#journal entry

Terminator Models 101 and T1000

People = Shit

You know, in all the recent events that took place the past few months, I kind of forgot what it was like to just have nothing going on at the moment. Now that I’m off the roller coaster of events, I’ve found myself reacquainted with the very quiet lifestyle I used to have.

This bothers me.

But no, don’t get the wrong idea. I’m not some crazy man who actively seeks out trouble and situations to keep life interesting. It’s not like that. What bothers me about the quiet parts of my life is that I cycle through a daily routine, completing one mundane task after another and not feeling excited for anything. I’m the kind of person who loves it when there’s something to be excited for. It can be anything, from a new found love, to a simple get together with friends.

To me, having something to be excited for makes getting out of the bed in the morning much easier. I’m sure you’re all well aware of how hard it is to drag yourself out of bed when, for example, the only thing you have to look forward to is going to school, then going to work, then coming back home to do more work for school. But hey, if there’s a party you’re set to go to on Friday then you’re going to be bright and chipper when you wake up, because you have something exciting to look forward to!

At least, that’s how it is in my case.

But hey, I suppose I’ll bask in the quietness of life for now. I may not enjoy the extremely mundane parts of it, but a little bit of downtime in the life events department never hurt anyone.

“the girl with the hummingbird heart

is me.

it sounds like a beautiful companionship,

but it’s not.

there are no flowers in my chest;

their necks were snapped in The Trampling

by the muddy, spike-clad soles of

disingenuous relations past.

their decapitated heads have long since

decayed into the soil

that now fills my organs with

dirt and death.

nothing grows anymore—

there’s not enough air.

they took that with them too,

but they left this

poor,

silly little bird

whose wings are too strong

for me to break.”

—a metaphor of my anxiety

- d.c.

“Everyone that you meet from here on out won’t care about you for you…rather they’ll only care about you because of the band you’re in…get use to it my friend." That was the truth that was bestowed upon me by a rather famous friend. How ironic that in my attempts to prove him wrong I would only succeed in proving him right. 

I want a reason to still come back. Knowing that life comes with no guarantees, I want you to believe in me. I want you to be my home, I don’t know where I’d go or how I’d get there, but it’s where you’d be. 

"Time to let go brother” words from another famous friend. Truth is I’m unprepared to weather this world alone, I'm totally unprepared to weather this adventure that my life will take…

Perhaps I’m holding on too tightly to the people who just aren’t there? 

Sorry for my lack of coherence. 

cashmerebambi:

drown your sadness in coffee, literature and fancy desserts.

March 5, 2022, it’s here again. That feeling of emptiness. The want to just run away and stay in silent and alone. I feel like I am stuck again, even though, things are moving along. Yet all it feels like, I am just moving through the motions. I just want everything to just pause, so I can breath again. But I know that won’t happen, everything arround me will continue to move on. You got this buddy, you got this…

Next week will be a month since we went our separate ways. That day you told me that you feel like we should not see each other anymore my heart sank. You said you didn’t feel secure with me due to our age difference, you were 37 and I was 30. You knew I would move mountains and swim over oceans for you. I can hear it in your voice, but why push me away? I miss your laughter, your sill jokes, and the way you carry yourself, independent and strong yet with a precious heart. I miss the little trips we took every week, the time spent holding you in my arms. I miss blow drying your hair and cooking for each other. We did a lot in 4 months, 2 away trips, 14 dates in total spent with you.

We ended terms as friends and you told me that you were happy the past 4 months with me. No one has ever brought you to so many places. I am glad you didn’t feel like you wasted your time with me.

Each day is getting easier, I should be happy, but at the same time, it means there is no going back either. It is further these 4 months fall into the past. As they say let things fall in to place. Maybe we will meet again in the future…

I wish I just had more time with you, I liked who I was when I was with you. but thank you. You showed me that I can care for someone again. I wish you the best and I hope you find someone that can make you happy.

I will always be here for you no matter what, you will always have a place in my heart. My shoulder is always here for you to lay on, my ears are open to listen, may arms are ready to hold you.

HA WOOOWEEE, hello 3 am post, got damn… I need to get a hold of myself. I can’t let myself fall head over heals that quick can I? Maybe my hopeless romantic just sucks in this generation…

Context: So one of my best friend got married this weekend. I was a groomsman and was paired up with, lets just say her!

Let’s rewind a little more. My friend and his wife setup a brunch for the groomsmen and bridesmaid to meet and talk. There she was, nothing much about her, but after we left, she was just stuck in my head. Kept wondering why she looked so familiar or who she was. I had to get a name and with the power of the internet I searched, no mutral friend on any social media. So why was there this familiarity?

Second time we met up, Firday, rehearsals for the wedding. Hoping I would get paired up with her. Welp it happened, I was paired with her. We reintroduced ourselves and started the practice. You know one of those moments where you watch a person and you just go WOW. Since her and I were the first in the line up we had the flower girl in front of us. The little flower girl was shy and didn’t want to do the rehearsal, but there, her and I encouraging this little girl to go like it was our child. Then we go and walk up the aisle and at the end we are suppose to bow, yet both us stayed arms locked together as we bowed at altar. The little subtle things…

Third time I saw her, Saturday, wedding day, I was blown away by her beauty. I mean lord was this girl drop dead gorgeous. Every groomsmen aka my boys, were locked on her. But looks wasn’t what got my intrigued in the first place. Wedding about to happen, we line up. Again here we are encouraging the little girl to get ready to walk the aisle. Telling the flower girl she gets Mcdonalds, lollipops, and Ice Cream, and there she is laughing as I tell the little girl. We get through the ceremony and it is time to back out together. We get back and her and I are just congratulating the little girl for completing her task. I SWORE I SAW THE FUTURE FLASH AHEAD OF ME. That has never happened in my life ever.

The night goes on and we all leave the location and head to the reception. I asked my boy if she is single or not, he tells me she doesn’t have a boyfriend, but is seeing someone at the moment. Well that was a little put off… Night is coming to an end. I have had quite a LOT to drink. The last thing she told me to promise her I won’t drive home. I said okay… Later after everyone was leaving, I asked my friend newely wedded wife if her friend was taken or not. She told me no, she is single… WELL FUCK ME… Welp drunk me opened up and told my friends wife that this girl has been stuck in my head since day one of meeting her and could she help a homie out… That was that. After I went to Denny’s later woth couple other groomsmen, since I needed to sober up. The topic of talking to her was brought up and they all said they felt like every time they spoke to her she was very nonresponsive to whatever they asked. I did not feel that at all, each time I spoke to her, she was always responsive and filled with answers. Yea, that’s the context to all this.

Till this very moment, Wednesday Morning 3 AM! She is still stuck in my head. WHY THE HELL DIDN’T I ASK FOR A NUMBER…

I found her Facebook and Instagram and was stuck deciding which to add frist. Welp guess what in said fuck it and added her on Facebook, one down side her cover photo was has not been updated since 2015… does she no longer use facebook or did home girl tell her and she just ignoring my add. Should I just follow her on Instagram? And just hope it doesn’t look too desperate…

I have never been so hungover on a girl in my life. Well that maybe a slight lie, but I will most definitely say I never saw my life flash to the future regarding a girl.

Will following her on instagram and adding her on facebook look desperate or stupid… gahhhhh wtf, should have just asked for her number. But chances only come to those who take it right?

If you read all this, well you are awesome and have a lovely day. Send help!

• ALSO WAS IT ONLY ME THAT SAW THINGS THAT WAY OR WHAT? BEING A HOPELESS ROMANTIC SUCKS…

SHE GOT ME ALL MESSED UP.

Have not wrote on here in a minute… This past weekend made me realize the loneliness I have been feeling… How much I miss a signficant other. Just being able to talk to someone about random stuff, the physical touch from another women. I guess in the end is the feeling of being wanted is what I loathe.

I have been pushing hard and finding myself and doing things on my own, but sometimes it would have been great to lay in her lap and just have her stroke her finger through my hair and tell me everything will be okay.

At this point, I feel like I am making excuses to not coming back into the scene, but it has changed a lot. I enjoy the single life and building who I am, but it would be nice to have someone by my side too and shaping with me too.

-diary entry from 15.12.21

Overnight, I became the friend that will make personalised playlists for people’s birthdays, the friend that will ask you how you were at every silent moment in a conversation, because it’s a question that isn’t asked enough, the friend that won’t go a day without seeing you because she misses your face, despite the fact she didn’t know you before September, the friend that will get up and dance the second Ode To A Conversation Stuck In Your Throat plays, or Sex by The 1975, and will grab the hands of the closest person and get them to dance too, the friend that will knock first so you can speak, the friend that will talk to the Year 13s because they seem so scary despite being only a year older than you, the friend that walk you down to the coffee shop because you were going on your own, the friend that says hate is a strong word, but uses ‘love’ as easily as connectives, the friend that will ask you if you want to talk, because she’s there to listen, the friend that will be the first to apologise, the friend that will write poetry about you at 3am, and post it anonymously on Tumblr, the friend that confidence comes easily to, the friend with a god complex, despite hating herself, the friend that tells you that she dreamt of you the night before, despite it being a complete lie, the friend that will lie and cheat to get her own way, the friend that will manipulate and deceive just to remind everyone that she isn’t really thatfriend, because how could anyone have thatfriend? No one has her, really. She’s a Manic Pixie Dream Girl that’s trying too hard for the purpose of something that doesn’t even exist. She was none of these people four months ago. I wish I never had thatfriend. I think I’d kill her. She’d drive me mad.

10:48 pm: 221B Baker Street, Westminster London

- Brother and Sister -

John gazed out at the busy passers-by from his comfortable chair by the window. Long shadows were cast as the sun began its slow descent on a familiar path it takes each day.  Once, the shadows symbolized the darkness that threatened to overwhelm his aching heart. The shadows cast were far from the menacing incarnations they once represented. His heart was no longer plagued with the grief and sense of less that used to characterize his days. The shadows of buildings, cabs and people danced around each other in the cracked pavement below, greeting each other like old friends once lost but now reunited.

Workers were now returning to their families, busy business men were speeding along cabs to retire in their estates and school children were making their way home hand in hand with their parents. The world continued to move as it always did

John tore his eyes away from Baker Street. The flat was tinged with an orange light, like flaming embers from a dying fire. The sun shone through the panes, the china glinting in the low rays  of the London sunset. The doctor fingered his teacup, watching absentmindedly as the small movements caused ripples in his afternoon tea.

The ripples reminded him of a time long passed; time spent in a quaint house far away in the London countryside.

—–

John was four when he learned he was to become a brother.

A much younger John Watson held a teacup much too big for him. The cup wobbled dangerously despite his tiny fingers enveloping the cup. He walked towards his mother’s room to see both his mother and father leaning over a tiny bundle that was in his mother’s hands. John walked towards his parents, careful not to spill the tea in his hands. He looked up to his mother, a mother whose face he couldn’t even remember. He placed the teacup on the bedside table a bit too high for him and climbed the bed to see the contents of the bundle a little better. He perched on his mother’s lap as the bundle was brought closer to him. A loud cry was heard as the little baby opened her tiny eyes and stared up at him. John gazed back down at the strange bundle eyeing it with shock and wonder. He reached out towards the baby. Small fingers, even tinier than his own, tried to grasp his fingers.

“Meet your little sister, Harry.” His mother said quietly.

His father placed a firm hand on his shoulder. John looked up at him, absently trying to shake his finger from Harry’s surprisingly firm grasp. 

“You’re a big brother now, John. It’s your job to take care of your little sister.” He said gruffly.

John nodded, not quite understanding what all of it meant.  He could only gaze in wonder at what was called a sister.

This was his earliest memory, the only time he could remember his family being together and somewhat happy.

*

John was five when he learned what loss meant. Being five years old, there was only so much little John Watson could comprehend.  

There had been a lot of shouting and banging around their house lately. It wasn’t uncommon for little John to wake up in the middle of the night and hear shouts coming from his parent’s bedroom or the breaking of glasses or plates from the kitchen. Sometimes he would build forts with his blankets and pillows. It was his own place in his own little world. In his fort he felt safe. He would usually cover his ears in his hands and will himself to get lost in one of those fairy tales he always read, fairy tales that usually had a happy ending. Yet, there were times when even the walls of his fort could not shut out the shouts, the cursing and the threats.

One night he awoke to more shouts. He curled up in his blankets, trying to find some comfort in their warmth. The shouting grew worse through out the night. He could hear Harry’s crying above all the noise. He got up from his makeshift fort and crept towards his parents room. Before he could peak inside the tiny crack the door afforded however, it was thrown wide open and his mother stormed out with bags in hand. The resounding bang of the front door closing rung in John’s ears like a gunshot. He walked towards Harry’s crib and tried to calm her by cradling her in his arms.

In the morning that followed, John mustered his courage to ask his father where his mother had gone. His father stared blankly into the fire of their living room before turning his gaze towards John. His gaze was one filled with both loss, anguish and hate yet those were emotions beyond little John. He simply knew his father was sad.

“She’s gone.” He said quietly.

“Gone?”

“Gone! And She’s never coming back!”

After that day his father never spoke of his mother again. Any trace left of his mother was immediately chucked into the fire the very next day. John had watched his father throw their family portraits in the fire. John watched from the shadows as his father threw everything of his mother’s into the fire in a blind rage.

He never asked about his mother again.  

*

John was ten when he experienced true fear. When one was young, one learned to fear a lot of things; imaginary ghosts in the closet, the loss of one’s favorite sweet in the candy shop. But it is rare for a child to experience true fear and it is rare for a child to experience the harsh realities of the world.

There weren’t a lot of kids around their home in the countryside. Their father didn’t have the patience nor the time to drive them to the neighborhood to play with the other kids so both John and Harry had learned to entertain themselves with what they could find around them. When not playing with his sister, John spent his time reading books that were lying around the house.

This one particular morning, the both of them decided to play a game of hide and seek. John was never good at this game. Harry, who had become a rather rambunctious six year old, always managed to find better hiding places. John was about to give up looking for his little sister when he heard a scraping above him. He looked up in time to see Harry climbing to the top of the roof.

“Harry!” John called out to her.

Harry looked down from her perch on the cobbled roof and smiled at her big brother.

“You found me! John!” She called out to him in her playful tone.

“Harry! Get down from there! How many times have I told you to stop going up there it isn’t safe” His anxiety slowly building with each passing moment.

“John, don’t be silly! It’s –“ Before she could continue  her sandal caught in one of the loose cobbled panes and she slipped. John could do nothing but call out to her as she fell from two stories from the roof.

John wiped away the tears that were forming in his eyes as he ran towards the crumpled form of his sister on the ground. Her leg was bent at an odd angle. He called out to her name again and again but her eyes remained closed. His father was nowhere to be found so John took matters into his own hands. Somehow, due to some book he has read, he managed to make a splint for Harry’s broken leg. In the interval wherein John waited impatiently for help to come, Harry had woken up. In shock, John drooped the wet cloth he was using on he forehead. John could remember the feeling of relief that welled up inside him during that instant. He could remember crying hard against Harry’s small shoulder. Death wasn’t something John could fully comprehend at the time but he knew for a fact that he could have lost his sister.

He looked up when a tender hand was placed upon his shoulder. He looked up to see, not his father but a man in white. John felt safe around him, and he knew at that moment that Harry was going to be okay.

“I’m a doctor, were you the one that called us?”

John simply nodded, not quite able to speak.

“You did good, kid. We’ll take it from here.” The man in white had said, patting John in the back.

The man in white, had others with him and together they made Harry better.

“Your sister’s going to be alright, thanks to you.”

It was during that day John decided he wanted to become a doctor. In the years that followed he never told Harry that she was the reason he wanted to become a doctor.  

*

John was twelve when he learned not to rely too heavily on his own father.

It was during this time when his father wouldn’t come home for days on end. Most of his teachers saw John as a shy yet responsible boy who seldom gallivanted with boys his own age. When he wasn’t studying, he would be busy with chores around the house and taking care of his younger sister. In short, John grew up fairly quickly.

Harry was allowed to live her childhood. John tried to shield her from the problems that were so evident to him: a neglectful father, bills, debts, lack of money for food.

*

John was seventeen when he experienced his first heartbreak. This was one of his fondest memories of his sister. John always considered Harry quite a strong woman, both physically and emotionally. This was one of those instances that this became evident.

John, still being the shy boy that he was, couldn’t tell the girl of his dreams what he felt about her. So, Harry, being the straight forward girl that she was, marched up to the girl and told her herself. The girl didn’t even know who John Watson was and scoffed at Harry when she pointed out John from the crowd.

John could still remember the loud smack that echoed throughout the hallway when Harry’s fist came into contact with the girl’s face. 

“Never insult my brother! Only I get to do that.” Harry had said, towering over the girl with her fist in the air. It was something they had laughed about afterwards (YEARS AFTER), but after the initial embarrassment of having to drag his sister away from the poor girl, John was very thankful he had a sister like Harry.

*

John was twenty one when everything had begun to fall to pieces. Throughout his stay at uni, John had less time to check on his little sister.  John tried very hard to protect his little sister from the world. Yet, with all his ministrations, he still failed to save Harry from her own greatest enemy: herself. Harry had developed a rather nasty addiction to drinking. Sometimes John wouldn’t attend his classes to take care of his rather wasted sister or nurse her during her nastier hang overs. Each and every time she had promised John that she would stop, but promise after promise was broken.

When John went to train at Bart’s Harry’s condition deteriorated with their relationship along with it.

*

John was twenty seven when his father died. He had already been serving in the army then. Brief letters were exchanged between Harry and himself during his time in the army. The closeness that they had when they were kids was now reduced to something that could be simply called civil.

John rushed back to London to momentarily return to the only family he had left.  His mother was nowhere to be found, his father no lay six feet underground and now he was left with his addict of a sister. It pained John to see his sister lost in the throes of alcoholism. Like everything in his life at the time, all of it has seemed so out of his control.

And so, John did the only logical thing he thought he could have done at the time.

He walked away.

No longer did he involve himself with his sister’s life. For years their relationship continued on like that. His last words to her during their father’s funeral still etched in his mind.

“You know what, I give up.”

——

A knock echoed through the room snapping John Watson out of his reverie.  John stood, with teacup still in hand, and crossed the flat, laying his hand against the doorknob. He twisted it, opening the door and revealing the person on the other side. Harriet Watson stood there, framed in the doorway. She had her hands in her coat pockets, and a guarded expression crossed her features. 

John smiled sadly at the sister he pushed away. The supposed death of Sherlock Holmes had broken John in many ways. John himself became an addict, pushing his already sober sister further away from him. John had condemned his sister for doing what she did all those years ago, yet Harry did not do the same.

His relationships were mending all around him. He had his other half return to him, he made peace with the memory of his father months ago. It was time to make peace with his sister as well. The past didn’t matter now, what mattered was his family.

“John.” She called to him, in very much the same manner as her younger counterpart once did.

“I’m sorry.” John said, looking into brown eyes that were so much like his own.

Harry rushed towards her older brother and hugged him as tightly as she once did when they were kids.

“I missed you, John.”

“I missed you too.”

Harry sat in the couch and John sat there with her, after making her some tea. Harry was no longer that little sister he had to take care of once before. Without realizing it, she had grown up. They were adults now, trying to mend their own broken relationships. The hours passed by as both of them got lost in their memories, coming to terms with their past. The sun faded into the darkness of the night yet John still felt like the sun was shining.

And the time came for Harry to leave. They were no longer the siblings they once were because now they had their own lives to live, yet John knew from this day on it would be different.

Harry made her way towards the door, but before she could open it, the door opened of its own accord to reveal Sherlock Holmes behind it. Harry stopped, regarding the consulting detective with a certain melancholy conviction. Sherlock returned her gaze steadily, his hands firmly clasped behind his back, and his chin held up in typical Sherlock fashion. A sort of silent understanding seemed to pass between the both of them, before a ripple of calm washed through the both of them. The younger Watson stepped around the consulting detective, pausing just for a moment to say something that only Sherlock could hear. Sherlock simply nodded before looking at John and giving him a small smile.

Sherlock never told John what Harry had whispered to him that night, but John had a pretty good idea.

textneversent:

waitingat221b:

John’s eyes widened in shock as he felt Sherlock caress his cheek, the warmth seemingly spreading from the consulting detective’s fingertips and making its way to John’s heart. His heart beat faster with each passing moment. The younger man’s gaze held him in a hypnotic state. John’s own brown eyes locked into place with Sherlock’s blue eyes. He saw that the other’s eyes held more than it’s usual mystery. Now it held depths of pain and suffering that John himself often saw when he looked at his own reflection.

The consulting detective, John noticed, didn’t all that good. Compared to a month ago, his appearance seemed to be worse. His long dark curls remained unkempt and reached his shoulders. His eyes had dark bags underneath them, signifying that Sherlock didn’t sleep all that much. His check bones were more prominent than ever, showing just how much weight the younger man had lost. The doctor in John Watson also noted traces of Cocaine abuse, with the consulting detective’s bloodshot eyes and somewhat runny nose. John was conflicted. He tried to quell his first instinct which was to nurse Sherlock and force him to eat something just like old times. He reminded himself that things weren’t the same anymore and that they can’t simply jump back into the routine they once had.

Read More

Nineteen months really wasn’t a long time if you looked at it from the perspective that, unless something tragic happens (like falling from a building), you lead a much longer life. However, for Sherlock Holmes, when you have counted every week, day, hour, and minute in between in regards to those nineteen months, they become something more. Sherlock had already lived beyond his life expectancy (mostly due to drugs, but considering the fact he ran from one chaotic scene to the next, that didn’t help either) so anything extra in his mind, wasn’t really icing on the cake as it is said, but rather, just more time for him to spend on Earth solving mysteries and unfolding science. Of course, that all changed to an extent when John stumbled into his life. John was unexpected yet wanted, from the exact moment he walked into Bart’s. And that was still the case now.

And so, those nineteen months aside, Sherlock still wanted John. He wanted John for those nineteen months and now, somehow, bitter sweetness put aside, he felt as if he was owed those nineteen months back. Perhaps John was owed more than him - then again, Sherlock was the selfish one. He was not selfish in this moment - watching as John compassionately spilled his feelings and thoughts and emotions and things that Sherlock would never toy with if he had a choice. Though, he had a choice tonight. He had a choice to continue to ask to see John. He had a choice in how his own feelings were handled. He had a choice for putting himself in this place - standing (less than a meter apart) from John Watson.

And had a choice when he decided to take everything into his own hands.

Read More

John Watson wanted answers. With eighteen months of lies and deceit, an explanation was owed to him at the very least. John wasn’t a hateful man, in fact many would say John Watson had a big heart. But John was very much capable of holding grudges. He rarely ever gave his full trust in people. It takes quite a special person for John to trust and confide in. He could count with his fingers the number of people he held in such esteem. It was a defense mechanism he had picked up while growing up the way he did. He came back to 221B to try and make sense of the life he left behind. When he found out that Sherlock was alive, he was beyond livid. It was an anger of circumstance. For eighteen months he lived in the reality that Sherlock Holmes was dead. Everyday John had to get up from bed and condition his mind that his best friend was dead and no longer coming back. John expected he would have relapses. Even now, being in inside the flat brought back memories that would rather be forgotten. It didn’t help matters either that John had spent a lot of his time talking to an imaginary Sherlock Holmes his mind had conjured up. He knew that the Sherlock Holmes before him now was the real one. No figment of John’s imagination could even compare. But one does not simply walk away from hell, especially if it was a hell like John’s had been. It wasn’t that easy. 

He came to 221b for answers but the demand for such answers and further accusations that almost fell to his lips vanished in one single act by Sherlock Holmes. The stream of words halted as Sherlock brought up his hand and placed it behind John’s head. John felt lightheaded as Sherlock’s slender hands caressed him tenderly. His mind was laced with confusion at the actions of the consulting detective. Usually, John’s mind was always a step behind Sherlock’s (it was miles behind even) and now wasn’t an exception. His eyes fluttered close as he felt Sherlock’s soft lips press into his own. John got lost in the moment, forgetting whatever thoughts had plagued his mind moments before. There was something about human contact that allowed ideas to be communicated more thoroughly and effectively then words ever could. And one thought came to mind, during this very moment. Despite John’s confused state one thing was evident to him: Sherlock Holmes loved him so.

When Sherlock pulled away, John longed for the contact he was suddenly deprived of. John didn’t know whether it was simply a reflex of his body or if it was a deep desire of his heart. The fact remained that It had gone as easily as it had come. John opened his eyes to see Sherlock’s blue ones looking at him. John knew he was under scrutiny, as Sherlock observed what his reaction would be. But the look Sherlock gave him wasn’t that of a consulting detective looking at a quarry, but a Sherlock Holmes looking at a John Watson. The latter was different. It was more intimate and reserved solely for the two people in the room.

John didn’t know what to make of the kiss. He placed a finger on top of his lips, gently touching the place where Sherlock’s lips had locked into his own. John’s eyes were wide in shock as he tried to process what had transpired. Growing up, John didn’t look at blokes in any romantic way whatsoever. But that didn’t mean his relationships with women were any better. In fact, the closest thing he would consider as a wonderful relationship would be the one he has with Helen.

Had.He corrected himself. By going back to the flat now he had turned his back on his chance at happiness and happy ever after for something unpredictable and all the more painful. By going back to the flat, John consented to face his inner demons and come to terms with the past he tried to seal away. John felt a pang of guilt for hurting Helen in the way he did but this was better for the both of them. John owed being truthful to her at the very least. Sherlock Holmes was his sun, nothing would change that. Helen was the moon that kept the darkness at bay. Now that the sun had returned, the moon had paled in comparison and John couldn’t help but gravitate towards the light that was Sherlock Holmes. It was a decision he put off for weeks, but if he had been truthful with himself early on, he knew he would have chosen Sherlock still.

Sherlock Holmes was the exception to everything. If there was something that those eighteen months have taught him, it was the fact that he loved Sherlock Holmes. 

John Watson never stopped loving Sherlock Holmes.

John looked and listened to the one he loved, saying the words he had been waiting to hear for so long. Gone was the Sherlock Holmes who dismissed sentiment. This Sherlock Holmes had laid out his heart for John Watson to see. And John Watson had been right all along. Sherlock had a heart and it was more beautiful than anything else in the world.

John looked down as Sherlock laced his fingers around John’s. The way they intertwined felt right. It wasn’t like Helen’s which was a foreign yet comforting feeling. The way that Sherlock’s hand fit into John’s was like a puzzle piece falling into place for the first time. It just felt right. And John knew that the kiss felt the same way too.

Social norms would teach you that it wasn’t normal for blokes to feel such things for other blokes but his life with Sherlock Holmes had never been normal to begin with. This wasn’t a debate on sexuality or anything overly complicated. It was as simple as two men who fell in love and were reunited. Two men whose hearts were meant for each other and  no one else. Looking at things simplistically made it easy for John to accept what he was and whatever their relationship was. 

“I can’t do this without you either, Sherlock.” John admitted, stepping forward and closing the distance between them. He felt Sherlock’s grip tighten on his own hand. “I tried. I thought I succeeded, but I don’t want to lie to myself any longer. I’m tired.” John sighed, allowing the toll of eighteen months of trying and pretending to show in his features. “I don’t want to pretend anymore.“ 

John placed his forehead on Sherlock’s chest and felt the other’s beating heart. “No, I don’t think I could forgive you as easily. And I don’t think I could trust you the way I once did but…” The bitterness in his voice was there, but there was resignation as well. John paused, contemplating his decision. “I missed you so much.” His voice cracked again, but John didn’t do anything to mask it. Sherlock’s death and his return had broken the doctor and the last thing he wanted to do was pretend he was alright, especially in front of Sherlock. Sherlock would see right through the act easily enough.

“God Damn it, Sherlock.” John swore, a smile crossing his features. Thankfully his head was still tilted down so Sherlock didn’t see the expression on his face. “You mess with my mind  so much.” And my heart. John added to himself. 

He separated himself from Sherlock, allowing himself room to grab a letter from his coat pocket. It was a letter he was sure both of them were familiar with. It was the supposed note that Sherlock had written after their little escapade at the pool with Moriarty. It was a letter that allowed John to try and move on from the life he had with Sherlock. John now wasn’t sure how much of what was written in the letter was truth or lies, but he would make sure now.

“I kept this with me. At all times.” John told Sherlock. His voice was soft. He held the letter tenderly in his hands.

“You are not just the conductor of light in my life, John; you are the love of my life.”John quoted back to the consulting detective. He knew the letter by heart since he gazed at it everyday since Mycroft had delivered it to him.

“I am grateful for you John, and for everything you have ever done for me. I trust you; am devoted to you, and I care about you more than I have ever cared for another soul. If this is not the epitome of what love is defined as, I will just title it Sherlock and John and let the rest of the world be envious of what we have and what they do not.” John paused and smiled at that, allowing the words to linger in the air before he continued on.

“To me, John, you are the greatest person I have ever met, and you are cherished, cared for, and loved with the entirety of my heart.” John finished and looked back at Sherlock.

He held up Sherlock’s hand that was intertwined to his own, cupping it to expose Sherlock’s palm. He placed the letter there before closing Sherlock’s fingers over it. John no longer needed the letter for Sherlock Holmes was here. The letter had been a lifeboat he had clung to in order to stay afloat. But now, he had Sherlock Holmes to keep him afloat, and beyond that, to keep him alive. John knew his days of simply existing were over. John knew from now on he would truly live.

He allowed his brown eyes to locate the blue ones, finding comfort in their depths. Sherlock had a haunted look about him, but beyond that he saw a softness that he knew was meant for only him. He gazed at the way Sherlock’s now long curls fell to his face and the way his hallow cheekbones accented his facial features even more. His eyes lingered on the soft lips that moments before were pressed unto his own lips. This was Sherlock Holmes. This was the man he loved. The man that had died and come back to life for him.

“Say it. I want to hear it from you, Sherlock.” 

textneversent:

waitingat221b:

221B Baker Street, Westminster London

- Coming Home -

Time ebbed away as John Watson watched London pass him by. The distinct buildings and cobbled stone streets all coalesced into a blur of colors and shapes. The busy London streets was left behind as the cab rushed through the city, towards a destination he knew well: Home. John rested his forehead against the cool glass pane that separated him from the rest of the world.

Time was never a concept John bothered with. To him there was simply one day after the next. Significant milestones littered his life here and there: time he entered medical school, time he finished his training at Bart’s, time he enlisted in the army, time he got shot, time he got sent back to London. Months and years didn’t matter all that much to him. Not until two years and ten months ago at least. Without even realizing it, John had categorized his life in a matter of months and years: there was the time before Sherlock Holmes, the time with Sherlock Holmes and the time without Sherlock Holmes. The time without Sherlock Holmes stood out amongst the rest. His memories of that time were more vivid than the others. It was also during that time that John Watson found out that there were worse hells than war.

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Sherlock came early. He never was a patient man, but in these particular moments, he can be defined as just that. He sat in his chair - the one perched and faced across from John’s own, with idle hands set on the armrests. He had not been home in a very long time and it still did not feel like home, but he felt, instead, as if he was opening the door to 221B for the very first time. A door is just that - a door, but a John (a John Watson) was the actual home. 

He had arrived roughly two hours earlier, cloaked in his usual coat and scarf to cover from the faint mid-winter air that settled against the end of January. He had told Mycroft, quietly in the sitting room that he was returning home. Mycroft sat there, slack jawed and almost comatose to what Sherlock had said. Sherlock did not press the conversation and left as quickly as he had come into Mycroft’s life after his fall. He should have felt guilty, in a sense, because in all honesty, everyone knew which brother was the one who was actually alone. And now he was again. Sherlock was not going to come back - not after this, not after John. Once had been enough and 221B was too close to let slide through his fingers.

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John’s eyes widened in shock as he felt  Sherlock caress his cheek, the warmth seemingly spreading from the consulting detective’s fingertips and making its way to John’s heart. His heart beat faster with each passing moment. The younger man’s gaze held him in a hypnotic state. John’s own brown eyes locked into place with Sherlock’s blue eyes. He saw that the other’s eyes held more than it’s usual mystery. Now it held depths of pain and suffering that John himself often saw when he looked at his own reflection.

The consulting detective, John noticed, didn’t all that good. Compared to a month ago, his appearance seemed to be worse. His long dark curls remained unkempt and reached his shoulders. His eyes had dark bags underneath them, signifying that Sherlock didn’t sleep all that much. His check bones were more prominent than ever, showing just how much weight the younger man had lost. The doctor in John Watson also noted traces of Cocaine abuse, with the consulting detective’s bloodshot eyes and somewhat runny nose. John was conflicted. He tried to quell his first instinct which was to nurse Sherlock and force him to eat something just like old times. He reminded himself that things weren’t the same anymore and that they can’t simply jump back into the routine they once had.

He found himself leaning into the touch, finding comfort with perhaps the only man who could fully understand the pain of losing the other. For who could comprehend losing a Sherlock Holmes than John Watson? And who could comprehend losing a John Watson than Sherlock Holmes. The relationship they had was something special and could never be identifiable by normal terms. But individuals such as these, did not allow things such as normal restrict their actions. 

John heard the apology and saw the pain and truthfulness in the blue eyes that continued to stare him down. He saw as Sherlock fought an internal struggle, an impulse to do what he wanted versus what John needed at this very moment. Before the fall, John wouldn’t classify Sherlock Holmes as a considerate man. In fact, if you had asked him John would have said he was a conceited git who cared more about himself than anyone. Now though, John wasn’t so sure. The Sherlock Holmes that stood before him was very different. Much like, how the John Watson of the present wasn’t the same John all those months ago.  The confident air that he usually characterized with Sherlock had dissipated. If one knew what to look for you could see how Sherlock’s shoulders slumped in defeat, his eyes were soft and lacked the fire they once held. It also seemed that Sherlock was afraid. Not of John, but of what John would do. These things weren’t obvious to just anyone but they were obvious to John. It was a testament to how much he knew and understood the consulting detective.

Again, Sherlock apologized but John gave pause as he replayed the apology in his head:

John, I am very sorry, from the bottom of my heart.

Heart.

John nodded, he didn’t fully accept the apology just yet but he wasn’t disregarding it either. He didn’t need to reach out and place a hand on the other’s chest to feel Sherlock’s beating heart. He of all people knew that Sherlock Holmes did have a heart and it was evident to John, that Sherlock’s heart was broken too. What shocked John above all was Sherlock admitting to having such a thing. The Sherlock he knew dismissed sentiments and anything related to it as something beneath him. Yet, John now understood all of it was a façade. If the Sherlock’s text messages were any indication, those nineteen months away had afforded him a change in perspective. Sherlock’s dismissal of his emotions was just used to cover the fact that he did feel and he did love. He did feel, for John. And He did love, for John.

All of this, John was able to translate with a look and a touch. The both of them were beyond words, but still there were some things that needed to be said. John took a step towards the consulting detective, diminishing the meter that separated them into mere feet. He placed his hand against Sherlock’s which was resting on John’s cheek. He allowed his fingertips to trace the younger man’s slender hand. He enveloped the larger hand in a tight grip, wanting the sensation of holding the other to finally quell the burning question whether this was all real or if it was simply a dream his deluded mind had made up. John slowly exhaled a calming breath.

Making himself vulnerable to Sherlock both had its own strengths and weaknesses. The pain of nineteen months came crashing into John like furious waves of the powerful sea. His anger was spent. What was left was a lingering pain and a sense of overwhelming loss. John tore his gaze away from Sherlock. His will was all that prevented his knees from buckling beneath him. 

“Sherlock.” John started. He forced himself to look at the consulting detective again, the pain and anguish crossing his facial features.

“Why?”

John paused, taking another deep breath before continuing.

“Why, Sherlock? Why’d you leave me? Why’d you lie to me?” 

John regarded Sherlock as the other tried to find the words to explain the rational behind his decisions. Contrary to what others and Sherlock himself sometimes said, John wasn’t an idiot. Once he allowed the anger that had boiled inside him to dissipate he was able to somewhat understand the circumstances that surrounded Sherlock’s death. But John was human. Unlike machines who were never hindered by emotions, humans were more susceptible to their emotions. The anger and the pain blinded John to what was so blaringly obvious to anyone else not caught up in the web of lies, deceit and hurt. Sherlock was no machine either, and John had come to realize that Sherlock faking his death must have come with its own price to pay.

“Eighteen months.” John removed Sherlock’s hand from its place against his cheek. The loss of contact on his face made John yearn for more, but he paid the desire no mind.

“Eighteen months, I waited for you. I thought you were dead. I buried you.” John had still not let go of Sherlock’s hand. The other’s fingertips were slightly brushing against his own, sending tingles of electricity through his own body.

“Do you know what I went through?” There was a hint of accusation in his tone, but the anguish was more evident above anything else. John couldn’t keep the images of his hell away. Lonely and sleepless nights flashed through his mind like a grotesque movie he can’t help but watch. 

“I almost followed you too.” John closed his eyes, recalling his suicide attempt. The episode seemed more horrid now that John knew its possible implications. If he had indeed succeeded that day, then he would have been truly separated from Sherlock Holmes.

Resignation crossed John’s features as he took a step closer towards Sherlock.

“I was so alone, Sherlock. And you saved me. But in the process of saving me, you broke me too.” 

Brown eyes locked into blue. It was during this moment that nothing else mattered except what was in front of them: each other.

“Please Sherlock.” It was a desperate plea. A plea for what he didn’t know. John’s emotions were in turmoil now. 

A single tear fell down his face. It seemed that nowadays, John shed tears for one person alone. And that one person was Sherlock Holmes.

“I missed you so much. Sherlock.” 

12 Charing Cross Road, Westminster London

- Going Home -

John gazed at the fire that crackled merrily in front of him. Shadows were cast upon the familiar flat that wasn’t quite home. The once welcoming walls were now tainted with doubt and uncertainty. The couch beneath him felt unnatural. For the last thirty minutes he’d been shifting in his seat, trying to find a comfortable spot. He sighed and slumped in his chair, giving it up as a bad job. He gazed at the teacup that wasn’t his own, and drank the tea that wasn’t prepared by his own hands. He looked at the telly running in the background. The usual channel he watched wasn’t available so he was perusing aimlessly until he found something remotely interesting. John discarded the remote, stopping at some random channel. He tried to get into the story, but found his mind slipping elsewhere. No matter what angle he looked at it, Charring Cross road wasn’t home.

John sighed in exasperation, placing his head in his hands. Despite all the distractions present in front of him, his mind was consumed by one thing: Sherlock Holmes. As the days slowly progressed and Sherlock’s texts became more frequent, John couldn’t tear his thoughts away from thoughts concerning the consulting detective.  John found himself at a crossroads torn between wanting to leave 221B behind once and for all or going back to the place he wanted to call home.

He grabbed his phone from his pocket, seeing Sherlock’s text messages there. He wanted to go home so badly, yet he couldn’t bring himself to do just that. He knew where home truly was: 221B Baker Street. 

Unknown to John, he was being watched.

*

John Watson wasn’t the only one who was distracted as of late. Helen had been preparing dinner. She stirred the contents of the pot absentmindedly, moving the ladle in a clockwise manner. Her thoughts turned back on the months when her and John started dating and how different things had been lately.

Coming from a marriage that fell apart before her very eyes, Helen had an aversion to relationships in general, but John Watson was different from the rest. She recalled reasoning to herself about the risks of opening her heart again. John Watson made her want to open her heart, to make herself vulnerable. She considered John one of her best friends during their time together in St. Bart’s. There was nothing like medical school to draw people closer yet the world also drew them apart.

In the same way that she gone through her own hardships, the John Watson that came back from Afghanistan was but a shell of the former John. Yet, she knew what had caused the sorrowful look to haunt his eyes. It was one Sherlock Holmes. His death had broken John in more ways then one, and now, Sherlock’s return seemed to have shattered his already ailing heart.  

She withdrew the ladle from the pot and placed the cover to allow the contents to simmer. She wiped her hands on her apron before discarding the apron. She walked towards the living room. John’s name almost graced her lips but what she saw gave her pause. She was framed in the doorway, gazing upon the scene in the living room. She watched as John struggled. She knew his mind was in turmoil. The John who had once been so enthusiastic and amusing now became the brooding doctor she saw before him. John’s thoughts always seemed like a thousand miles away. Their conversations were usually one sided with mere shrugs of the shoulder, noncommittal grunts or an occasional curt yes’s or no’s on John’s end.

She signed and placed her hand in her pocket, feeling the small package she had always kept on her person. She traced the edges of the box before wrapping a hand around the package. She sighed and looked at John once again.

John Watson wasn’t hers. John Watson had never been hers.

* 

John started as he heard his name being called. It wasn’t the deep tenor and melodious voice of one Sherlock voice but the soft and delicate call of Helen. Helen called him again, wanting to get his attention. He tried to shove the cobwebs from his mind and focus on Helen. John didn’t even notice Helen come behind him and wrap her arms around his torso. The scent of lilac’s filled his lungs as Helen bent down and hugged him. A month ago, it would have been a comforting scent but now it just seemed so wrong. Before he could say anything though, Helen broke the connection. She strode purposefully around the couch and stood in front of John.

“Why are you doing this to yourself John?” Her steely voice echoed around the flat. John looked at the green eyes that was once capable of illuminating and keeping his darkness at bay.  What he saw there wasn’t anger but resignation and determination. That was the strength of Helen Rose.

John looked up at her in confusion. “What are you talking about, Helen?”

John saw the way in which Helen watched him, taking in every detail, not missing the bags under his eyes or the way in which his brows were knit it frustration. Even his jumper was scruffy and his hair unkempt. John saw how she mouthed his name again and again, in a silent ‘John’.

Helen sighed before looking away. An intense sadness crossed her features for a moment before being replaced by that steely determination he had characterized the woman with. Helen knelt down before locking her green eyes with John’s own brown ones.  John blinked under the intensity of her gaze, fidgeting slightly, waiting for her to answer the question.

“Stop lying to yourself.” If four words could rattle John even more, it would be these. There had been a constant debate in John’s mind about choosing between Helen and Sherlock. John never wanted to make that choice because it would have been unfair to one party or the other. John was never one to play with hearts and choosing at all didn’t seem right. So he did what, at the time, seemed like the rational and logical thing to do: he ran away. He ran away from Sherlock and from the past. By choosing to give Helen that key to 221B Baker Street he had resigned himself to that future with her. John even entertained the prospect of family and kids. Yet, upon Sherlock’s return the prospective future that seemed so bright now dulled in comparison to the past he left behind.

“I…” John stammered not quite sure how to respond.

Helen raised her hands and caressed John’s face in a tender motion so familiar.

“John.” At this moment, the cobwebs in his mind cleared and he was able to focus solely on the woman in front of him.

“Helen.” He whispered back. While Helen’s voice was calm and caring, John’s was laced with confusion and uncertainty. It seemed as if that one word alone allowed Helen to make whatever decision she was weighing in her mind.  

She fished out a familiar blue package from her pocket. She opened it to reveal the duplicate key of 221B Baker Street. She traced it fondly with her fingertips before placing it back in the box. She replaced the lid. She grabbed the underside of John’s hand, exposing his palm to her. She placed the blue box tenderly on his hand before closing his fingers around it.

“Helen.” John said, trying to push the box toward her, but Helen kept a firm grip on his closed fist.

“Helen.” John tried again. “I wanted you to move in with me.. I..” Even as John said it he knew his heart was no longer in it. The struggle was evident in his troubled brown eyes. “I… I’m sorry.“ 

Helen placed a finger on John’s lips, preventing him from uttering anymore words of apology. “Stop lying to yourself. That” she said, gesturing to the blue box. “Doesn’t belong to me. Not anymore.”

John stammered, trying to reason with Helen but Helen talked over him. “I told you once that I could never replace Sherlock Holmes, a man who clearly has found a  place in your heart. I told you once that he will stay there forever.” She placed a hand on John’s chest, feeling the heartbeat there. “And he’s there now.”

Helen considered her next words. “I never asked you to forget or to let go and I’m not asking that now.”

John looked as Helen tumbled through the words. “All I asked was for you to let me in.” She caressed John’s cheeks, running her hand down his face. “And you did.”

“Helen.” John said weakly, not quite sure what to say. 

“Just go to him, John. Go home.” John’s eyes widened as Helen’s words struck his very core. Helen stood up and stepped away from John.

John looked down, tearing his eyes away from Helen’s green ones. “I’m sorry.” He said remorsefully. “I never wanted to make this decision. You’ve given me so much and I couldn’t even reciprocate.” He looked up again, wanting desperately for Helen to see. Yet he needn’t have defended himself.

“I know.”

“I loved you.”

“I know.”

“I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you.”

“I know. I did too.”

John stood up shakily, thoughts of home entering his mind. He was going home and the mere thought of it sent shivers down John’s spine. Mechanically, he grabbed his coat before making his way towards the door. He placed a hand on the doorknob, turning it slowly before opening the door wide. 

“John.” John hesitated before looking back at Helen, the woman who had saved him in his time of need. The woman who became his beacon of light when Sherlock, his sun, had disappeared. The woman who became his moon, his guiding light in the dark abyss. The woman who simply cared for John Watson and who loved him enough to know what was best for him.

“When you leave that door, I won’t be here if you return.”  I know you won’t return remained unsaid but both of them knew that.

John nodded. He turned but paused before his feet crossed the threshold of the door. He turned back and rushed towards Helen enveloping her in one last hug.

“Thank you. For everything.” He saw the tears that almost fell as he broke away from Helen. He looked away to allow her to wipe the tears away discretely. 

“Go.” Helen said quietly.

And so John did. He ran towards the place he knew he could be happy: 221B Baker Street.

John Watson was going home. 

5:32 PM: 12 Charring Cross Road, Westisnter London

Let’s go home.
I want to go home, Sherlock. - JW

12 Charing Cross Road, Westminster London

- Foolish Dreams and Unfulfilled Wishes -

It was a time the whole world had waited for in bated breath. It was a time when time seemed to stop and everything looked upon the two men who stood on the landing of 221B Baker street. All eyes were on them. Two friends, torn apart by violence, brought together by one final act of killing.

“May I come inside?”

Sherlock stood there waiting for John to answer, waiting for the resolution of the story. Waiting for the happy ending that most humans sought after. The whole world seemed to hold its breath. Nothing stirred and nothing existed except these two individuals right here. John reached towards Sherlock’s own face, wanting to feel the warmth of the other for himself. In those few moments when the face of Sherlock swam in his vision as tears glistened in his brown eyes, John felt relief wash over him. Months of waiting had come to a close and finally Sherlock had come home. He placed a gentle had on Sherlock’s cheeks, his fingertips tingling at the unfamiliar and sought after sensation. Looking into Sherlock’s blue eyes, something snapped within him at that moment.

The spell that had descended upon them shattered as the calm was broken. Months of pent up emotions and hardships surfaced in John’s mind. Before he realized what was happening John’s left fist had swung towards Sherlock. The other didn’t even move and accepted the blow as it came. Sherlock staggered backward, nursing the now forming bruise.

“You git!”

John Watson rushed at Sherlock, but rather than another punch, the older wrap his arms around the younger. The tears streaked down his face, and the sobs came forth from him. It was like a dam that had broken. A dam that had been constructed through months of grieving and mourning now gave way for the emotions and sentiments to finally spill over.

John Watson beat at Sherlock’s chest, his clenched fists slamming into the other, not all that forcefully. The will to fight had gone out of John Watson.

“Sherlock. You were dead! I saw you jump. I mourned you.. I called your name again and again. I begged you to come back.”

Tremors shook through his body as he collapsed unto the consulting detective. Sherlock slowly wrapped his arms around the doctor and said the three words that managed to reach John’s heart.

“I’m here now.” Sherlock said quietly.

John looked up at black haired man who had haunted his dreams so often. Whose face and whose voice had always consumed his thoughts. Long ago, Sherlock became the reason for John’s everyday and perhaps it could be like that again. Finally they would be able to go back to the routine that was theirs and theirs alone. Things would go back to the way they once were.

Following what should have been, John Watson would have said the very thing that Sherlock had been waiting for all this time:

“Welcome Home.” John said softly, for only Sherlock to hear.

But that wasn’t what happened. Not at all. In a world of fantasy and fiction, perhaps that could have transpired but this isn’t fantasy or some game of pretend. This was reality. A reality that John Watson could not escape. You see, things could not easily go back to the way they once were. After everything that had transpired, the road that lead towards their past life was now barred by a wall. A brick was carefully placed there each day that passed after Sherlock’s death, sealing the past most effectively. Not even Sherlock himself was able to tear down that wall. What’s more, John Watson had already found himself on a completely different path. This was the road towards the future he, at one point, was resigned to having. What started out as John’s way of complying to Sherlock’s wish of him to be happy turned out to be something he truly wanted for himself as well. John wanted a future, John wanted a family and so he found himself walking down that path with a woman who taught him it was okay to love again. This woman named Helen tore down the walls around his heart and became a constant presence in his life. And so, instead of the heartfelt reunion that the whole world had been waiting for, another parting of the ways was witnessed, perhaps even more terrible than the last.

Snow fell heavily from the night sky, a cold had descended all over London but the coldness that John Watson now felt inside him had nothing to do with that. The still and calm London night was a complete contrast to the storm that raged within the retired army doctor. John turned away from the window, putting the sea of whiteness that was London behind him. He gazed around the familiar flat. It wasn’t 221B. For one, it had a more feminine touch to it. There were lace trimmed placemats and delicate pottery. There were one of a kind paintings decorating the walls of the flat. His favorite one hung over the fireplace. It was a depiction of the exact scenery John had been viewing moments before. Instead of the snowy expanse, the whole city could be seen in all its glory. But through the lens of a painter, the city came forth in a different perspective and light. There was hope that beauty could lie in even a harsh city like London. John tore his eyes away from the painting and looked around. It had a couch, but it John’s opinion it wasn’t as comfortable as the one in 221B. There were no armchairs that sat beside the fire. There was no skull on the mantelpiece. Perhaps, the only thing in common with 221B was the vast array of medical books that the shelves housed. The air was tinged with the small of lilacs. All was empty and quiet in the flat too, which John found very unsettling. The disquiet put him further on edge and his mind could do nothing but go back to the what followed after his parting of the ways with the now resurrected Sherlock Holmes.

*

John had run until he couldn’t ignore the pain in his chest anymore. The cold air shot through his system like a thousand tiny pinpricks assaulting his senses. On and on he went until his legs felt like lead and sweat glistened on his forehead despite the low temperature that came with the winter. John finally stopped, doubling over and placing his hands on his knees. He tried to get his breath back, yet he relished the pain that came with the fatigue. Finally his breathes came much slower and he was able to look up and take in his surroundings. He found himself in the park, more specifically the playground. He had spent a lot of lonely afternoons wandering around this part of London, and was therefore not surprised that his legs had subconsciously carried him here.

The snow was pristine and undisturbed. That was to be expected for the kids were with their families now, spending their Christmases around the dinner table, or sitting excitedly by the tree waiting for the clock to strike twelve. John crossed the playground towards the pair of swings that stood at the center. The swing creaked under his weight as he sat down. He swayed back and forth, using his legs to propel the motion. John didn’t know how long he sat there, staring at the night sky. The adrenalin slowly receded from his system. In its place was the anger that bubbled to the surface once again. Images of Sherlock Holmes framed in the doorway entered his mind, try as he might he couldn’t push it away. Sherlock coming back had been his most fervent wish for so long. Until John decided to move on that is.

John huffed in annoyance, muttering obscenities under his breath. It was as if his whole world had been turned upside down once again. It was all one big elaborate lie. Consequently, a play on his very emotions. John now didn’t know what to believe in and couldn’t even fathom the flurry of emotions that raged inside him. Were his feelings about Sherlock true, or was it just induced by the shock of supposedly losing him? When Sherlock didn’t even die in the first place, how could he know if what he felt was genuine at all?

John didn’t even look up when he heard footsteps behind him, disturbing the gravel and snow on the ground. He felt the newcomer pause in his advancements. John’s neck prickled under the penetrating gaze of the stranger.

“Did you know?” The question came out more harsher then he intended. Yet, John Watson was beyond manners now. He was like a wounded animal, cornered and desperate.

“No.” The gruff response of Greg Lestrade came back. The response was simple yet it told tomes about the other’s situation. John turned his head to see Lestrade walk towards him and take the swing beside him. He was pale and his eyes were haunted by a pain that John knew quite well. It was obvious something was plaguing his mind. The detective inspector sighed and pulled out a box of cigarettes from his pocket with an accompanying lighter. He shook the box against his palm until a stick fell out. With well practiced motions he placed it on his lips and lit it with a flick of his lighter. The tension on his face eased a bit as the nicotine wove its way into his system. He extended the box to John, silently asking him if he wanted one. For the first time in years John helped himself to a stick. The roll between his forefinger and middle finger felt like he was welcoming an old friend back home. He placed it in his mouth and leaned forward for Lestrade to light it. After a sharp intake of breath and exhale later, John felt a bit better. The tremors that shook his body lessened to a certain degree.

“I left Mycroft.” Lestrade said. There was sadness and anger there. Two emotions that John was very familiar with and could easily distinguish.

“He knew.” John replied. It wasn’t a question. John already had a deeply rooted anger against the older of the Holmes brothers. He had never forgiven Mycroft for killing Sherlock Holmes, and now to find out that the man was involved in this elaborate hoax. It did nothing to improve his standing in John’s eyes.

Lestrade nodded as his brows furrowed in frustration. It wasn’t everyday you see the detective inspector in such an emotional state. But one could hardly fault him. He had just left the man he once loved, very much like what John did too.

“I received a call about a gunshot near The Abbey pub. We were already shorthanded at the Yard so I decided to go alone and investigate. When I got there, Mycroft was there…”

“Mycroft?”

Lestrade nodded, pausing for a moment before continuing. He looked at John and there eyes locked on each other’s. “He was holding a gun. Standing over a body in the alley. I asked him what the hell he was doing there but he wouldn’t answer me at first. I rushed at the body to see who it was Mycroft had shot. It was…” Lestrade faltered at this moment. John urged him to continue.

“Sebastian Moran.” Lestrade finished, turning away from John.

“S-sebastian? Sebastian’s dead?! Mycroft shot Sebastian? Why?!” The hysteria in John’s voice was very much evident now. This night was continuing to spiral downward as the world that he once knew slowly became an unholy land where nothing made any sense.

“Imagine my confusion at finding Mycroft at a crime scene like that.” Lestrade was having trouble hiding his own anger at the situation they were in. “At first I thought it was some secret operation by the government of some sort. Maybe Sebastian got into some spot of trouble. The truth, though, was further from anything I ever expected it to be.”

Lestrade paused. “Did Sherlock tell you anything?”

John shook his head. “I didn’t give him the chance to explain. I don’t know. I was just….”

“Angry?” Lestrade supplied.

John nodded.

Lestrade fished an envelope from his coat and handed it to John. He opened the envelope and numerous files spilled on his lap. On top of the pile was Sebastian Moran’s file. The picture placed there wasn’t the Sebastian he knew. The image before him was of a cold hearted killer. Bottomless black eyes that reflected nothing but death. He scanned the file and his eyes halted on one line:

Assassin. Employed under Consulting Criminal Jim Moriarty.

John’s breath caught in his chest. He closed his eyes, willing to wake up from this hellish nightmare. The man who had, in many ways, rescued him from the pain was nothing more than an illusion. The man he considered a best friend was all but a trick of the mind. In many ways he had given a lot of trust in the Sebastian Moran he knew. John didn’t easily trust people, nor did he share his problems with anyone. With Moran it was different. It was so much easier. Life became a lot better. To find out all of that were simply lies was devastating to say the least.

“He wanted to kill me?” John’s voice was soft and scared.

Lestrade nodded.

“I guess this would make more sense when I start from the beginning. Sherlock faked his death. With the help of Molly.” Lestrade spat the name. John’s eyes widened when he heard it. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He felt his sanity slowly being chipped away with each revelation he heard.

“Molly knew…” First there was disbelief. Then came the anger. He remembered all those times when Molly had comforted him and then those times when she had wanted to say something but thought better of it. This was the big secret.

“So did Mycroft. The both of them were in on it all this time. While the rest of us made a fool of ourselves mourning his loss. They played the both of us as idiots.”  Lestrade said. The words were harsh but it was the truth. The phrase the truth hurts didn’t even begin the describe the situation.

“According to Mycroft, after he faked his death, Sherlock hunted down Moriarty’s men. The last of Moriarty’s men was – “

“Sebastian.” John finished for him. Knowing the man could have killed him at any moment was not a welcoming notion, but he couldn’t help think he had lost a friend. Or perhaps, his friend never existed in the first place. John shuddered as he was able to fully comprehend the situation. He had thought Moriarty to be gone, but even from beyond the grave he was still able to destroy their lives.

“You’re taking this better than I expected.” Lestrade said. There was no cocky smile or twinkle of the eye here. It was a statement of fact.

John scoffed. “I punched the damn git and left him standing there in the damn cold.” He couldn’t even bear saying the name Sherlock now. The name only brought him pain.

John stood up, the files spilling on the snow topped ground but he paid them no mind. He started to pace around, leaving crisscrossing footprints in the snow. He threw his cigarette in the thicket, not even bothering to stomp it out.

“Lies! All Lies…” John’s breath hitched in his chest. There was a lot of anger inside John Watson. Anger at Moriarty for tearing their lives apart, anger at Mycroft for playing this idiotic game, anger at Molly for making him a fool, anger at Sherlock Holmes for leaving and playing with his heart.

John’s breathing was heavy as he shouted frustratingly into the heavens. He sat unceremoniously into the ground covered snow and placed his head in his hands. He carded his hands through his hair, wishing that everything was just a bad dream.

Lestrade gazed at the same stars John was looking at moments before. They twinkled sadly above them. “I thought I knew Mycroft. I thought he had allowed me to see a side of himself that no one had the privilege of seeing. Behind the titles and behind the power, Mycroft Holmes was just a man. A man who just needed someone to understand who he was and stand by him. I thought I was that man. I don’t even know anymore if that was the real Mycroft Holmes or if it was just part of this game he played with the rest of us.” It was tinged with bitterness but sadness as well. John wasn’t the only one who lost something tonight.

John listened, for the first time his mind wandering from his own predicament and thinking about something else: the relationship of Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade. As far as John knew, Mycroft didn’t have girlfriends or anything of the sort. Mycroft had colleagues and connections, not friends. Lestrade, it seemed, was the exception. When John found out about Lestrade and Mycroft, he had doubted the older Holmes was capable of emotions such as love but he reasoned it was his own personal biases speaking. Lestrade obviously saw something in the man and that was good enough for John. It looked as if they complimented each other in many ways. He may not be privy to their interactions but he knew Lestrade was happy. In very much the same way that lies had torn apart Mycroft and Lestrade, the lies were destroying what John and Sherlock had.

Lestrade got up and dropped his cigarette, before stomping it out with the sole of his trainer. He walked to where John was and placed a hand on his shoulders.

“Let’s get you home.”

“I don’t know where home is.” John replied sadly.

Home was once 221B, where he and his best friend spent their days together and lived the routine that was their own. Home was once 221B, where the memories he held dear made themselves present in John’s everydays. Home was once 221B, where he would wait for the day when Sherlock would finally come back to him. Home was once 221B, the place where he confined himself and willed the pains of the world to go away. Home was once 221B, his own respite. Home was once 221B, where he thought he could live his happily ever after with the woman he had given his heart to.

John shook his head. “I won’t go back there. I don’t want to see him. He never died so it’s still his flat.” John stared at the white snow underneath him. “I was going to ask her to move in with me Greg. I was going to ask her tonight. I prepared his old room and everything. I fixed up the flat. I was finally able to put all his things in the attic. I was finally able to move on without looking back. And then this happens.” Tears silently rolled down his face. John was past pretending to be strong. He was now nothing but a broken man. Broken not by Moriarty or by Mycroft but by Sherlock Holmes.

After all the anger had been spent what was left was an emptiness that could only be described as being lost. He looked up at Greg Lestrade and the expression on his face was quite clear. ‘I don’t know where to go from here. I don’t know what to do.’

Lestrade bowed his head. “I don’t know too, John. I don’t know.” For the first time, Lestrade didn’t have all the answers. He didn’t have any advice to offer to John Watson for he himself was as lost and equally alone. The only thing he could give was a helping hand.

“Let’s go to my flat for now. Helen’s still at her shift now right? I’ll call her and tell her to pick you up there.”

John could only nod, as what he felt was beyond words now. He allowed the detective inspector to carry half his weight as they made their way towards the street. Lestrade hailed a cab and helped John inside. John watched as the city passed by him in a blur of lights. He placed his forehead on the cool window and stared unseeingly outside.

They arrived at flat. The exhaustion caused by the night’s events had finally taken its toll on John’s body. He collapsed on the couch, burying himself in the cushions. Lestrade made as if to leave but before he could he felt a tug on his coat. John’s had had shot up and taken ahold of him.

“Please.” John said quietly.

Lestrade sat beside John and held him close. It was nothing romantic of course. They were brothers after all, brothers whom the world has wronged in very much the same way. Lestrade held John, like he had done all those months ago. He felt the subtle tremors that shook through the other’s body as the walls John had put up all those months had finally broken down.  The presence of another human being was a comfort to the both of them. The world has suddenly become a hostile place and this familiar feeling of comfort would help them tide through the night.

From somewhere in the flat a clock chimed, twelve rings to signify the coming of Christmas morning. A Christmas miracle had occurred but it brought nothing but pain to all.

 “Happy Christmas, John.” Lestrade whispered.

John couldn’t even bring himself to reply, so he simply nodded. The festiveness of the holidays had drained out of him. All that was left was a dull aching.

When the clock had chimed one, a knock came on the door. Lestrade stood up and made his way towards the door. Unsurprisingly, Helen was on the other side, holding a bag of presents in her hand. She smiled sadly at Lestrade before looking at the sleeping figure of John Watson.

“He just fell asleep. Should I wake him for you?” Lestrade massaged the crick that had formed on his neck.

Helen shook her head, stepping inside. The tiredness from her face faded as she touched John’s face. It was replaced by a look that could only be described as love. She gently traced the contours of John’s face with her delicate hands. John stirred. She stopped and leaned closer to hear what he was whispering.

“Sh-sherlock … ”

Helen stepped back, the sad look crossing her features once again.

“I’ve been to see him.”

Lestrade looked up at that. “You saw Sherlock?”

Helen nodded stiffly. “He had a bruise on his face. Probably, John had punched him. Sherlock was waiting there on the porch of 221B.” She glanced at John. “Waiting for him to come back I think.”

Helen sighed and sat cross-legged on the floor as she stroked John’s hand. “And he was doing so well too. Now that Sherlock’s back. I don’t know what the state of his mind would be.”

Both of them knew fully well what John had gone through. Insanity was but a step away for John. John’s suicide attempt was still fresh in their minds.

…

John woke up on Christmas morning to find Helen asleep on the living room floor still holding his hand. Despite having a few hours of sleep, he still felt the fatigue of last night.  It took a moment for him to recall what had happened transpired only a few hours before. It felt like a rather awful nightmare.

Dream?

No.

Real.

The confusion that initially filled his mind was replaced with anger and discontentment. John sighed and tried to will the pains away. He looked at Helen, sleeping soundly with her head resting near his own. In her other hand was the blue box that contained the key to 221B that he was supposed to give her. This wasn’t how he wanted the both of them to spend Christmas. He had planned a romantic evening for the both of them. It was nothing too extravagant, just dinner and a quite night together, ending with him asking her to move in. His dinner preparations had gone to waste. He had finally finished his preparations in Sherlock’s room. He had wanted to give her a room of her own. He wanted that future with her. The key symbolized that future, that happiness he had always tried to chase after.

The woman stirred as John sat up and let go of her hand. She followed his gaze and saw he was staring at the box.

Helen smiled sadly at him and opened the box.

“You wanted me to move in with you.”

“I still want-“ She cut him off as she placed a tender finger on his lips. “Are you sure John?”

Asking her to move in with him was one of the surest decisions that John had ever made in his life, but after last night’s events he found himself thrust into doubt once again. What he thought of as truth was nothing more than illusions. The dilemma must have been evident on his face for Helen leaned in closer and placed a chaste kiss on John’s forehead. It was a comforting gesture.

“I don’t want to go back there.” John admitted. John had never felt so vulnerable in his life than he did now. She held him close and again, the tears fell and his body shook. His world had shattered and she knew it.  John’s world once revolved around Sherlock Holmes, a shining sun in the darkness and loneliness of the place called life. When the sun disappeared, John was thrown back into the darkness with nothing to gravitate towards. Nothing could compare to the sun that once was. Helen was but a moon, a mere reflection of the sun.

Now, the sun had returned but it was too late. John had been lost in the darkness, tethered to the moon, by the merest of threads. 

“I’m here, John.” John nodded at that. John now doubted a lot of things, but there was one thing he was sure of, and it was the woman that now stood in front of him. He looked into her green eyes and found the solace he had always sought. He caressed her face and tucked a stray lock behind her ear. Helen slid into the sofa with John. And silently, they watched as London life unfolded before them through the window of Gregory Lestrade’s flat. It was something very simple, yet to John it meant the world. Her presence was a foothold in the ever changing world.

John thoughts wandered to Sherlock, thinking of the tall black haired man framed in the doorway of 221B Baker Street. He wasn’t the Sherlock he remembered, yet he knew it was his Sherlock. Not some hoax nor some trick. The real consulting detective had truly come back from the dead. He remembered the way in which Sherlock had said his name. He never thought he would hear his name being called in such a way again.

“John.”Sherlock’s deep voice had always haunted his dreams and now he could hear his real voice again. He didn’t have to settle for recordings or vague memories.

“John.”

John looked up at Helen, who was watching him with concern in her deep green eyes.

“I saw Sherlock last night.” John nodded. He had assumed as much, seeing she had the key with her. “He wanted me to give you these.”  

She fished out two objects from her coat pocket. The first was one he recognized immediately. It was his phone, his coping mechanism for eighteen long months. It was his last connection to Sherlock Holmes. Despite knowing, that his text message would remain unanswered he continued to send them anyway. The other object was a phone he wasn’t familiar with.

Confusion crossed John’s features as he took both objects in his hands. He pocketed his own phone and examined the other. It didn’t take too long to realize whose phone it was.

It was Sherlock’s.

John stared unblinkingly at the phone. Sherlock didn’t do anything for absolutely no reason so it was safe to assume there was something inside the phone that was meant for his eyes but after last night’s events he wasn’t sure he could handle another revelation of sorts. He took a deep breath. There was nothing else he could find out that could tear his world apart in the same way that Sherlock’s return had.

He was wrong.

He saw the hundreds of text messages he had been sending Sherlock, sitting there inside the phone. Eighteen long months of suffering and of pain outlined for all too see. John’s heart ached as he looked through his own messages. Sending text messages to Sherlock became a part of his new routine. At the time, he believed Sherlock would never see the messages nor reply to them but he continued to send them anyway. It was a coping mechanism that was his own. The texts made it easier to pretend that Sherlock would come back home, that was why he held unto that hope. He saw his own descent into depression as the texts became more desperate. Some texts he remembered more than others. Many of them were pleas to come home, pleas that remained unanswered until now. Yet even more of them were confessions about his own emotions that he would have never been able to tell Sherlock face to face. He bore out his heart and soul into those text messages. Finding out that Sherlock had been privy to these inner thoughts from the start wasn’t something he could easily digest nor accept. The anger did not come. Simply confusion. John had gotten another of his heart’s desires: for Sherlock to see the messages that John had sent him. Yet with the realization came the question: why didn’t he answer me? He knew yet he didn’t do anything. John Watson felt betrayed. There was nothing else that could describe the well of emotions inside him at this moment. To him, it seemed as if the whole world was in on the joke. A joke at the expense of himself. He had spent the better half of the past eighteen months mourning a man who wasn’t quite so dead.

The phone held even more secrets. He saw the text exchanges between Mycroft and Sherlock. It was evident that Mycoft was deeply involved and aware of all of Sherlock’s activities. The grieving brother act was nothing but that: an act. John also saw the short exchanges between Sebastian and Sherlock. John paled as he read those particular messages. It had all been a game. John felt like a pawn in the grander scheme of things, being tossed around and played with. It only served to fuel the anger that continued to burn within him.

Yet, the most terrible secret of all came in the form of Sherlock’s unsent text messages to John. These were texts never sent to him. They were simply kept there, like a tethered lifeline. Eighteen months worth of messages stared back at him in all its glory. His heart clenched as he saw his own name again and again. John couldn’t believe it. The emotion in the texts wasn’t something he could easily identify with Sherlock. Sherlock was a man who dismissed sentiment and anything of the sort as trivial and not worthy of his time, yet here were messages that bore Sherlock’s heart and soul; similar to what John Watson himself had done. Perhaps death, or in Sherlock’s case, faking his death had afforded Sherlock a change in perspective.  In the same way that John coped with his own text messages, Sherlock had done the same thing. He felt tears fall roll down his face as he read through the messages and took the journey of the last eighteen months from Sherlock’s own eyes. He spent the whole of Christmas day going through Sherlock’s text messages. It was like a drug to John. He wasn’t foreign to addiction. He became so engrossed in the messages and the stories they told him. It can be likened to reading a good book. John couldn’t bring himself to stop reading until he came to the resolution of the story. It wasn’t a fanciful romantic novel though, to John, the story that unfolded before his eyes could be compared to only one thing:  a tragedy. A sort of hunger had come over him as he read through the texts. He saw that Sherlock had gone through his own suffering as well. It was a grotesque parallelism to John’s own torment. He expected to feel a sense of victory in finding out that Sherlock had suffered as he did but instead of victory, he felt defeat. It was a hollowness coupled with regret. The moon had shone through the window by the time John had set down Sherlock’s phone. He kept thinking about how the consulting detective’s slender hands had once held the phone, texting one message after another. John’s heart wasn’t filled with hopefulness or anything of that sort.  The best and perhaps most hurtful revelation that came with his journey back in time was the fact that Sherlock Holmes had loved him and that he had wanted to come home. Back to 221B, back to his experiments but most especially back to John Watson. To Sherlock, home was all these things. These thoughts filled John’s mind as exhaustion took hold of him and he was thrust into the darkness of sleep. John fell asleep on Lestrade’s couch with a phone clutched tightly to his chest. It was a very familiar position yet the only difference was that instead of his own phone he held Sherlock’s.

The days after Christmas was a blur to John. Helen had offered for John to stay at her flat at 12 Charing Cross Road for the time being and he had graciously accepted. He wanted to give Lestrade his space as well. The man was heart broken, that was evident for all to see. Trust became the failing of Lestrade’s relationship with his ex- wife and now, history seemed to be repeating itself. Sherlock’s return brought about more hardships for all involved.

John had stopped by 221B to get some of his things. He knew, from Lestrade, that Sherlock was staying at Mycroft’s but John still did not want to return to 221B. It held too much pain for him to bare it any longer. The flat was just as he had left it yet stepping inside felt like cutting a fresh wound open. The flat was the perfect embodiment of the cross roads he now faced. It was a mixture of the past melded with the future he thought he had wanted with Helen.

Molly Hooper had come over to Charing Cross Road at some point but John couldn’t bring himself to look at her let alone talk to her. Molly brought apologies along with her Christmas presents yet John accepted neither, simply telling her he needed time and wanted to be left alone. Trust did not come easily to John Watson and to have his trust betrayed in such a way had hurt him terribly. Molly wasn’t the only visitor at Charing Cross Road. A few days before the new year a young boy with black hair and blue eyes had knocked at their door. He couldn’t be older than nine. When he saw the boy, he first thought it was one of Helen’s patients but it turned out it was Sherlock who had sent the boy. Sherlock had asked the boy to tell John that he was sorry and wanted to speak. John of course couldn’t spill his anger unto the poor boy who was simply following orders. He didn’t want to think where Sherlock had gotten the boy. He sent the child home, with some treats for his trouble.

John’s phone buzzed at random intervals each day, signaling that a new message had been received. Each time, John didn’t bother looking at who or what the message was, for he knew it would only come from one person: Sherlock. Despite the revelation brought about by the unsent text messages, John couldn’t bring himself to let go of the anger that still burned fiercely within him. But with each day that passed, confusion blossomed further in his heart. Now he was faced with a decision: to continue down the new path he had set for himself or go back and tear down the wall of his past. Now that the what- ifs that he so desperately wished for could become reality he was at a standstill.

*

John sighed and looked at the clock on the wall. It was two hours before the New Year. In the distance, the sound of fireworks could be heard. London was celebrating but there wasn’t an ounce of excitement inside his body. John looked up as the knob of the flat turned and the door opened, revealing Helen with grocery bags in her hands. She removed her coat and scarf and hung them beside John’s.

“They still had some Turkey at the store.” She smiled jovially at John. Despite the obvious air of sorrow that hung in the flat because of John’s brooding, her demeanor was neither forced nor faked. John couldn’t help but smile at her. He stood up and crossed the room to where she was unpacking the groceries unto the kitchen counter. She had been nothing but caring and understanding about the situation.

“Helen.”

The tone in his voice made her pause, she regarded John with a questioning look.

“Yes, John?”

“I’m sorry. About Christmas, and about the past few days. I couldn’t even prepare tonight’s dinner, like I should have.” John stared at the abysmal remains of his attempt at making New Year’s dinner. “You allowed me stay here for a bit yet I’m not even pulling my own weight. I’m sorry, I just-“

Helen had stepped closer and brought John into a tender hug. It took the wind out of John. He buried his face into her hair that smelled faintly of lilacs. She just held him there, by sheer will she managed to calm John’s fluttering heart. John relaxed but he couldn’t hug her back. His heart was torn between the woman before him who had saved him and the man halfway across London who had also saved him. His two saviors. His two loves. He couldn’t bring himself to make that choice. Helen drew away. She cradled John’s hands in hers, his calloused fingers quite the contrast to her own soft hands. It was moments like this they cherished the most, when without speaking they understood each other perfectly well. Helen knew about the conflict that now raged in John’s aching heart.  

“I’m here.” Two words that were so simple yet it struck through John’s heart like an arrow.

“I know.” John said, his voice cracking.

“I love you.”

There was a pause before John replied. “I love you too.”

John drew her closer and kissed her gently, a kiss that become more passionate with each passing moment. Helen drew back, her breaths coming heavily and quickly.

“John.” She exhaled, her eyes wide.

John pushed his worries at the back of his mind and focused on what was in front of him. He was here after all, not halfway across London. This was his life now. Without letting go of Helen’s hands, he led her to her room.

…

Helen’s warm hands were wrapped around him. Her head was resting on his bare chest. He watched the rhythm of her chest, seeing the slow inhale and exhale as her lungs expanded and contracted. He had an arm around her, his fingers absentmindedly playing at the stray locks of hair. Helen Rose was a wonderful woman, there was no doubt about that. She allowed him to feel alive and feel like everything would be okay. He continued to stare at her, taking in the features he knew so well: her soft lips, her long lashes, her flowing dark brown hair. There was a small smile on her lips, as if her mind was filled with happy dreams.

“Happy New Years, Helen.” John whispered softly into her ear.

His phone buzzed, without thinking he picked it up and saw the message there. John stared at phone his breath catching in his chest and his hands trembling involuntarily. Without even realizing it, he had typed a reply message. 

John couldn’t bring himself to hit send. He discarded his phone and turned away from the bedside table and wrapped another arm around Helen. He closed his eyes and willed to be whisked away to wherever dream land Helen was.

For once, despite Helen’s presence, sleep did not come for his thoughts were elsewhere. His mind was at the other side of London, with the man he once considered the only one who held his heart.

Sherlock Holmes.

December 24, 9:30 pm: 221B Baker Street, Westminster London 

- That One Miracle - 

Snow.

Simple.

Pure.

John Watson gazed out the second floor window of 221B. Baker Street, like the rest of London, was covered in a white pristine sheet of snow. Snow gently fell from the cloudy night sky. John placed a palm against the window pane, the coldness he felt there was a contrast to the warmth that the roaring fire had cast over the flat.

The whiteness that surrounded London was blinding, but snow always brought a pleasant memory to his mind. John could always recall the first time he had seen snow fall from the sky. With wonder that only a child could possess he had reached out to touch the snow flakes, to find them melting at his touch. To him, it was like heaven touching the earth. Despite the coolness of the air around him, a warmth had spread somewhere inside him. Nothing was more beautiful than the country side covered in snow, the fine powder that cascaded down the hills, the feel of the cold snow in his small gloved hand.

He looked back to the times when things were simple. When things as mundane as snow meant to the world with him. At that time, the world was a wonderful place to be explored. Simple joys were enough to tide through the days.

John opened his eyes again, getting torn away from his own childhood memories. The ghost of his own high pitched laughed echoed in his head, receding to the back of his mind and slowly fading away. John’s innocence was taken away from him as he was exposed to the harsh realities of the world. Laughter wasn’t something that came easy to John while he was submerged in the war in Afghanistan. Sherlock became the beacon of light that had saved him from that particular darkness but the loss of Sherlock threw him into an even more unforgiving darkness.

The whiteness of the snow reminded him of Sherlock too. In John’s mind the memory of Sherlock was something immaculate. Nothing anyone else ever said made John’s opinion of Sherlock any less. John knew the man he fell in love with, he believed in the man he fell in love with. For months he struggled with Sherlock’s death, trying to let go and move on wasn’t an easy thing to do by John’s standards. John had to do a lot of hard things in his life. More than once he had to kill, he had to choose to save his own life rather than another’s, he had to leave a man behind but moving on was by far the hardest. He had already lost a part of himself when Sherlock had jumped off St. Bart’s and now he was leaving yet another part of himself by moving on with his life.

John may have moved on but he will never forget.

Never.

Like the whiteness of snow that blinded with its purity, Sherlock was imprinted into John’s very soul. It was a natural thing to occur, for John was very much in love with Sherlock Holmes. But, being bound to a dead man was more hurtful. John had to face the reality that he could never have a future with Sherlock.

Never.

Aside from the crackling of burning wood, all was quiet in the flat now. Mrs. Hudson was away for Christmas, spending it with some relatives. He looked down to the road below and saw it was equally deserted, the snow remained undisturbed. Everything looked peaceful.

For months John struggled with the disquiet in his broken heart. As sudden as the departure of the love of his life, his beacon of hope and joy another came in his stead. No, Helen Rose was nothing like Sherlock Holmes. In fact, he would even describe them as complete opposites of each other. But the reason why John opened up his heart to this woman wasn’t because she had the qualities that Sherlock didn’t. In his brokenness she had accepted for all that he was, including the burden of Sherlock Holmes that John carried around him all the time. A part of John would always be for Sherlock and Sherlock alone and she understood and she continued to love him. She continued to wait.

John sighed and made his way to the familiar chair near the fireplace, the warmth there giving him more comfort. The emptiness no longer threatened to consume him, the darkness that he often found when he closed his eyes didn’t scare him as much anymore. Before he looked at the flat and only saw sadness and misery but now when he looked at it and saw something more. He saw a future. John was at peace. The flat was barely recognizable now. It was no longer Sherlock’s and John’s flat. It was only John’s now. Soon though, it would be his and Helen’s.

He fingered the blue box in his hands. He opened it to reveal an identical key to his own. He would be asking Helen to move in with him tonight. He fingered the key and smiled contently at it. At first John didn’t want to believe that something such as happiness could be found after all he’s been through but once again her realized Sherlock was right. He found the happiness he had been desperately looking for, the happiness that he deserved.

Sherlock’s things were placed into boxes, sealed and moved into the attic, labeled and put away with care. The once disarrayed flat now resembled something that is habitable and perhaps something that could even be a home for a family. Even the smiley face and bullet holes on the wall was covered by a portrait of the countryside. The only indication of Sherlock Holmes ever residing in the flat was the skull that adorned the mantelpiece. The skull was ornamented with its own Santa hat, mirroring the festiveness of the rest of the flat. Sometimes John found himself talking to the thing, he realized the skull was quite the good listener.

John never thought he would have another happy Christmas again, he had thought he would spend the holidays all alone in his misery but that wasn’t the case at all. Yes, John’s heart was still broken, but the pieces that remained were being nursed and put back together with a care he didn’t know was possible. John looked to the empty chair Helen always occupied, he had bought a new chair since he couldn’t dissociate Sherlock’s chair from Sherlock. Like everything of Sherlock’s, that ended up in the attic too.

He looked at the watch on the wall, it was a few hours until midnight. A few hours until Helen came back from her late shift at the surgery and spend Christmas with him. This was going to be the start of their future.

“Sherlock.” John said quietly, addressing the ghost of his best friend that haunted the back of John’s mind at times.

“This is the right thing to do, isn’t it? Me and Helen are going to be happy together. I know it. You said you wanted me to be happy, to live my life. She makes it easier, you know? Living my life. I don’t know.. maybe we could have kids too. She’s so good at that, making kids smile.” John smiled inwardly as a memory of Helen came to the forefront of his mind. “Maybe if we have a boy, I’ll be able to convince her to name him Sherlock.” John paused at that thought, a small laugh escaping his lips. “I don’t know if that would infuriate you or what, but I’ll make sure the kid is damn smart. We can’t have an idiot running around with your name now can we? You said it yourself, we have idiots in the world already.” John’s laughter echoed in the empty flat, it was a hearty laugh that came easier to John. He was learning to laugh again.

Suddenly his phone buzzed in his pocket. His heart leapt, thinking that Helen had gotten off early from work. His mind was already buzzing with preparations for dinner and their other plans for the night. But all of that came to a standstill when he saw what was written on his phone’s screen. What he saw made his breath catch in his chest and  his vision blur. His heart seemed to have stopped and his mind blanked, quite unsure how to process what was right in front of him. Memories of the past came flooding back to him at an unbelievable speed, from his and Sherlock’s first meeting to the time at the pool and eventually to Sherlock’s death. Endless months of suffering seemed like seconds in his mind. All of that coalesced into the name that was displayed on his phone.

Sherlock Holmes.

Happy Christmas, John. – SH

Open the door for me. – SH

Eight words that shattered John’s world and shook him to his very core and his very being. Tremors ran through his body as he heard his own heart breaking into pieces. A single tear rolled down his face as the one miracle he had been wishing for all these months had finally come true. Something so unbelievable and impossible had come true and it was nothing short of a Christmas miracle.

Sherlock was home.

Sherlock was home.

Sherlock was home.

Some important, healing lessons I’ve learned over the last 2 years:

• trust your intuition. it’s usually right.

• don’t chase emotionally unavailable people, they will never want you back.

• you can only numb your feelings for so long.

• feel your feelings, they’re meant to be felt.

• hobbies are important, and so are you. do what you love.

• when in relationship, you are allowed to be alone.

• you are allowed to ask for space.

• open and honest communication is so so important.

• do not put others needs before your own.

• if you don’t want to go out, don’t go out.

• you can say no without giving a reason why.

• connection is important. don’t take it for granted.

reading back on my old journal entries and I’m just grateful to still be alive and to have come so far. Grateful for all of the hard lessons.