Hello guys! Oh, it's been a long time since I submitted anything to this fandom... I am (was?) in a bit of writer's block in the past and hopefully this piece just brought me out of that...

I wrote a sad drama, I've never done anything like this before, so I'm terrible sorry if you don't like it. However I really hope you will.

Beta reading was done by the amazing MissPaperJoker (find her on dA, she's a very great artist), thank you darling! All remaining mistakes are mine!

WARNING: This is Johnlock, if that's not your thing, push that back button up there. Also, there's mention of Mystrade and suicide, and also some swearing in here. I do hope this will not scare you away...

Hope you will enjoy reading this!

Liz

A quiet walk in the park

They were walking in a park, not far from the flat that they would share again after more than three years. It was a quiet summer afternoon. Runners passed them as they left behind several chatting people as they continued their silent stroll. Bees buzzed next to their ears and John smiled as Sherlock turned around, trying to catch a glimpse of them before the bees got lost among the green bushes again.

Blinded by the setting sun, they kept ambling on the narrow path as they had for hours now. The balmy air caressed their faces and the various smells of a summer eve, the flowers, the fresh air, the water nearby, everything crept into their noses and filled them with serenity they have not felt since a long time.

The lake was close. John could tell by the sound of the quacking ducks and the rustling reed. He steered Sherlock that way, who followed him willingly wherever he went since they started their quiet walk. People looked past them as if they did not even exist, but John did not mind it.

They walked on a small pier that went several metres over the greenish lake that now mirrored the magnificent colours of the sunset. As they stepped on the wooden planks, the whole pier started wobbling and the waves broke the consistently reflecting surface, leaving creased clouds on the water.

They got rid of their shoes and socks before they sat down and dipped their feet in the water that felt pleasantly cold and sent a shiver up John's spine. He splashed a water lily not far away just to pass the time and was surprised to see the water drops reflect the sunshine like diamonds stack on the white flower.

"You know," John started hesitantly, as he watched a drop fall back to the lake it belonged, "I'm glad you're back. Really glad."

"I'm sorry I had to leave." Sherlock smiled gently at him.

"But, Sherlock… Why did you come back?" John asked, looking away.

He waited for an answer but the silence lasted too long so he looked at Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes were wide open as he stared at John with disbelief.

"It was three years, Sherlock. Three years." John said apologetically.

The other man sighed before he answered. "Because I finally finished what I had to do. The snipers are-"

"Cut the shit, Sherlock." John shook his head. "They are dead six months now."

"How do you know?" Sherlock asked surprised.

"Mycroft." John said simply. "Why did you even leave?"

"To protect what is important to me." Sherlock said in a strict voice.

John sighed at the answer. "What happened while you were away?"

"I had to eliminate all the threats Moriarty left behind. I had to travel a lot. And hide. And then travel some place again. I found the first two snipers within half a year. Moran though… He was a challenge. Almost as clever as Moriarty. I lost trace of him for a year, then about a year ago, he found me." Sherlock unconsciously rubbed his left arm. "The bullet pierced my arm, clear shot, went through right away."

John suddenly remembered how it felt to be shot back in Afghanistan. The pain hot like fire, the adrenaline numbing your mind, the dizziness, the blood, all the carmine red, warm blood. He suddenly felt a jolt in his stomach and almost threw up. Other memories came to the surface of his mind.

A grotesque, twisted body.

Blood on the pavement.

Blood, bone fracture and brain tissue mixed in the dark, curly hair.

People screaming, pushing, pulling him away from the sight.

Tears. Lot of tears and even more blood.

Screaming again, this time, it was his shaking voice.

Sherlock's voice brought him back from the past. "After that, I was on track again, like a hunting dog I followed him everywhere. Eventually I got to him as well." Sherlock finished with a sigh. "But you know all that already, don't you?"

"Yes," John groaned, his voice cracked because of the previous memories. Something stirred in him, something bad and dark, but he repressed the feeling.

"Mycroft again, I presume?"

"And Lestrade. Mycroft filled him in, and he couldn't hold his pie hole, when he saw how…" John hesitated for a second, "how the events affected me."

"The effects were… severe, I imagine?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"Quite bad, yes." John nodded with a laugh.

"I am so sorry John."

"Sorry for leaving, or sorry for coming back and bringing this shit to the surface again?" John's voice was filled with accusation as he asked this.

After a moment of silence, Sherlock answered, "For both. John, I had to go. If I didn't go, you would have ended up dead. As long as I was with you, you were in danger."

"You say that as if you had a nice little holiday and weren´t chasing killers." John looked at Sherlock, while raising an eyebrow. "Why didn't you bring me with you? I'd have been a useful asset, you know, ex-soldier and everything." John pointed at himself then splashed the water lily again in frustration. "I could have helped."

"They would have shot you in the head the moment I stepped away from that ledge. If I didn´t jump-"

"Don't you dare talk about that day!" John flared up, grabbing the edge of the pier so hard his knuckles turned white. His voice was cracking up more and more with every word.

"I'm sorry, it's all right, I'm so sorry, John." Sherlock said calming. "I had to disappear and it had to look real."

"Well it did, Sherlock. It fucking did." John groaned. "You did a pretty great job in making it look real."

"Otherwise, they wouldn't have believed it, and they would have come after you."

"You did it all to protect me," John said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Very noble of you, Sherlock, very noble. But you see, you could have texted me at least a month after it or a year maybe. A text message that says I'm fine, don't forget to buy milk. SH. A fucking text message Sherlock, that's all I would have asked for." John realized, he was yelling now, an old woman looked at him from the narrow path they also arrived from, then froze. Her eyes went wide and then she rushed away.

"They were watching you, John. They would have come after you."

"Let them!" John cried again, and frightened several duck, which flew towards the sky with fast wing flaps, looking for refugee from the human barking loudly next to their home. "I was in the freaking military, for god's sake, Sherlock. Are you forgetting that?" John went on quieter now.

"I had to keep it a secret," Sherlock persisted.

"You didn't though, did you Sherlock?" John said condemning. "Molly knew. Mycroft knew. For Christ, even Lestrade knew."

"Well, you can't blame me for my brothers lack of capability to keep secrets from his boy toy." Sherlock murmured aggravated.

John laughed out loud as he looked at Sherlock and as his smile was contagious, Sherlock was grinning as well. "So you knew about that."

"Of course." Sherlock shook his head in misbelieve as if he still would not believe this piece of information. That made John smile again.

The sun almost set, covering the sky and the park in orange and red colours, as if an invisible filter did not let any other colour appear in the world until the sun would not finish its performance.

"I had to tell them, because I needed them." Sherlock spoke up quietly.

"But you didn't need me?" John asked disappointed and sad.

"That's not how I meant it." Sherlock said quickly. "I needed Mycroft to handle the paperwork, and I needed Molly to-"

"Don't!" John stopped him. "I know exactly what her role was in all of this."

"I wanted to tell you, John." Sherlock said suddenly. "I wanted to call you, or text you. I wanted to come back and continue where we left off."

"But you didn't. You could have come back half a year ago. Why didn't you then? Why now?"

"Because you need me now."

"Not more than in the past three and a half year, Sherlock."

"You're not the only one well informed, John." Sherlock murmured. "I didn't come back until now, because I had to protect the most important thing in my life. Whatever the cost was. I am sorry, you had to wait so long for me to return to you."

"The most important thing?"

"Person." Sherlock corrected himself.

"And that is…?"

"You know exactly who it is, John."

"I need to hear it from you, Sherlock." John said with shaking voice.

"It's you, John, it always have been you John," came the answer from the other man, in a deep, soft voice.

John felt his heartbeat fasten and also a jolt in his stomach, but this was pleasant, tickling.

"And why am I so important to you?" He asked barely audible.

"Because you are… my only friend."

"And that's all I am to you?" John looked at Sherlock.

"No."

John remained quiet for a second before asking, "What else then?" He studied the water lily while waiting for the answer.

"What else could you be to me, my dear John, when you are already everything." Sherlock sighed. "I love you, John, that's what you are to me: my friend, my love, my everything."

John's stomach clenched almost painfully, as thousands of butterflies started fluttering inside. He looked aside, not risking a glance at Sherlock, but his hand moved and his fingers folded tightly around Sherlock's warm hand.

"Oh Sherlock," John mumbled and the desperation clearly rang in his voice. "Do you know how long I wanted to hear that? Can you imagine?" He groaned and he grasped onto Sherlock even more. He pulled the graceful, slim hand to his mouth and placed a gentle kiss on the soft skin. "Can you imagine?" he whispered, as he looked into the mesmerizing grey eyes over Sherlock's hand.

"No," Sherlock whispered, driving his other hand softly over John's wrinkled, sad face.

"Stay with me, Sherlock." John said, begging desperately. "Promise me, you will stay with me."

"I will," Sherlock smiled gently, wiping down a teardrop with his thumb from the corner of John's eye. "I will stay with you, forever. I promise you, John." He pulled John closer. "I promise I will never leave your side again." Sherlock murmured lovingly before he pressed his lips against John's and kissed him tenderly.

John let out a relieved sigh that came from the bottom of his heart. A heavy feeling, that had repressed him for years finally lifted from him. He had been stifling in the swamp of sorrow and he had not even realized this, until the terrible weight, the perfect, infinite darkness disappeared from his heart and he felt himself light as a feather that was finally drifting away in the clear sky.

Pure happiness took over as he kissed Sherlock serenely, however his inside flamed with tension. Unable to repress his joyful tears, he cried, kissing the only man he loved more than anything in his life. The man he lost but now found again and would never let go of, not even if it would cost his life.

Their kiss broke, as his tears streamed like waterfalls now. Breathlessly sobbing he leaned his forehead against Sherlock and smiled, overjoyed and blissfully happy as if he just got back his life. And maybe he did, he did get back his life, or at least the meaning of it, just now, a bare moment ago, when Sherlock said, finally, after years of waiting and longing and hoping, that he loved him.

He slid his hands over the slim back and, grabbing into the dark shirt, he pulled Sherlock even closer, embracing the man in a painfully tight hug and he knew it hurt Sherlock but it was necessary, because Sherlock had to feel too, how painful it was for John, how bad it was, how terribly John had missed him.

"I'm so glad you're back, Sherlock." John murmured between sobs, his voice harsh but happy, his tears wetting Sherlock's neck like warm raindrops on a summer day.

"I'm glad to be back." He heard the answer and tightened the hug even more, his fingers dashing through the soft, dark curls.

It was a beautiful moment and John knew it would end soon, but he did not want to let go, he wanted the moment to last forever, to be here forever, silently holding Sherlock in his arms, sitting on the wobbly pier, with the sun almost set and the fresh smell of water all around them, refreshing, mildly cold, just perfect.

However, like every moment, this ended as well.

"John?" A well know voice called for him from the narrow path near them, shattering the magnificent minute into pieces. "Are you all right?"

"Greg, what are you doing here?" John turned towards the other man, still holding onto Sherlock.

"Are you all right?" Lestrade asked again, coming carefully closer to John.

"Of course I am, why wouldn't I?" John said. "But Greg, we are in the middle of something, so would you mind? We can talk later, okay?" John smiled at Sherlock, before he let go of him but the man looked back at him with sad eyes.

"We?" Lestrade raised an eyebrow as he looked around. "Who is here with you, John?"

John laughed for a moment, but then noticed how desolately Sherlock looked at him and how Lestrade looked through Sherlock when talking to John.

"Greg, this isn't funny.", John said, panic rising in his chest.

"If I might, Inspector," came a reserved voice from behind Lestrade, who stepped away with a nod.

Mycroft walked onto the pier. "Hello John." He greeted him calmly. "And Sherlock."

John naturally assumed this was a statement, however it sounded more like a question.

"Finally, thank you, Mycroft." He gave Lestrade a nasty look, before he turned to the older Holmes brother again. "Look Mycroft, I don't know what this is about, but could we please talk about this later?"

"So am I correct in assuming my brother is in your company?" Mycroft asked carefully, his hands behind his back.

"This is a very bad and cruel joke, Mycroft." John said irritated. "You see him as well as I do, so stop this."

"John unfortunately, I think you are delusional."

"You're an idiot, Mycroft."

"John, listen," Lestrade spoke up.

"No! Stop this!" John cried as he stood up, getting dizzy for a second. "You're wrong." He pointed a finger at Mycroft and then at Lestrade, saying, "You too. I don't know what kind of twisted play you two have going on here, but it's not in the least funny, so stop it." He murmured threatening.

"John," Mycroft insisted, "look around you. There is no one here. Just you, the Inspector and myself. Sherlock is-"

"STOP THIS!" John yelled desperately, launching himself towards Mycroft and grabbing him by his collar. "He's here, and I know you see him!" He pushed the older Holmes away as he pointed at Sherlock. "He's right here. You are here, Sherlock. Say something! Say something, Sherlock!" He turned towards Sherlock, waiting.

"I am here." Sherlock said infinitely sorrowful. "But they can't see me."

In one second, the completeness, containing all John's dreams and hopes burst like the big blue balloon the young John Hamish Watson once held in his small hands, so full of courage and expectations about his life, not even suspecting that a day would come in the far future that will demolish everything he ever fought for.

"No." Instant denial of the truth he'd known somewhere inside. "No." He shook his head looking from Sherlock to Mycroft then Greg and then back to Sherlock again.

"I am only here for you, John. They don't see me." Sherlock muttered, standing up and John could not help but notice that the unsteady pier did not wobble at all when the man came closer to him.

"This isn't true." John said stepping away. "You are here, Sherlock. You. Are. Here." He turned back to Mycroft and pointed back at Sherlock as he said smiling, "He is here, you can hear him, I know you do. He's here. He's alive."

"No, John, he's not." Mycroft whispered, tears wetting his eyes. "My brother died three and a half year ago." Mycroft turned his head down to hide tears he barely ever shed. A reassuring, strong hand caressed his back while he tried to pull himself together again.

"No, he did not!" John yelled at the sad and suddenly smaller man in front of him. "He is right behind me!"

"No, John-"Lestrade tried to speak up but John turned away and looked somewhere towards the lake.

"Tell them, you're here Sherlock! Tell them, you are alive! Please, Sherlock, I'm begging you, please tell them you are not dead!"

"I am dead, John. I died that day three and a half year ago and you know it."

"No, you didn't. It was a trick. Just a trick. You survived the fall. Then you went after Moran and the other two and you killed them for me. You killed them and you came back to me. That is what happened, Sherlock." John grabbed into Sherlock as he looked into the wet grey eyes. "You. Are. Alive."

"No, I'm not." Sherlock whispered crying.

"John, listen," Lestrade yelled at him but John did not turn towards him. "He was not supposed to die that day but things went bad… and he…" He could not finish his sentence as he felt Mycroft's back tense under his hand.

"Sherlock, you can't be dead." John said shaking his head with a smile on his face. "How could you? I can touch you, I was holding you in my hands a moment ago, Sherlock, don't do this to me." John begged, the smile disappearing from his lips. "You just told me you love me, you kissed me, Sherlock, how could you be dead?"

"Oh my god…" Mycroft moaned as his gaze snapped at John, who stood at the edge of the pier with hands in the air like as if he would be grabbing onto something.

"Oh dear lord…" Lestrade moaned, driving his hands in front of mouth.

In the silence John heard to other two men gasp but he did not care. He just waited for the answer.

"John, remember. Please, remember that day. Remember what happened since." Sherlock murmured barely audible.

"I don't want to." John sobbed, burying his head in Sherlock's neck. "I don't want to lose you. Not again."

Mycroft looked at Lestrade for a second, with endless sadness in his eyes then steeled himself and turned to John.

"John, please listen to me."

"NO!" John snapped, turning around shouting at Mycroft. "I listened to you and you told me he was alive. You told me that he faked his death! You told me he went after Moran! You told me he will be back! You! You! YOU!"

"Remember John," Sherlock said from behind him quietly. "That is not what happened."

"No John," Mycroft stepped towards him determinedly, his voice cold like a razor. "I didn't. I told you Sherlock should have survived the jump, because that was the plan. But it went wrong and he died that day. Sherlock didn't go after Moran and the other two snipers, John, you did."

"NO!" John cried madly and pushed himself at Mycroft again, hitting him where he could, his fist burning with pain. Pain that he liked and welcomed, because it was real, the only thing in his life now that was for sure, absolutely real.

He hit something soft, and felt sticky wetness on his fingers. Two strong hands clasped around his wrist, holding him like a cage and pulled him away from Mycroft. A furious Mycroft, with blood streaming from his nose, shouted at him.

"Listen to us, John, listen and remember! You disappeared for three years after Sherlock's death. We were looking for you everywhere but did not find you until you were shot by Moran. Do you remember being shot, John?"

John fought against the restrain, chanting, "No, no, no…"

"Your arm, he shot your arm. Do you hear me John?" Lestrade said, holding John's wrist still strongly so that he could not attack again.

The answer was still the continuous flow of noes, even as John remembered. The burning pain, the adrenalin, the dizziness, the blood. These were not the memories from Afghanistan, they were newer, more recent; he could still feel the numb pain in the middle of his left arm.

"We found you back then but you disappeared again. You went after Moran and killed him. They found you again over his dead body. You were arrested but you were diagnosed with serious PTSD and you got into a mental clinic. Do you remember this, John?" Lestrade shook him, trying to get some response out of John other than the repeating, monotone noes.

"You spent almost five month in the Nightingale Hospital, you were unresponsive, and you didn't speak a word and then… John do you remember what happened then?" Lestrade ask, gently now.

John stopped struggling and looked down on his hand. A long vertical line was cut in his right wrist, perfectly straight, right over the artery; a work of a true doctor.

"I committed suicide." He said quietly, and his gaze met with Sherlock's over Lestrade's shoulder. "That's when I first saw you." He smiled at Sherlock, who nodded reassuring. "After they transferred me to the medical wing and I got a bit better, we escaped. I escaped." He added bitterly, after a short hesitation.

Mycroft placed a hand on John's shoulder and Lestrade, seeing he had calmed down, let go of his hands. "John, there's an ambulance waiting for you. Please, come with us."

"Can I…" John swallowed hard. "Can I say goodbye," He asked almost in tears again. "Please."

Both man nodded and walked a few metres away, knowing that John could not go anywhere now. Two medics came closer to them, one holding a syringe, but Mycroft motioned them they would not need the sedative. The old lady, who called the police after recognising John from a picture they showed on the news, stood sadly not so far from the ambulance, talking to one of Lestrade's colleague.

But John did not see any of that, he only saw Sherlock. The setting sun covered him in golden light as he stood at the edge of the pier, his dark hair was gently floating in the wind. He looked at John with sorrow, guilt and endless sadness but John smiled at him as he walked closer.

"I would have done anything to see you again." He whispered, caressing the sharp cheekbones. "Just one more time."

Sherlock grasped his hand and pulled it to his mouth, placing a small kiss on it. John smiled, almost happily as the soft, velvet lips touched his trembling hand. "In the hospital, I told myself, I would give up anything, just to see you again. My sanity, my life, everything. Just for one more moment with you. I damned destiny for driving me on a path like this, I begged God to give you back to me, and I did everything I could think of just to get you back. I wished Moriarty to live just so that I could kill him again, for taking you away from me, I even wanted to kill Stamford for introducing you to me. There were moments I wished I had never met you. But then, I realized I'd rather have a short time with you than an eternity without you."

Sherlock nodded wordlessly, tears trickled on both their faces. John felt the wet again, shaking lips on his skin and turned around smiling. He took a deep breath and walked to Mycroft and Lestrade. He had said his goodbye.

As he was sitting in the ambulance with his friends around him, he was crying, mourning a long lost friend and love. Greg placed a hand on his leg as he asked quietly, with voice filled with genuine concern, "Do you still see him?"

"No," John sighed, looking out the windows, watching the blurry summer night through his tears.

o.O.o.

It was late at night when John Hamish Watson, resident patient of the Capio Nightingale Hospital in London opened the windows of his room. This was a privilege he got because of Mycroft's influence.

Not that he wanted to sneak out, he just needed some fresh air and the thick iron bars would prevent him from escaping anyway. As he let the balmy air caress his face, he looked at the midnight sky, and the brightly shining stars.

"Every time someone breaks a promise a new star appears on the sky." He murmured to the empty room. "You promised me you would never leave me. You promised you would never leave my side but you disappeared again. So where is your star, Sherlock?" He studied the glowing dots.

"I don't have a star," came a deep voice from behind him. A hand slid around his waist and John closed his eyes in pleasure but did not turn around.

"I thought you were gone." John murmured, as he felt Sherlock folding his arms around him.

"I promised I would never leave you John, and I always keep my promises." Sherlock said quietly and John could feel his warm breath on his neck. He smiled happily, as he looked up at the man behind him. He caressed Sherlock's arm around his waist, blissfully looking at the stars far away.

Sherlock kissed John's nape softly before he whispered into his ear, "Always."

Knowing it was all a lie, but not caring about it, John cherished the memory of that day in his heart during the rest of his life, because that was the day Sherlock Holmes returned.

And never left again.

So uhm.. what do you think? Was it worth reading? Please don't leave without a comment, I'm really curious what you think, I'm new to this genre and I don't know how this turned out.