Johnlock Fanfic

One of them doesn't know if the other likes them, and the other is sure that the other is just shy and afraid to admit their feelings. But in the end, everyone's happy.

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3. Chapter 3

"JOHN!" Sherlock yelled at the top of his lungs. He couldn't breath as he saw John standing there, his toes just over the edge. Either John couldn't hear him or he chose to ignore Sherlock, as he made no move. "JOHN!" Sherlock tried again, voice beginning to crack.

He didn't want to see this happen. He didn't want John to take his place. He didn't want him to fall and...and...no! He wouldn't think like that. He'd get up there and stop him. Sherlock made to move towards the entrance, but his foot refused to move. It was as if it was stuck to the ground. He grabbed his ankle and pulled up, but his efforts proved futile. Pounding his fists on his thighs in anger and frustration, Sherlock looked back up at John. He seemed mesmerized by the view, like he was hypnotized or something. John looked left and right, but never down, never at Sherlock. And then he heard a voice. It was John. He couldn't see John's lips moving from above, he wasn't using his phone...it was all in his mind.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm sorry," was all he heard.

He heard crying, but he didn't know whether it was himself or John. Either way he felt as though he had been stabbed multiple times in his heart. And then...and then John fell forward.

"NO! NO JOHN NO!" Sherlock continued to scream his name as he watched John fall to his death. He couldn't do anything, and that was the worst part.

"Sherlock. Sherlock! SHERLOCK!" And then Sherlock woke up, John's arms around him.

Sherlock felt something dripping from his face as he sat there, in his bed, with John right there beside him. Only when he lifted his hands to wipe it away did he realize that it wasn't sweat, but tears. So many tears. The nightmare had been a first for Sherlock, and he only hoped it was the last time he saw it.

"Sherlock, it's alright. What happened?" John's soft, reassuring voice cooed.

One of his hands were on Sherlock's back, rubbing lightly up and down so as to calm Sherlock, while the other rested on Sherlock's right forearm. This is the closest either had dared to get to with each other, yet neither was hesitant or really aware of it. Sherlock was terrified, sad, and crying for goodness sake. All John cared about was making sure he would be okay. He wanted to be there with him to do so. And Sherlock, he embraced it. He didn't have the effort to do much, but the feel of John there, alive, was more comforting than anything. Before he knew it, he was pouring out the story to John, a few croaks leaving his mouth as he choked on his light sobs.

"...and...and you jumped. I couldn't do anything but watch..."

It was so unlike Sherlock to be so emotional, but the thought of John dying triggered this feeling in him; this heart breaking, back stabbing pain that he didn't want to feel. For the remainder of the night, John stayed with Sherlock. Sherlock was confused, yet excited and pleased. He didn't know whether John was staying to be a good friend or because he liked him, but quite frankly Sherlock didn't care. Because when you're curled up nice and snug, with John holding your hand and whispering reassuring things into your ear, how couldn't you feel at peace?

The next morning everything went back to normal. Well, not completely. Sure cases weren't available, Sherlock sat in his chair again, and John in his, but the atmosphere had changed. It was less tense, the two felt. When John got up to make something to eat, Sherlock helped and even 'accidentally' dropped a mug. His initial idea was for both him and John to reach down to get it, their hands having an opportunity to touch. It didn't occur to him, however, that the GLASS mug would probably break. It still turned out in his favour when he cut his foot with the scattered shards, as John had to clean it and bandage it.

"You are the doctor, after all," Sherlock spoke up as John mumbled at Sherlock's carelessness with broken glass.

Something about that sentence sent John silent. He gulped in surprise. Did Sherlock mean to say it so that it might affect John, or was it simply a statement? He leaned more towards the latter, and made sure not only tend to Sherlock's wound, but move his hand up to his leg. He felt Sherlock tense at the contact, but didn't stop until he heard Sherlock whisper, "John?"

"All set," was all John said.

He left a dumbfounded and clearly blushing Sherlock sitting on the kitchen counter as he went back to cooking, smiling like a child on Christmas. John began to see that Sherlock was loosening up to things, but still unsure of the moves to make. The experience was new to him, and John let Sherlock breath. If he had to wait, he'd wait. Sherlock was always worth the wait.

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