Not Again (Johnlock AU)

Him

Sherlock entered the abandoned building and walked down the halls. He remembered overhearing John and Irene having a deep conversation about the detective.

"You. . .flirted with Sherlock Holmes?"
"At him. He never replies."
"No, Sherlock always replies – to everything. He’s Mr Punchline. He will outlive God trying to have the last word."
"Does that make me special?"
". . .I don't know. Maybe."
"You jealous?"
"We're not a couple."
"Yes you are, there. . ." Irene said holding up her phone to John which showed her text to Sherlock (Not dead. Let's have dinner.)
"Who. . . who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes, but-  for the record - if anyone out there still cares, I'm not actually gay."
"Well I am. Look at us both"

       Sherlock only heard John scoff before the detectives phone rang. He knew they heard him. Sherlock had quickly pulled his phone out, turned it off, and rapidly walked away. He had heard John's footsteps following him, but they stopped.
Maybe John thought Sherlock didn't feel the same. He was wrong of course. Sherlock sighed and walked into the center of the room. Again, he thought about John. God, why was he always thinking about him. out of his thoughts, Sherlock could have sworn  he heard a door creak open then shut quietly. Then footsteps. Small quick ones. Like John's. But it couldn't be him. It was probably just Sherlock's imagination.

      
       John stepped into the building filled with the memory of Irene Adler figuring out John's feelings for the clever detective. John walked towards the heart of the building and stopped to take a slow, deep breath. He could hear someones quiet footsteps and slow breaths. 'Probably just someone here for a smoke. . .' John thought to himself.

      He began to walk deeper into the building. As he did, his leg began to pick at him again. He suddenly regretted not bringing his cane along with him. His stomach began to churn. He had no idea why. The other footsteps eventually stopped. John was getting closer to the center of the building where it all happened. As he did he took one slow turn around the corner, examining the rooftop and all the dry paint cracking off the walls before turning back around to seeing something he wasn't supposed to see.

      Something he couldn't be able to see anymore. Someone who had been gone for two years. Someone who was. . . dead.

        The long coat. The curly locks.
John gasped slightly, causing the man before him also turn in one swift move. The man also gasped.