Let Me Through: A Short Sherlock Fic

"He's my friend, let me through!" This is the anguished cry that had been heard that fateful day three years before as a smallish man with salt and pepper hair tried to push his way over to the bloodied, crumpled figure lying broken on the street.

When he finally reached Sherlock, as John remembered far too vividly, all he could do was collapse over the body before him and cry until he was taken away. He knew the moment he saw Sherlock fall that he would be of no use, but all he cared about was reaching his friend before the body was removed. All he wanted was to say goodbye before anyone else could.

The funeral and the burial were hard - the days leading up to and following them were harder. The silence of the building without Sherlock's constant rambling was deafening. Just John and Mrs. Hudson, alone and quiet.

John didn't move a thing. Every paper, every bit of wrinkled clothing thrown on the floor, every shoe and every last eccentric decoration stayed exactly where Sherlock had left them. The only differences in the apartment were the return of John's cane when his limp came back with a vengeance, one cup of tea in the morning instead of two, and the roaring, deafening silence.

It was a good thing John left the flat alone because three years later, a miracle occurred. John was returning from his appointment with the psychiatrist - he'd started back up with her after he'd lost Sherlock, though his friend certainly would have disapproved - and was having an extraordinarily average afternoon. As he entered the flat, he kicked off his shoes, removed his jacket, and started toward the couch as he always did so he could cast his cane aside.

However, after two steps, he stopped dead, the shout his pounding heart yearned to expel getting trapped in his throat. A man sat cross-legged on the sofa reading a newspaper, and in seconds John had dropped his cane and pulled out his shotgun, holding it with a perfectly steady hand. "Who are you," he began calmly, "And what are you doing in my flat?"

The man on the couch folded his newspaper and set it on the coffee table with a serenity to rival John's. "Well, I hadn't thought you'd be so hostile when we met again," Sherlock remarked, rising to greet his old friend.

Hurriedly and with wide eyes, John shoved his gun back into its place. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I live here, remember?" Sherlock replied simply.

"You don't /live/ anywhere, you're dead!" John exclaimed, as if Sherlock needed reminding. "Do you mean to tell me you've been alive this whole time? All the last three years you've been /alive/?"

"Obviously." The only answer that could really be expected of Sherlock at a time like this.

John wanted to hug the man and hit him all at the same time. Conflicted as he was, he could do nothing but stare in silence.

Once John got past his shock, though, he called joyfully for Mrs. Hudson to make three cups of tea. The afternoon was spent explaining how Sherlock had survived and how he'd been in hiding for three years, continuing his work under the radar and waiting until it was safe to return to Baker Street.

They got onto the topic of a case Sherlock was working on, the two of them made plans for investigation for the next day, and that was it. It was as though they'd never been separated. For the first time in three years, John and Sherlock both were happy. They were both finally whole again.

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It was only two weeks. Two blissful weeks until tragedy struck the pair once more. They were only separated briefly - they were never apart for long. But it only takes a second for a drunk driver going much too fast to hit a man in the middle of the road.

Sherlock, of course, was the first to know. He was the sole ICE number in John's phone, and even if he hadn't been, Lestrade would've known that he was the person to call.

Although in general Sherlock wasn't one to leave his work under any circumstances, John was an exception. As soon as he got off the phone with Lestrade, he dropped his pen and paper, pulled on his coat, and ran out the door. Although he generally avoided taxis since the case with the dreadful cabbie, the first one he saw he claimed without caring who else wanted it. Once inside he practically screamed the directions at the driver, and when they arrived at the hospital he shoved the money into the man's hand impatiently.

Without a second's thought Sherlock was sprinting up the stairs - elevators were much too slow - and toward John's room. However, just as he approached the door to the ICU, a doctor grabbed him by the arm to stop him.

"Slow down, where do you think you're going?" The man in the annoying white coat asked coarsely. "This wing is locked off, it's long past visiting hours."

"Please," Sherlock pleaded. Although it was true he never begged, this was again the exception. "My friend is in there, I need to see him."

Because he didn't realise that by 'my friend' Sherlock truly meant his /only/ friend, the doctor wasn't quite as merciful as hoped and refused to bend on the rules. "I'm sorry. Come again tomorrow."

"He may not /have/ a bloody tomorrow!" Sherlock shouted as he rarely ever did, pushing past the doctor and trying desperately to open the doors to the ICU. "Please, you have to let me see him!"

"Security!" The doctor called, then repeated it into his walkie talkie. "Security to the ICU entrance please."

It didn't matter to Sherlock that men were coming for him - he had to get to his friend. And as the guards grabbed onto his arms and began to drag him away, Sherlock screamed the only words that he could seem to find: "He's my friend, let me through!"