One shots (johnlock fluff mostly)

The overpass

A/N: so comment ideas for new stories as I've been suffering writers block and so any suggestions would be highly appreciated!
Also this probably Isn't very good as I've been suffering with writers block for so long I've literally just like ...ERROR 404
Sorry to get sentimental tonight
(That perfume lingers in your hair)
It's just that everything reminds me of things
I thought I shouldn't have to see again

John sat in the flat the silence empowering over all over thoughts, just lazy ones that manages to creep through, undetected by his conscience.

He stood from his chair after several moments, the material lingering on his skin as he dropped the soft purple silk to the rougher cotton of his chair, the callouses on his fingertips catching faintly on the fine woven silk.

The shirt slid to the ground, sliding smoothly like water on metal until it puddled on the floor, almost weightless in its appearance.

The reason for his standing was simple, because said shirt belonged to the apparently very alive man in front of him who had just opened the door to the flat they once shared, destined to share again.

I have a shirt that keeps your smell
You keep one too in parallel
See the thing is I'm sorry to say
Someone still loves you
Someone still loves you

"H...how?"

"John I-"

"No..no no sherlock you can't just do this! I can't...I can't believe you! I...I watched you fall!"

"Technically you didn't see me fall at all, you saw me jump, you saw me land but you missed the passing moments in betwe-" the sentence however was cut off by something grabbing his firearm, almost tentatively, the touch itself strong but gentle; disbelieving.

And by that point his attention was no longer on an explanation but the fingers that flexed around his coat covered arm.

"Sher- you...you ..." words were lost on the doctor though. Because really what does a person say when their best friend, maybe even more than that just pops back from the dead, 'after two bloody years!' John Watson fifth Northumberland fusiliers might add to that. But really. What does someone say other than to just reach out. Frozen in time unsure if they've finally descended into madness aided by grieving or an actual work of art, a miracle somehow performed in perfect timing to have the expected outcome.

And it feels like it takes years, months, days when in fact it takes seconds. Memories of time apart, the holes that were left inside them finally being filled by each other's presence alone.

A Shaky hand reaches up to brush a sharp defined cheekbone, savouring the feeling the memory, soft skin against coarser strong fingers, defined by age and time and yet no weaker for it.

Uncertain eyes seeking out for reassurance before leaning up on tiptoes and pressing a gentle kiss to chapped Cupid bow lips, almost like a silent plea, and the hesitant return of the kiss more of a promise than what words usually show.

Tiny bottles of shit wine in a tin can that climbs
But I remember every time
Everything about you is perfect
(Down to your blood type)
But I remember every time

And pulling apart for air only to be pulled, almost bent in half as they're pulled into a bone crushing hug but yet still somehow comforting despite the wrong angles and slightly awkward positioning and the height difference than somehow made them even more fitting than if they had been or a similar stature.

"Why didn't you tell me?" John asked softly, his face pressed to a broad yet delicate chest, lips touching the same silk as what lay on the floor behind him, pooled out, but this time the colour is a bloody crimson, the material almost reflective of the blood that pounds through weakened hearts and aching veins.

Meet me, meet me
At the overpass, at the overpass
Sketchy girls and lipstick boys
Troubled love and high speed noise

"I didn't want to put you in danger and I didn't want to give you false hope. I never k-" cut off once again by lips against his own, because in reality John didn't care why he didn't even care how. Not anymore, it wasn't important and maybe forgiveness was fished out but there was still going to be comments and digs and shouted out 'why's' across the living room and 'you could have told me! You can trust me's and yet somehow it will work out. Even though it seems impossible. Because that's how it's always been.

I know you wanna meet me, meet me
At the overpass, at the overpass
Sketchy girls and lipstick boys
Troubled love and high speed noise
I know you wanna
Let me hear you say somethin'