Hello!

Here's the translation of my oneshot 'Rédemption'. I hope you'll like this story ! I was inspired by the beautiful song 'This Night' by Black Lab (and I shamelessly stole some of the lyrics...).

Enough said, let's jump to the reading part. Enjoy!

Flo'w

"SHERLOCK!"

The scream was smothered by the dampness in the air, but it felt like it was engraved in my eardrums with red-hot iron. The desperate rage in John's voice set the hollow in my chest ablaze.

I cringed, unable to hold in the bitter tears overflowing my eyes. I spread my arms, ever-so-dramatic, but my spectators' astonished glare didn't have its usual flavour. And I fell.

Somehow, it became worse. Worse than the shocked look on John's face when my feet had left the rooftop, worse than his hoarse yell still echoing in my ears.

"Let me, I'm a doctor… No, he's my friend… he's my friend…!"

The broken disbelief, the trembling voice, his febrile hands above my body lying on the blood-soaked asphalt, trying to touch me, to deny the obvious – and I stayed there impassive, hating myself, dead to him and dying inside.

In the plane taking me away to a most certain death, alone in the low light, I struggled to stifle a sob. My sore throat throbbed. I glanced through the small window, watching the ink-dark sky studded with ice beads, and had the sudden urge to wrap it around me like a sheet, hoping the cold could soften the fire burning my heart to ashes.

I had let the beast run for too long. Despite Moriarty's death, I had only cut one of the many heads of the dragon.

I was going to chase and slay it for good. It would not earn me forgiveness, I knew it, but I would maybe obtain the peace of vengeance – for John, not for myself.

Curled in a tight, shivering ball under my little tent somewhere in a Serbian forest, I imagined like every night John's arms closing around me, his solid body anchoring me, preventing me from drowning.

I know I'm not forgiven, but I need a place to sleep…

As mad as the impatience had driven me, I was stopped by the file Mycroft handed me, without a word, his lips pursed in their eternal worried and disdainful pout.

Horrified, I found inside what I feared, what had given me more nightmares than torture and imminent death combined.

John, my John…

After long, hesitating minutes, I slid the envelope in the slot. And I walked away, trying to not give in the almost uncontrollable urge to slam the door open, climb the stairs four by four, run to him and fall on my knees, hold his thinned body tight against mine, cover his grief-creased face with kisses and tears. I could hardly bear the pain of guilt.

Nothing could have soothed me but one of his soft glances, one of these trembling caresses he had offered to me when I was lying on the bloody pavement.

John.

John, my incredible, irreplaceable John… Writing your name is already making me shudder, I don't know if I will be able to write this letter till the end.

I know that, when you will read these words, you will have a hard time believing it is me who wrote them. But I did write them, I promise.

I don't send you this to beg for forgiveness. I am not that mad and ignorant of the human nature. I am conscious I am unforgiveable. In fact, I forbid you to forgive me – presumptuous of me, I know. As always, right?

Why write to you, then? Because my brother – whose endless indiscretion is well known – told me you didn't move on like I had hoped after my 'death'. Understand me: I never wanted you to forget me, nor deluded myself about you being all right, right away after my funeral. But I didn't wish you so much pain – any pain, John. I never wanted you to be hurt.

So, this letter… I just want to explain to you why I had to do what I did.

My heart missed a beat when I heard footsteps behind me. The man walked until he was standing in my back, and then sat next to me on the cold pebbles bordering the Thames.

I didn't need to turn around, keeping my eyes on the dark water whispering in the night. The steady steps, the warm smell of wool and tea, the quiet breath – John. His presence surrounded me, intoxicating, without him even touching me.

"Sherlock" he murmured.

I closed my eyes, savouring his voice, so soft and steady and – I had to bite back my tears – so different from the last time he had said my name. I wanted to answer, I didn't dare to, my voice hidden behind the lump in my throat.

I heard him smile beside me, inhaling before talking again. My heart didn't know if it had to stop or run.

"Sherlock", John repeated, so softly I thought I had imagined it. But he continued. "Sherlock, when I thought you were dead, I went to your grave, and I asked you for one last miracle. I begged you not to be dead."

I bit my lips, almost hard enough to draw blood, swallowing back a whimper.

"You… forbid me… to forgive you. Alright. Sherlock, you gave me a reason to live after Afghanistan. You became the best friend I ever had. You went to the other side of the world, risking your own life to protect mine. You came back and granted me the miracle I asked you for… For all this, Sherlock, I promise I will never forgive you.

Unable to believe what I was hearing, I remained still, barely feeling his fingers on my shoulder.

"Sherlock, look at me, please. I need to see your face. To know you're for real."

I shifted, slowly turning toward him. My eyes drank in the sight of his tired but relaxed features, his incredible smile, his shining blue eyes under the stars.

"Sherlock, there is no grudge that could survive to your presence."

And finally, finally, my voice came back.

"John."

I relished the name, kept inside for so long, and I couldn't fight the longing anymore. I gripped him, circling his body with my long arms, and held him tight against me. I had spent so much time just dreaming of it…

"John. John, John, John…"

I buried my face in his short, blond hair, breathing his reassuring scent, clasped my hands on the back of his coat. He hugged me back with the same force, the same softness, the same impatience I felt. He whispered in my ear, little words of comfort, while I finally let my sobs escape.

I don't know how long we stayed there cuddling beside the river, but the dawn was blooming by the time the door of the 221B, Baker Street was standing in front of us.

The past two years seemed to never have existed the moment our feet walked in the flat. John's ones naturally carried him to the kitchen, where he put the kettle to boil for tea, and mine drove me to the sitting room. I soaked in the once familiar atmosphere, breathing in all the memories it brought to me.

On John's armchair, my letter was lying, abandoned. I picked it up with delicate fingers, marvelling how these words had offered me the luck to retrieve the man who gave sense to my life. John.

He tiptoed behind me, laid the two steaming mugs down on the coffee table. Then he slid his arms around my waist, nuzzling my back tenderly, and raised on his toes to kiss the nape of my neck. His lips warmed my skin, and I closed my eyes, sighing. The letter slipped from my fingers, and I turned around in John's arms to press my lips on his.

My letter fell on the rug without a sound, already forgotten.

… I regret the game I played with the monster. I do not hope for redemption. The only thing I feel I have the right to ask for is the peace of knowing that you will, from now on, live without the emptiness I left. I wish you to fill it with something or someone more worthy of your affection than me.

I will not forget these years spent by your side, and the inextinguishable fire you lit inside me at first sight will never fade. If by any chance these words still mean something to you, know that my heart and my soul belong to you.

With all my love,

Sherlock Holmes

Thanks for reading despite my mistakes (english is not my native language) ! Though don't hesitate to tell me where they are, so that I can correct them and improve myself !Please review if you liked it (or not) ! :)