Work Text:
Sherlock swallowed down the nerves, as the government-owned sedan headed towards John's flat. If ever he needed to control his emotions, now was the time. After all he had been through over the past 3 years, this was what he had worked for and, during those three years of running, hiding and fighting, he had never felt a feeling of pure panic like he did right now.
Mycroft had told Sherlock more with every move; twitch; expression and blink than he had with his few words. The detective knew John had suffered after St. Bart's but this was John: John the soldier; John the doctor.
John had seen death. Death on the battlefield; death at work. He wasn't the type to fall apart at death... was he?
Sherlock and John had become friends. Did being his friend make a difference to how John handled Sherlock's death?
Sherlock tried to unravel his chaotic thoughts as the vehicle carried on through the London traffic. Thousands of people, going about their everyday lives without a single thought to the turmoil going on inside one lone black car.
Three years for this; for John. He was on his way back; back home to John, except now he had no idea what he would find when he got there.
"There are 'concerns' about John", Mycroft had said. Concerns? Sherlock had heard every change in his brother's voice during that one, short statement, and it had said far, far more than the words alone could ever say.
John needed him.
John needed Sherlock.
Right now, in this car, it didn’t matter whether caring was an advantage; sentiment was losing; or alone protected him.
John had once said to Sherlock that “friends protect people” and, for the last 3 years, Sherlock had been doing just that; protecting his friends. He couldn’t accept that, after all he had been through, he might fail at the final hurdle. That was unacceptable.
Sherlock did care. He cared about John and John needed him.
As the car slowed outside an old, grey tower block, Sherlock cast his eyes upwards towards 15 storeys of dull. Was this what John thought his life was now?
The block was cold; dark; lifeless. Is this how John felt?
Sherlock suppressed the tremor that involuntarily ran through him, almost knocking down the driver as the car door was opened for him.
"Flat 6", he said, flatly, emotionless - how could he be emotionless at a time like this? - "3rd floor", he continued, climbing back into the car.
Sherlock almost ran into the front door as he barged into it, expecting it to just open automatically. In his mounting panic, he couldn't work out which buzzer was flat 6 so, impatiently, he began pressing them all, randomly.
"JOHN!!" he shouted, directing his call towards the entire building. Surely John would hear him anyway - the 3rd floor wasn't that high up and he couldn't see too many windows on that floor.
"Hello?" a voice answered, through the intercom. Sherlock ran back to the panel, having no idea who had responded; which flat.
"John?" he questioned, "John Watson?"
"Flat 6: 3rd floor. I'll buzz you in", the voice replied, coldly. Without a thought for courtesy, Sherlock pushed through the door as it clicked open.
"JOHN!!" he yelled, climbing the sterile staircase. First floor… second floor..."John?"
Third floor. He scoured the doors for number 6 and started knocking, frantically.
No response. No response. Mycroft had implied that John was home, so why wasn't he answering?
Desperate knocking became hammering and shouting, and suddenly there was chaos in the corridor. The owners of flats 4 and 5 appeared in their doorways, apparently unhappy at the noise Sherlock was making, and soon there were many voices shouting.
Sherlock decided enough was enough, as he rushed at the ageing door, shoulder first, snapping its lock and swinging it open, violently.
"John!" he almost whimpered, taking in the sight before him.
John; his John: a broken, desperate man; with a pistol to his head and a serene smile on his face.