Johnlock One-shots

289.Attention

Idea + first paragraph from a headcanon on the internet --

“I couldn't bear the idea of you being dead. For two years, I thought everyday would be my last. So many times I stared at my gun, the knife, the rope, the roof… but then I realised how stupid it would be for me to take my own life. So stupid because I knew you were alive. Out there. Somewhere. But you still never came. So I decided to look for a way to lure you back here. What better way than this?” John Watson asked with a cheeky smile, gripping the knife in his hand and looking over the pile of dead bodies to the man he was obsessed with. “Welcome back, Sherlock.”

The welcome had hardly been what Sherlock expected. Mycroft said John was messed up. He warned Sherlock that his death put John in a spiral of unbeatable depression. Sherlock expected John to cry and hug him and be a soft, lovable little cutie.

“John…” Sherlock's voice was turning back on him, making a lot more emotion line the unsure mumble of his flatmate’s name. He wasn't even sure if they could be friends anymore. Would he forgive John?

Of course, of course he would…

“I know what you're thinking.” John grinned. “I used your technique of putting things up on the wall. I started connecting things, printing, cutting, pinning, I used a red string. I typed your last note to me down and I studied it until it was stuck in my mind. I spent two years creating a theory that you were still alive.” He stepped closer. “My plan worked-- my glorious plan! Sherlock's back!” He held his arms out beside himself in pure excitement. “My Sherlock!”

“John, I-I…” This was the first time he had ever doubted John so much it made his head hurt. He walked closer to John, even though his instinct said to run away. “John… please say this is a dream, please.”

“It's not a dream, Sherlock.” John walked closer until they were standing so close their toes touched. He dropped the knife and kicked it away, then wrapped his arms around Sherlock.

Still, despite John being so unstable and dangerous, Sherlock trusted him. He wrapped his arms around John, setting his chin on the man's head. He started crying, so he pressed his cheek against John's soft hair, crying into him.

“Oh, Sherlock,” John whispered, patting his back.

That was still John. Sweet, adorable, not-murderer John was still in there. Sherlock could hear it.

Sherlock rubbed John's back, “I don't know how I'm supposed to respond. I feel cheated. I feel betrayed. I really, really liked you… I thought I found the man I wanted to spend my life with.” Sherlock leant down, crumbling into John's arms and starting to cry.

John held Sherlock close, not feeling as bad as he should've felt. “I will go to jail if you tell anyone about me, Sherlock. And if you tell a single soul, I will kill you.”

Trembling, Sherlock gripped onto John's shirt and cried. “Why?” He asked loudly. “Why!”

John pulled away from the hug. “Give me your jacket. I'm covered in blood.”

Sherlock took off his jacket and gave it to John shakily. John picked the knife back up and put it in Sherlock's pocket. The blade went through a paper and John took it out. He looked at the paper, smiling a little.

“What's this?” He asked softly, reading the lines. He put the knife back into the pocket. Sherlock snatched the paper away from John, crumbling it up and stuffing it into his trouser pockets.

“Nothing.” He mumbled.

“You're so cute.” John leant up, kissing Sherlock's lips softly. “That's a poem.”

“S-so?” Sherlock's cheeks burned with red.

“Well, it's a poem about me.” John tried to reach for Sherlock's pocket, but he moved away. “I want to read the rest of it.”

“N-no…” Sherlock felt embarrassed. Sometimes, when he was really stressed out, he would write a poem about something big in his life that made him happy.

When he was young, he used to write about pirates and Redbeard. When he was a teenager, he used to write about what he deducted from people, or about his violin. Now he wrote about John. He never wanted John to find out about it.

“Let me see.” John giggled playfully, taking Sherlock's hand and holding it away from the pocket. He took out the poem and began reading.

When he finished, he smiled. “It's beautiful.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock blushed softly.

John folded the paper up neatly and put it back in Sherlock's pocket. “I love you.” John said, wrapping his arms around Sherlock and hugging him softly.

“I-I…” Sherlock was torn. John killed people. He was crazy. “love you, too.” But still, the words slipped out of his mouth. He loved John a lot. This wasn't right though.

Being a detective in a relationship with a psychopath killer was out of the question. “and… I want to be in a relationship.”  Dammit. No-- the opposite thing-- “I love you, John.” Sherlock hugged John closely. He was yelling at himself to ‘break up’ with John, but he just couldn't look at that precious face and say they couldn't be with each other. “I fucking love you.”

John closed his eyes, pulling Sherlock close. “I'm glad. I love you, too.” He said, taking Sherlock's hand. “Let's report these bodies and go home.”

The two then called the police and reported the dead bodies, telling them lies about what they knew. Their good reputation got them out of trouble, and John left no evidence of it being him. Then, they went home, and Sherlock had a long talk to John about how he should never kill again.