Fortress

Summary- John Watson has always had trouble feeling safe and at home. He's been hurt before so the walls of the fort he has built around himself are strong. But Sherlock Holmes may be just the right man to bring those walls down.

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters in this story. All rights go to their respective owners; BBC, Arthur Conan Doyle.

Ever since John was a kid, he had loved building forts. He and Harry would wake up early Saturday morning and run to the living room, grabbing every blanket and pillow on their way. The construction would then commence. After hours of planning and delicate work the two would stand and admire their fortress. For Harry that's where the fun ended, with the work. She only ever wanted something to do. For John the fun was inside. But it wasn't so much even about the fun as it was about having a safe, quiet place to escape to. Inside those soft, curtained walls he could be alone with himself, separated from all his worries. It was within these forts, as well as in the process of building them that he began to learn how to build his own personal fortress around himself.

The first bricks of John's fortress were laid when his mother died. John was only eight. It happened one day at school. John was just about to eat lunch when the principle walked in, followed closely by Harry, who was twelve at the time. John knew the moment he saw Harry's face. Their mother had been seriously ill for weeks. He knew what that expression meant.

If you listened close enough then, you may have heard those first bricks falling into place. You would have heard them then, that night as he fell asleep, at the funeral. A constant rhythm of walls being constructed.

After their mother's death John and Harry stopped building forts.

After a while the flow of bricks began to slow. But as John got older there were plenty of other events that contributed to the wall; John's dog dying, his girlfriend dumping him, his dad getting remarried. All of these things added their own brick to the fortress walls.

The next major construction happened when John was in Afghanistan. Bricks were added as he watched his friends die. They fell into place as he watched patients die. They fell as he watched his own victims, enemies, die. They fell as he was shot, as he was sent home, and as he wandered aimlessly around London.

When John ran into Mike Stamford again the bricks were still falling every now and then. They fell as they caught up over coffee. They fell as John got in the cab. They fell as he arrived at St. Bart's. They fell as he opened the door to the lab. And as he saw the man sitting at the table, looking up from a microscope, they stopped. For the first since his mother died, not a single brick fell.

As John got to know Sherlock Holmes, as he moved into 221 B Baker St., and as they began to go on cases together, he began to realize that not only had the construction of his fortress stopped, but it felt as if old bricks were beginning to break apart. Every time they went out for dinner and Sherlock refused to eat because he was on a case. Every time they sat in the flat, talking over tea. Every time they burst into the flat, winded after a chase. Every time Sherlock would look to John for reassurance. Each of these moments dislodged more and more bricks from John's fortress walls, until eventually the walls were barely there at all, only the original bricks, laid by his mother's death, remained. This man, Sherlock Holmes, a man whom seemingly had no conscience at times, who pushed people away, who fully devoted himself to his work, had made it possible for John to step out of his fortress for the first time in almost thirty years.

So this became John's life. A new life. A life with Sherlock. He didn't have to worry about his walls anymore. Some days he would come home and feel as if a brick was about to fall but then he would find an experiment in the fridge or wake up to Sherlock playing violin at three in the morning and everything would feel alright again. This was life now, and John was happy.

It seemed like this life would never end. That what was until Jim Moriarty returned. It had been months since Moriarty and Sherlock's initial confrontation. But now that he had returned Sherlock had become obsessed with beating him. The game was still in play, and Sherlock refused to lose.

John knew form the moment Moriarty returned that things were about to change. He could feel Sherlock beginning to pull away and even begin to push John away. Part of John could sense that something was coming, that he should build his walls back up, not let himself get hurt. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. He couldn't shut Sherlock out. He couldn't go back to that solitude.

As weeks turned into months and Moriarty's trial came to a close, john could feel the strain in his and Sherlock's friendship. He could also feel that deep part inside of him wanting to throw up the wall, but he still refused. Then came the Richard Brook incident, with Moriarty trying to convince him that everything; Moriarty, Sherlock, everything was an act. But no! John refused to believe that the man who had done so much for him could be a fake. No. He wouldn't lose faith in Sherlock. Even as Sherlock tried to tell him that maybe he didn't deserve his trust, John would not falter.

Then the day came when everything changed. Even as John looked up at Sherlock on the roof of Bart's and heard him confess to being a fake, he still believed in him. He held the wall back, in a final attempt to be open with Sherlock. But as he watched his best friend step forward, fall, and hit the ground, clink. As he ran to him, pushing through the crowd, as he saw the bloody and crumpled body on the ground, clink. The bricks began to fall down around him. And then as he searched frantically for a pulse and was greeted by nothing but a cruel stillness, it was as if he had never even met Sherlock. The walls slammed down around him, impenetrable and cold. John was alone once again.

Unlike after his mother's death the wall didn't continue to grow, for it was already as strong as John could stand. But still John felt vulnerable. He would visit Sherlock's grave every so often. He was never able to say anything while he was there, until one day, months later. He told Sherlock how he would always believe in him. How he wanted nothing more then for Sherlock to still be alive. And then he said the hardest thing; that Sherlock had saved him from being so alone and he owed him so much for that. What he didn't say was how alone he felt now without Sherlock. That was the last time John visited Sherlock's grave. It just hurt too much.

Time passed and it seemed to everyone around him that John had gotten back to normal. But this John was colder, more distant. After a couple of months Harry decided that it might be a good idea to introduce John to someone. That's how John met Mary Morstan. Surprisingly they hit it off and after almost a year of dating, John asked Mary to marry him. There was something about her. Of course nothing would get rid of the pain of losing Sherlock but when John was around Mary, he was able to let down his wall just a little and he had missed that.

Two months after the wedding tragedy struck John again. One night when it was almost pitch black and rain fell with a sinister force, Harry's car was hit by a drunk driver. The crash was horrific and Harry was killed on impact. After losing Harry, John didn't let his wall down at all, not even around Mary.

It had been two years since Sherlock's fall and just under a year since the crash when Mary fell ill. Within three months she was gone. John was numb, nothing ever got through the wall anymore. John was encased in his fortress, with no hope of being rescued. There were days when the numbness would subside and John was enveloped in the agony of loss, of pure solitude. It was on one of those days, a year after Mary's death, that John visited Sherlock's grave. The pain had gotten too great and John had decided to see his best friend one last time before returning to their old flat and finally ending his suffering. It had been three years since Sherlock died but in a way it was his death that still hurt the most.

John dragged himself through the rows of headstones until he came upon the one marked Sherlock Holmes. The moment John saw the name he fell to his knees. A chink had opened in the wall and the pain poured through. He cried and screamed. He didn't really say anything, just screamed. Finally he was able to calm down and was about to get up to leave when he felt a hand on his shoulder and heard a deep voice say "I'm so sorry John. For everything."

John knew that voice. It had been three years but that voice was still so familiar. He pushed himself up off the ground and turned around slowly. He stared up at the man in front of him, remembering the first time they had met all those years ago. His hair was shorter and his face was covered in stubble. He was wearing a pair of old jeans and a tight black hoodie. But it was definitely him. John stared up into the eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

Anger boiled up in John. He hadn't felt this kind of anger since Sherlock died. Except Sherlock wasn't dead, he was standing right in front of him. Tears were still forming in his eyes as John took a step forward. They were welling up as he drew his arm back. They overflowed and fell as he lunged forward, punching Sherlock square in the jaw. Sherlock stumbled back, a look of shock coloring his face as he held his already reddened cheek. Once he had overcome the shock his face softened and he stepped towards John. He was standing less than a foot away from his as he reached out and put his hand on John's shoulder and said "I probably deserved that. John, I am so, so sorry."

John, who had been wiping his eyes, jerked his head up. He lunged forward again, knocking Sherlock's hand off his shoulder. But this time he grabbed Sherlock's hoodie. He clutched at handfuls of the fabric as he began to cry again. He was so angry but also so remarkably happy. He began to scream at Sherlock, punctuating each sentence with a punch to his chest.

"YOU. WERE. GONE!" he cried. "FOR THREE YEARS I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD! I LOST YOU AND HARRY AND MARY." at this his voice broke and he whispered "I had nothing." He stopped punching and sunk his head into Sherlock's chest. "You're damn right you deserved it."

Sherlock looked down at him, guilt shadowing his expression. "John, I… I hate myself for leaving you. I'm sorry." he said as he his arms around the smaller man. "I understand if you don't forgive me…" John interrupted him. "Sherlock…" he said as he took hold of the hoodie again. "Shut up." Then John pulled the taller man forward and kissed him. It was a strong, but soft, passionate kiss. Sherlock was shocked for a moment before he wrapped his arms tightly around John's waist. They stayed like this for a while, Sherlock gripping John's waist, only moving his hands to pull John's face back to his when he tried to pull away. John's hands moved from the hoodie to around Sherlock's neck, until they eventually entangled themselves in Sherlock's hair. Eventually they separated and Sherlock pulled John to his chest, resting his chin on John's head. John buried his face into Sherlock's chest, engulfing himself in his scent, and murmured, almost too soft for Sherlock to hear "I love you, you big ass." Sherlock chuckled and leaned his head down to kiss the top of John's hair. "Me too." he whispered into John's hair. John smiled and then remembered something. "Sherlock?" he asked tentatively.

"Yes John."

"Thank you."

"I don't deserve…" Sherlock started

"Just accept it you idiot." John said, letting out a quite laugh. " And don't dare leave again."

"I swear John. I'm with you from here on out, till the day I die. For real this time." Sherlock said, holding back tears. He knew how much he had hurt John and he really did hate himself for it.

"Oh and Sherlock, one more thing." John said suddenly.

"Yes?"

"We need milk."

At this Sherlock laughed and looked down at John. He put his hand under John's chin and pulled his face up, giving him one quick, hard kiss. "I'll pick some up tonight."

Life returned to normal again, to how it had been before Sherlock left. John still hurt sometimes. He still missed Harry and Mary but he could stand it now. His walls were still up but he was able to let Sherlock in and slowly, over the years, he was able to tear the fortress down. , brick by brick. It wasn't just Sherlock who had been lost, seemingly dead, for three years, it was John as well. But now they were together again and they could feel alive again. Sherlock and John, together till the end of their days.