John.

"One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't. Be. Dead."

For close to two years John Watson never said a word. Not a single word. Those last few words to Sherlock's grave were last last Dr. John Watson ever said. His friend's worried about him. Of course they did, but there wasn't much they could do about it. John would talk in his own time. At least that's what they thought. What they hoped.

For months after Sherlock's suicide, John didn't leave the flat. He chose to, instead, sit in Sherlock's armchair and grieve. John had taken to sleeping in Sherlock's bedroom and wearing his famous blue scarf and surrounding himself with Sherlock's things. He found himself reading over all his old blog entries to remind himself of the good old days of upstaging NSY. When Mrs Hudson asked if he wanted to start moving Sherlock's possessions into storage he would shake his head firmly and storm off to Sherlock's room, blue scarf in hand.

However, after the anniversary of Sherlock's suicide John ventured outside a little more often. He still didn't talk but would occasionally accept offers from friends for a beer every now and then. Every now and then turned to frequently and John found himself starting to enjoy life once more. Maybe not quite to the extent as when he was with Sherlock but he was definitely better than he has been in previous months. But still he never said a word, found that no matter how hard he tried not a sound escaped his lips. He saw Doctor after Doctor and Psychiatrist after Psychiatrist and each told him that he would, in time, recover his voice, buts as the days, weeks, months went on still John did not speak. Eventually John gave up hope of ever getting his voice back. He took to learning Sign Language instead and others around him soon picked it up.

On the second anniversary of Sherlock's suicide John found himself back at Sherlock's grave, sitting with his back against the cold headstone, staring up at the sky, wishing beyond all hope that Sherlock was alive and laughing at him for believing that Sherlock had committed suicide. Footsteps coming from behind him alerted him to the presence of someone, heading ever so slowly towards him.

"John, dear, he's gone. He isn't coming back" Mrs Hudson said, standing in front of him. John looked up at her. He signed.

I know. Mrs Hudson sighed.

"You were in love with him, weren't you?" she asked. Again John signed.

Yes. Mrs Hudson looked down at John, sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest, his back against the gravestone and the tears that rolled slowly down his cheeks. Her heart broke, for John and for Sherlock.

"Come on, dear, I'll make you a warm cuppa and dig up some biscuits back at the flat. But just this once, I'm not your housekeeper" she smiled at him and held out her hand for him and he gratefully took it.

The next few months were hard for John. The fact that Sherlock wasn't coming back fully starting to register with him. Even though he was starting to get better, he still had those days where he sat, curled up in Sherlock's armchair, hugging Sherlock's blue scarf.

Sherlock.

It's been two years to the day since his apparent suicide and he stands now behind a tree and watches as John stares at the sky. He can almost come home now, Moriarty's network has been almost completely dismantled. A few more months and he can be reunited with his blogger. Just a few more months.

He watches as Mrs Hudson comes up behind John, she says something to him. He can't fully see John as he responds and he can't quite make out what it is that Mrs Hudson was saying to him. Eventually Mrs Hudson offered her had to John and they both made their way out of the cemetery. Sherlock watched as his blogger, his John, walked away from him.

Soon, John. I'll be home soon.

John.

John had just returned to 221b after a night out with Molly and Lestrade. It had been 2 years and 3 months since Sherlock had jumped and even though he got better he still couldn't talk. He still had vivid nightmares of Sherlock falling and he still woke up silently screaming his best friend's name but they were less frequent now than they used to be.

He walked into 221b and flicked on the lights and made his way slowly into the kitchen, not paying attention to his surroundings, just focused on making himself a cup of tea. Of course, he never made just one cup. Always two, always one extra for a missing friend. He grasped the handles of both mugs and made his way out of the kitchen and to his chair. Once he exited the kitchen he looked up, and there, in his own chair, sat Sherlock.

John dropped both mugs and stared disbelievingly at Sherlock.

"Hello John" John continued to stare, worried that if he looked away, even for a second, Sherlock would disappear.

"John?" John finally shook himself into action. He walked over to Sherlock, and with as much strength as he could muster, swung his left fist at his friend's face. Of course, he loved him, so avoided his nose and teeth. Sherlock's head snapped to the side, his cheekbone beginning to bruise with the force of John's punch. Hand to his face Sherlock turned and looked at John.

"I suppose I deserved that. Feel better?" John of course, didn't answer him. Instead he glared at Sherlock, but the longer he stared the more he found himself struggling to remain angry. Eventually he gave up and started to laugh, but still no sound escaped John's lips. He just laughed, silently, clutching his sides and wiping tears from his eyes. John threw himself at Sherlock and wrapped his arms tightly around the Consulting detective's waist, Sherlock returning the embrace just as tightly.

"John? John, talk to me. Say something" Just as John pulled away from Sherlock, Mrs Hudson could be heard coming up the stairs. Both men turned around in time to see her walk in.

"John? I'm making tea would you like a-" Mrs Hudson stopped, took on look at Sherlock, and screamed. John rushed to Mrs Hudson in an effort to calm her down. Still though, John did not speak, instead her rubbed his hands soothing over her arms and guided her to the couch, helping her sit down. Once she was comfortably seated, she bated at John's hands and laughed.

"Don't be silly John, I'm fine, I'm fine" John looked at her and signed.

Are you sure?

"Yes of course I'm sure, but you could make me a cup of tea, sooth my nerves?" John nodded, took another look at Sherlock who had remained silent, and left to the kitchen to make another round of tea.

Sherlock.

Throughout the whole ordeal he had remained silent. He puzzled over why John still hadn't said a word and why he used hand gestures when comforting Mrs Hudson. Now he looked at Mrs Hudson who had just dismissed John from the room. As he was about to speak she spoke up.

"Do you have any idea what you've done to him Sherlock? These past 2 years have not been easy for John. He's different, broken, damaged."

"I had no idea that my Suicide would have such an effect on him. But I am back now and I plan to make It up to him"

"You don't know, do you?" She said, looking at him in disbelief.

"Know what? What's wrong?" he was beginning to panic now, had something happened with he was gone? Had something happened to John? His John?

"He doesn't speak, Sherlock. Hasn't said a single word since the day of your funeral. He can't, the words just won't come. I haven't heard him make a single sound for over two years. He uses sign language now" Sherlock's heart was breaking, no, more like shattering. His John didn't speak?

"But why? Surely he must say something? Anything?"

"No, nothing since your funeral. He's been to see doctors and psychiatrists but none have been able to help. They told him that it was a result of the trauma of your death and that he would eventually get his voice back, but time went on and still he didn't speak"

Sherlock was forced to turn away from her, hiding the tears he felt stinging the back of his eyes.

"I didn't know he would be so affected. I didn't think he cared so much"

"Of course, he cared, Sherlock, he is your best friend" At this moment John re-entered the room carrying a tray with 3 mugs of tea and a few biscuits.

The 3 sat, drinking their tea and eating the biscuits that John had brought. They made small talk, Mrs Hudson having to translate for John since Sherlock couldn't understand what he was signing. Eventually, though, Mrs Hudson left leaving John and Sherlock alone in the flat. After minutes of uncomfortable silence, though, Sherlock spoke up.

"I am so sorry, John. I had no idea you would be so affected by my death. I only did it to keep you safe. I never intended for this to happen. Please, forgive me"

John looked up and smiled at Sherlock before retrieving his phone and typing out a text.

I will admit, when I first saw you, sitting in your chair, as if you had never left, I was angry. But to be completely honest, I am just glad your back. I don't blame you for doing what you had to do. I missed you, though, Sherlock. Don't do that again, please. I don't think I could handle your death a second time.

Sherlock read over the text and sighed in relief, glad that his John had forgiven him.

John.

Months went by, after Sherlock's return, and even though John was happier than he had been in years he still did not talk. He had thought that now that Sherlock had returned he would be able to talk again. Sherlock had learned how to use sign language and they frequently used the hand signals when communicating at crime scenes.

A year after Sherlock's return, 3 years and 3 months since Sherlock's "Suicide",John still did not speak. He had long since given up hope of ever getting his voice back. He had also long since given up hope of Sherlock ever reciprocating his feelings.

He longingly glanced over at Sherlock and watched as he stood by Lestrade deducing the latest body on the ground. He stood, blue scarf around his neck, collar turned up against the wind and hands in his pockets. He began to circle the body, crouching and moving gracefully, looking at the body from different angles.

John stood by watching him, careful to avert his gaze when Sherlock looked his way. Sherlock fired off deductions, almost at the speed of thought, before briskly walking past Lestrade and making his way over to John.

"I'm bored. Let's go home" John nodded and followed closely behind Sherlock as he made is way to the main road and hailed a cab.

Sherlock.

John still did not speak and the fact worried me constantly. I could see how it affected him, how he would get frustrated when he couldn't form the words he wanted. I could see how others would get frustrated when he signed something and couldn't understand what it was he was trying to tell them. It hurt to see my blogger, my John, so upset by it all and that it was all my fault. I wish, frequently, that I could take away his pain, but I can't, and it hurts. I wish that I could pull him into my arms and whisper in his ear that everything will be all right. But I can't. Because John doesn't feel the same. He doesn't love me like I love him, and that hurts too.

I look up from the body and see that John has turned from me and is staring off into space. I see the sad look on his face, knowing that he wants to help but that the hand signals get in the way. I know how much it's killing him not to be like we once were. And for that, I'm truly sorry, sorry that I caused all this.

I'm sorry, John..

John.

It was a few months later, after a particularly trying case, that it all happened. We were both stressed, tired and absolutely bloody starving. Neither of us had eaten or slept properly in days and it was beginning to take it's toll.

We argued. Sherlock shouted and stomped around like a petulant child and John signed, mouthing along angrily. And then it stopped. Sherlock to there staring at him, just staring, until eventually his eyes started to water and tears began to spill over. He quickly swiped them away. All anger that had previously filled John vanished and he quickly made his way over to Sherlock.

What's wrong, Sherlock? Why are you crying?

"It's all my fault"

What is all your fault?

"This, you. Your always so sad. I see the look in your eyes. It kills me to know that you get so sad because you can't talk any more and its all my fault, and I am so, so sorry" John was startled. He had no idea that Sherlock felt this way.

Sherlock. I'm not sad because I can't talk. I've been silent so long it barely bothers me at all any more. I won't lie, sometimes it's hard. Sometimes, I wish, when we are at a crime scene and you ask me a question I want to answer you back. But most days it doesn't bother me at all.

Sherlock wiped his eyes again and looked at John again, a little more confused than before.

"Then why do you always look so sad?" John looked at his feet then lifted his head and met Sherlock's gaze straight on.

Because I love you and I know you can never love me back. Because you are "married to your work" and can't ever love me like I want you to love me. That's why I'm sad Sherlock. But it doesn't matter, because you let me be your friend and that is enough. Because I know that is all I can have.

Sherlock looked once more at John.

"You think I could never love you? That is why you look so sad?" John nodded. "But, John, I do. That is why I did what I did at St. Bart's 4 years ago. Because I do love you and couldn't bear to see you die and know that it was all my fault. I did it to protect you and keep you safe" John's eyes began to brim with tears. He never thought it possible that the Sherlock Holmes could love him.

Sherlock stepped closer to John and, reaching out, pulled him close and held him tight.

"I love you, John. More than anything" Sherlock whispered into John's ear.

"I love you too, Sherlock Holmes" Startled by the sound of John's rough, unused voice, Sherlock pulled back and stared wide eyed at John. Then slowly a grin took over Sherlock's face.

"You spoke" John was surprised. He hadn't uttered a word in 4 years.

"I...I did." John grinned up at Sherlock. Sherlock drew John close again, this time pressing his lips firmly against the ex army doctors own.

"I missed you, John"

"I missed you too, Sherlock"

This is my first ever Johnlock fanfiction and I have to say I don't know that I am completely happy with it. I feel that I rushed it a bit at the end and this makes me sad. I realise that the characters are out of character, but I don't feel I could ever truly capture their character. So for this I apologise.

I don't know where the idea came from and originally I wasn't going to write it. But you know how ideas get, right? They pester you until you eventually write them down. So I wrote it down (not very well and I apologise for this too).

Anyway, I would love to hear your thoughts on this. Did you hate it? Love it? Don't know how to feel about it? Please, let me know.

Yours sincerely,

Hannah x