the process. But at least, this way, he knew that he would see me again someday. I too, realised that I would die for him ten times over and still forgive my Sherlock Holmes.
In the two years that he was gone, I grieved for him in silence. I moved out, got a job as a normal clinic doctor and lived my normal boring routine life. I even grew a moustache to change my appearance. A sign that I am no longer the youthful John Watson who loved the thrill of chasing down psychotic criminals, together with my very own high functioning sociopath. I could never bring myself to pick up the phone to see Mrs. Hudson, neither did I keep in touch with Lestrade or Mycroft. It was better for me. That the very thought of seeing anything associated with Sherlock would rip open the tightly sealed lid of screwed up emotions, which I had shoved down so deep within me. In large part, Mary, the woman whom I now plan to propose to, saved me from falling down into the pit. Mary has always been so understanding and patient about what happened. She picked me up when I was completely shattered. She’s not him, but she understood my nature. I sometimes catch myself unconsciously thinking – how would Mary and Sherlock react if they met each other?
I had absolutely no idea he was the waiter taking my order - in that tuxedo, holding the menu with that silly moustache and over-the-top French accent. My mind was so focused on how do I go about proposing to Mary. She playfully gazed and smirk as I stumbled and babbled my way into my proposal, confidently concurring that she was indeed the best thing that has happened to me. So far, the proposal sounded a lot more romantic in my head but at least she was smiling. The night was going well. The one time where I had completely wiped him off my mind, he shows up. I stood up the moment I recognised that same face which has been haunting my dreams for the past two years. I ignored Mary’s confused queries and continued staring at him. It can’t be him. It can’t. I have wished and wished that he was not dead and just when I was ready to accept that, he stands in front of me saying the two words I wanted to hear the most – Not Dead. Sherlock was alive. I could not contain the anger erupting inside of me. How could he?? After all this time and he has never said anything, not even a whisper of a word that he was alive??!! And...and...the nerve of him, after randomly showing up from the dead, appearing back into my life just as I finally had the courage to move on... and all he asks if I’m keep going to keep my moustache?? Screw you Sherlock Holmes. That was the first time that night that I wrapped my hands tightly around that smug arrogant bastard’s neck. Later on, upon learning that I was one of the few who were intentionally kept the truth, I took out all my anger, frustration and grief onto him. Three times I attacked, tackled and punched him in the face within the last 24 hours of reuniting with Sherlock Holmes.
I was determined to never speak to him. Not after how he treated me - as if this was all a joke. Mary kept me grounded but surprisingly enough she favours him. Why? Nobody likes him. He is the most egotistical know-it-all that I have ever met. And they feel like I’m overreacting?? Am I the only sane person around anymore? Does he not realize the wrecked state he left me in? How hard it was for Mary to hold on to me crawled out from despair? I barely made it out the last time. That is why I know that I can never go through that ever again. Holding myself together, I went through my daily work routine of seeing patients. I believed with work as a distraction, I could keep my mind off this whole issue. But the more patients I saw, the harder it became for me to focus on them. My heart and soul kept returning to him. As the clock struck four thirty, I found myself wishing that I was seeing him instead of a patient.
At that point, I decided that I had to see him once more. I began looking forward to leaving work on that faithful day of the fifth of November. Off course, the moment I went to see him, I had to be drugged, kidnapped and stashed under a Guy Fawkes commemoration bonfire to burned alive. As I felt the flames licked with their fiery tongues onto my skin, my thoughts was not of Mary but him. As crazy as it was, Sherlock was right. I still missed the thrill of the chase, the blood pumping my veins, just the two of us against the world. More importantly, I realised how much I miss him. Damn you Sherlock, you bastard. Just when I thought I was never going to see him again, he comes along with Mary, saving my life just as he has always done.
That ordeal was enough for me to tag along on one of his crazy adventures as we attempt to decipher the mystery of Sherlock’s missing ‘rat’, which was supposedly linked to a terrorist attack on London. We began pouring through the possibilities of how the passenger, Sherlock’s key ‘rat’, would have possibly got off the train when there were no stops in between whatsoever. God, I miss watching him work as he paced around, his mind never stops analysing like machine, with that mad glint in his clear blue eyes. Like he always does, he eventually figured out that it was only six train cars arriving at St. James’s Park, when seven train cars left the Westminster station. Brilliant deduction as always but I could not help but wonder why he could not solve this one on his own. Why did Sherlock Holmes, of all people, need my help in solving the case?
Thanks to some good old research, we, or rather Sherlock, deduced that the last train car was intentionally split and left in an unknown and abandoned Sumatra Road station in between the two stops. The bomb in the train car was placed under the House of Parliament to vote on the new terrorist law. I raced on with Sherlock to the site as we attempted to diffuse the bomb that actually turned out to be the whole car. It was only us and even to the best of his abilities, Sherlock claimed that even he could not dismantle the bomb. For the second time tonight, I, together with Sherlock, was going to die. Funny how this morning I was trying my best to convince Mary that I don’t sha(eight) for Sherlock Holmes, yet here I am, risking my life and future for this brilliant fool.
He looked at me with tears streaming down his face, giving me those blue puppy dog eyes. He said: “I’m sorry”. As the genius and selfish bastard that Sherlock was, he asked for my forgiveness. For all the hurt he caused and the future he was about ruin for me. In that moment, I saw how much I meant to him in his eyes. He would jump off that building and fake his death nine times more if it meant keeping me safe. Even if it meant that both of us got hurt in the process. But at least, this way, he knew that he would see me again someday. I too, realised that I would die for him ten times over and still forgive my Sherlock Holmes.
Image Credit: ocfan27@ Fan Forum
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