Since John (Johnlock)

Crossroads

John had raced to the flat as if his life depended on it. He flew around corners and narrowly missed bowling over Angelo as he swept the landing in front his restaurant. John threw a hasty "Sorry Angelo!" over his shoulder and kept running. Angelo, for his part, simply smiled and shook his head.

As he ran, John's mind ran with him. How could he have been so blind? Why couldn't he have seen the truth staring him right in the face? He felt like a total idiot. All the times he had been on numerous dates, babbling on uncomfortably to woman he tried desperately tried to impress....none of it had mattered. Looking back he realized that most of the conversations during those dates, in one way or another, had turned to Sherlock. Whether it was someone who wanted to know more about the famous "hat detective" or John talking about a case they had been on, it was ALWAYS Sherlock. And he had always spoken about him with a sense of pride. Why shouldn't he? He was damn proud to be able to call Sherlock HIS flatmate, HIS colleague, HIS friend. Once spoken in his mind, that tiny word seemed to sparkle like a diamond and light the darkest spaces in his soul.

HIS.

Yes, Sherlock was HIS! There was no denying it any longer. It didn't matter if they were racing around London like lunatics, examining bodies at St. Bart's, or just watching telly at home....there was no one he'd rather be with. No one he'd rather argue with. Because even though Sherlock didn't realize it, he'd given John what he wanted most: a home and someone to come home to.

And he couldn't get there fast enough.

He stopped in front of 221B and fumbled with his keys. Dropping the take out bags at his feet, he willed his hands to stop trembling long enough to open the door. He pushed open the door, hastily grabbed the bags once again and kicked the door closed behind him. Once inside he stopped momentarily to catch his breath. As he made his way upstairs he realized he didn't have a clue what exactly he was going to say to Sherlock but he also realized he didn't care. All he knew is that he was going to sit him down, look him in the eye, and let his heart do the rest.

He couldn't wait.

He threw the bags on the kitchen table and looked around. Sherlock was no where to be seen. He peeked in the sitting room then opened the door to Sherlock's bedroom. He wasn't there either. Puzzled, he walked towards the loo.

"Sherlock? Where are you? I brought home some take out anyway and I got your favorite. Come and eat."

Standing near the door he leaned closer and tried listen for any noise inside. Not hearing anything he tried the knob. It was locked.

"Are you in there? Are you ok? Come on out. Your food is getting cold. Besides, I need to talk to you." He rattled the knob louder this time. No response.

"Sherlock what's going on? Why is the door locked?"

He heard Sherlock's voice through the door. "GO AWAY!" But it wasn't the solid authoritative voice that he was used to. It was shaky and unsteady as if he was frightened. He knew for a fact that Sherlock was rarely afraid of anything. Something was seriously wrong. Panic set in and all John knew was that he had to get inside.

"Sherlock, if you don't open this damn door right now I'm going to break the bloody thing down! NOW OPEN IT!"

"I said go away John!"

He had enough. Sherlock was in trouble and nothing was going to stop him from helping the man he now realized was his missing half, least of all an old door. Without a second thought he reared back and slammed himself into the door, his shoulder screaming in protest. It rattled but held firm. Again he tried and managed to splinter some of the wood around the frame. Giving it all he had, he put every ounce of strength and fear he possessed into the final blow that caused the door to swing wildly and allow him to see inside. He wasn't sure what to expect....but the sight before him definitely wasn't it.