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Originally posted by kikislasha at All I need is the air that you breathe 2
title: All I need is the air that you breathe (and to love you)
fandom: BBC Sherlock
pairing: John/Sherlock
rating: PG

Starting up practice of my Sherlock! and John! voices. The opposite POV of first drabble here. Post Reichenbach reunion 


The sky is falling.

“You.” How is it you? “Have some...talking to do.”

I can’t remember how to breathe, and it’s too real. I’m not dreaming. Fuck, I’m not dreaming.

He’s there, not fading away, or turning into a bloody corpse, or disintegrating as he comes closer, or turning into Moriarty. Sherlock is there. Sherlock is here. And he’s looking at me. I’m going to kill him. I need to kill him.

He stays so bloody calm! Like he knows I would be angry at him! Like he planned it, the wanker! I won’t give him that satisfaction. Cause he has no idea how hard it’s been. What he put me through. Three years Sherlock. And he came back. Goddamnit, he came back you idiot. I don’t know how he did it, but he did, and I wanted...I wanted him to so badly; how could he know? How could he possibly understand what I’ve asked for...of him...in three years, Sherlock?! You idiot. You idiot, I missed you. I missed you.

“John.” He says.

His voice almost breaks me. I haven’t heard it in three years and I had resigned that I would never again hear that pitch and intonation again. Deaf to that spectrum of sound.


His expression is searching mine. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. I hate that.

“No. No, not here. You” need to tell me you’re not dead so I can hear it so you don’t disappear so I’m not dreaming. “You...” couldn’t believe how much I need to hear your voice. Goddamnit, say anything. Say my name again.

“John.” Softer, deeper.

It hurts, as in, I have an actual physical reaction to it. Every profanity screamed in desperation comes bubbling up and tries to escape. To hurl at him to hate him to hurt him. But he always knew what I needed, and I had always known he was alive. And he is and he’s here and every desire to curse flies off with a breath. 

I breathe with him. I watch the pulse at his neck, I watch the rise and fall of his chest. The twitch of fingers. The rock of maintaining balance. Not dead, I notice.

I breathe with him.

“I should--”

“No.” He’s going to explain, and I can’t take that right now. I just need. Just need him to be there and standing there and breathing with me. “I changed my mind. Don’t tell me. Not right now. Just...” tell me you won’t leave. “Just shut up. I’m. I just need to stare at your cheekbones a little longer.” Truth. Sharp. Real. Perfect. I allow myself to blink. “Alright?”

A corner of the mask breaks at the corner of his mouth. I’ve surprised even his great mind.

“Yes. Anything John.”

Don’t leave.

I love you, goddamnit.