Unbelieving (A Johnlock Fanfiction)

Paint

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Chapter 15:

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John

He had told John that it was just a magic trick. All of it. And yet here he was, sleeping beside him;

real.

He could touch him and, not for a second, doubt his being. He ran a hand through his hair. It probably looked wrong, but no one was looking. Nothing had ever felt so right in the entirety of their lives.

Also something had happened last night.

God this was so right.

"Good morning... ahem—John." He whispered as he sat up in bed. John had been sitting on the edge since he woke up, since the first ray of light glimmered through the window, filling the room with brimming sunlight.

"Morning, Sherlock..." It felt unreal, his name. His name just swirled and rolled off of John's tongue like satin ribbons in dancers' hands. Etheral.

He watched Sherlock as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, and finally looked right at him.

"John I—"

"It's okay."

"Wha— I— Really?" His voice was gravelly.

"I don't know."

"What?" He took a sharp breath in, "I'm sorry. For all that I've done, and I didn't—"

"You've just woken up, Sherlock, we'll talk later." John said, looking him in the eyes. His eyes were empty. God they never stopped.

John got out of bed abruptly.

"Mrs. Hudson's at her sister's," stated John, "I don't know when she's—"

"That's okay." Said Sherlock, clearing his throat, looking at John, wistfully.

"Hmm" John hummed blankly, staring out of the window. The streets were oddly silent and the sky looked something like an artist's canvas, with streaks of whites and blues patched with reds and oranges and yellow blotches glistening, creating an incandescent halo around a patch of plush clouds. John wanted to run his fingers over this painting. He wanted to feel the indents and imperfections in the paint and he wanted to graze the brush strokes; he wanted to know if all this was real.

He needed clearance.

He needed to touch the canvas.

~~

Sherlock

It was almost funny how John had just accepted him to be back. How could this have even happened? John was one of the most passionate men Sherlock had met and Sherlock, in all honesty, was at least expecting a full blown fight. But John was just so frail. He looked half dead and Sherlock couldn't get himself to bring up the subject of his two-year-long disappearance when he wasn't even sure if his best friend had actually registered that Sherlock was, in fact, back.

So he made a cup of tea.

~~

John

Sherlock almost looked like he'd given up. He got out of bed wearily and trudged downstairs to make tea, John guessed (accurately).

As John gazed out of the window, driven by his thoughts, his phone sounded. He paid no attention, till it sounded a second time, and John had to go over to the bed and open it. He saw nothing, but he was so sure that he heard the phone chime—