The following is a rather crap drabble that Ellie got stuck in my head. Blame her.
John stood on the rooftop of St. Bart's, a lump in his throat and a phone in his hand. Sherlock never answered calls, so he wouldn't even get the chance to hear his voice once more. He shuddered and glanced back at the still body of Jim Moriarty. The pool of blood around his head was still increasing, and would continue to do so after John had left the roof. With one last glance at his phone, he sent the message waiting on it and tossed it aside. Moriarty had warned that he would burn the heart out of Sherlock. John just never realized that he would be holding the match. A breath and he went over the edge, praying that the plans had worked.
--
Sherlock read the text the instant he received it, but he was too late. His cabbie couldn't avoid the traffic and so the doctor's body was already on the sidewalk when he arrived. He knew John inside out, and it actually physically hurt to recognize his flatmate - his friend - on the pavement. As the emergency technicians hurried John's body away, Sherlock looked at the last message on his phone once more. "Be kind to Mrs. Hudson. I told you friends protect people. Moriarty is on the roof."
--
John had never been more thankful for his training as a sharp shooter. His gun might not have been as powerful as some of the snipers he tracked, but he didn't need a fancy shooting post for his Sig. With Mycroft's sworn silence and aid, he had managed to track down almost all those who wished Sherlock harm, but one remained elusive. Sebastian Moran had been second in command before Moriarty's death, and he had taken offense to John's impact in his sudden promotion. They had been dancing around each other for months before Mycroft finally admitted that using bait was their best option. John was happy to risk his life again. After all, it meant that after three long years, he got to return to Baker Street.
--
The gunfire woke Mrs. Hudson from her doze. She wrapped herself in a dressing gown and made her way to the front door as quickly as she could. Lord knows Sherlock wouldn't investigate. The door opened right before she grasped the handle. The familiar jumper covered a man who looked as though he had aged far more than the three years it had been since she last saw him. He hugged her before she could get out a sound. Oh, she had missed those hugs. With a whisper for secrecy, he released her and climbed the stairs.
--
Something was different. Mrs. Hudson hadn't greeted anyone at the door, but she had left it open too long for there to be no one on the other side. Oh, what was the use? Deductions seemed so pointless now. What good was the outside world without a reason - be it drugs, the chase, a blogger, or money for Mrs. Hudson's rent? Sherlock remained in his ball on the couch.
--
John had gotten better at moving silently, then. He allowed himself a fond smile as he took in his friend's curled form. Oh, how he had missed badgering Sherlock to eat. He wasn't quite as thin as John had feared. Two options, then. "Takeaway or Mrs. Hudson?" Oh, that got a reaction.
Sherlock sprang up like a rocket. He moved to John quickly, eyes and hands roaming to check that this was his John. "Mrs. Hudson," he murmured as he completed his check. "I've gone through so many empty possibilities, John. How?"
"Oh no you don't. You're going to deduce it properly," John replied with that same old glow in his eye.
