Suicide doesn't kill just one person {A Johnlock fanfic}

Part 8

(A/N yikes folks talk about inconsistent updates, huh? if i said before i had no idea what the Fuck my plan was, i didnt even know how hard this was gonna be for 2018 me lmao, let's hope that i figure out how to end this soon or it's gonna be another year (ideally not) before we get an ending)

He knew that voice. He whipped around, the mug he'd been holding smashing onto the ground, pieces scattering across the kitchen. Where normally he'd busy himself with finding a broom and cleaning it up, right now all he could do was stare. It couldn't actually be him. It absolutely couldn't, John might not have been as smart as Sherlock, but he knew logic, and he knew damn well there was no fucking reason that even in the most insane situation where Sherlock had somehow survived, it would have taken him this long to return. Absolutely none. But then, Sherlock had never been one to do as other's expected, had he? 

"John, I...I'm sorry, I likely should have done this differently," the figure spoke, stepping away from the window and towards the kitchen's light, the fluorescent lights causing the shadow's to dissipate and allowing John to truly see the man in front of him. Through the anger, confusion, and absolute static in his mind, he managed a few comprehensive thoughts. 

The first was that Sherlock was skinny. He'd always been thin, a bit too skinny for his height, but never before had he looked so gaunt, his cheekbones not just prevalent, but sunken in, and he looked tired in the worst possible way, his eyes sunken in, bloodshot and rimmed with purple. 

The second was that John was absolutely fucking livid. 'Should have done this differently,' as if he should have done any of this at all. If this was real, and he was truly there, John wasn't sure if he was going to lose it physically, or break down mentally. 

The answer was soon to be found to be both. The second Sherlock stepped within reach of John, he lunged forward, punching him in the jaw and catching him off guard, landing a few punches against his chest before he seemed to lose stamina, or maybe will, his arms falling slightly, Sherlock's long finger's catching them at his wrist, holding them to his chest, as John lost it, breaking down against his chest. He had no words for what he was feeling. It felt as though he'd somehow lost everything all over again, when he knew that he should have felt like he'd just gotten it all back, but he couldn't help it. Sherlock had lied to him, made him mourn, made him see him kill himself, and bury him afterwards. He'd left him alone, and frankly, more than anything, John just felt betrayed.

Somehow, despite both their wants, it had never felt as though he and Sherlock would ever have been allowed to be happy. The illusions of domesticity were just that, illusions, and he'd always known that, at least slightly. Seen it in the way Sherlock would pull away if he touched him too long, or too affectionately, in how he'd change his routine slightly as John got used to it, as if pulling away that slight amount of knowledge and trust that would allow them to fall into a routine together, get familiar with each other like that. It almost felt as if from the start, Sherlock had been planning for this outcome and John just hadn't seen it. 

He rarely saw anything that Sherlock did though. 

So lost to his thoughts and tears, John didn't even register Sherlock moving them to kneel on the ground, or him letting go of his hands to wrap his arms around the blond, pulling him tight against him. "I'm sorry," he whispered like a mantra, and slowly John came back, pulling back a bit to wipe roughly at his cheeks and shake his head. 

"If you were sorry you would have come back earlier. You never would have done this." 

He could see Sherlock reel back slightly, as if he was almost burned, as though he really thought sorry would be enough. Like any reason could truly be enough. 

"John, I," he started, but John was quick to cut him off. 

"You what? You had to save me? Did it for my own good? Lost it all to Moriarty? Had to prove yourself? Just wanted to make an impact? You fucking what. What you fucking did was jump, and hurt, and damage, and you got to walk away from it and leave me, and Mr. Hudson, and Mycroft, and Lestrade to all deal with it, to bury you and try and deal with our connections to your name. You left me." His voice broke on the last part and he swallowed roughly. "You left me and sorry isn't going to fix that, Sherlock. I don't know how you think it could." 

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Sherlock had never felt more human than in that moment. A childhood of bullying and hurt, and adolescence of drug use, and never before had he felt more damaged than hearing John spoke. He had known, all his life, that he was a parasite, benefiting on the expense of those around him, whether that was making his fame saving people, though that required them to have to deal with a traumatic situation, or hurting people like he had John, taking and taking and then leaving him alone and hurt. 

He truly, for one of the first times in a long time had no idea what to do. His jaw ached, and the love of his life was sat in front of him, crying and broken, and Sherlock was at a loss. 

"I...I can't explain or excuse what I did, I know I'll never be able to do that, but I promise you, that every second I just wanted to be back here, with you. I don't care about the cases, or the money, or any of it, I just..." He trailed off again, his own vision blurring for a moment. "I wanted to come home."