Johnlock One-shots

335.Five Years

A handshake.

That was it.

That was what John gave the love of his life, when they would never see each other again.

Sherlock had leant in for a hug, but John had denied it.

Now, John was watching, as Sherlock walked away from him.

It isn't fair.

That curly hair. Those cheekbones. Those gorgeous eyes. The dramatic jacket. The purple shirt that made John feel all tingly.

He was never going to see that ever again.

Sherlock opened up the back door to a car his brother had sent for him. John wanted to cry.

“I--” John, the door shut. Drop it. But Sherlock was gone. He wasn't coming back. John needed to. “I LOVE YOU!” John screamed.

The car drove away.

John stood alone. He started walking away, when his phone buzzed.

I love you, too. SH

John let a tear roll down his cheek. He began walking back home.

He put his phone in his pocket. It was better left at that. His heart couldn't take anymore.

John trudged into the flat. He sat down and looked longingly at Sherlock's chair.

Memories came flooding back, and John broke out crying.

The thing about John was, when something major in his life was taken away or changed, he couldn't let go.

He couldn't forget the war until Sherlock.

He couldn't forget Sherlock's suicide.

He couldn't forget Sherlock leaving now.

No, all the conversations. John was hearing them again. He got up and ran out of the flat.

He started running.

A miracle, he was able to catch up with the car. He threw himself in front of it.

Immediately, breaks were pulled, and it came to a stop before pushing into John's stomach.

“John!” Sherlock got out. He rushed to his friend.

“They can't take you!” John yelled. Sherlock embraced him tightly. John pressed himself into Sherlock, sobbing.

“It's okay, John,” Sherlock whispered. “It's okay.”

“It's not okay.” John shook his head.

Sherlock embraced him close. “It'll be okay. I'll come back. I promise.”

John looked up at him. They kissed each other, then John stepped away. Sherlock was put back into the car. John went back home.

Sure, the first few months were rougher than ever. But five years later, and John just about got over the heartbreak.

John sat on the floor of 221B, his legs crossed, his fingers steepled. He caught into that habit after Sherlock left. He caught into the habit of yelling randomly, too, and stepping on furniture, and not sleeping or eating for days.

He didn't really care. Life was dull without Sherlock.

Maybe Sherlock wasn't the most colourful, but God, in John's world of blackness, Sherlock was a rainbow.

The doorbell rang. John growled. “Busy, Mrs Hudson!” He yelled.

The door opened. “John.”

John turned around. There was Sherlock. Five years older, but just the same. John stood up, backing away.

“Oh, oh my God…”

Sherlock smiled. A heartbreaking smile, but John loved it all the same.

He ran into him, kissing his lips immediately. “Sherlock!” He sobbed.

“I told you I'd come back,” Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, embracing him. “I love you!”

“I love you, too!” John cried, kissing Sherlock. Sherlock closed the door with his foot, and John pushed him against it. He was kissing him with so much passion, Sherlock needed extra support to keep himself standing.