John twists the ring around his finger when he's nervous or worried or sad. Sherlock notices it every time, but it is hard to not see it, it's so eye-catching. At least, it is for Sherlock – but there's not a lot that escapes his notice.
The ring, the gold ring, he had started to wear again all those years ago after he forgave Mary on that one Christmas. The absence of it during the six months John had lived in Baker Street had been so tempting, so sweet, but also so taunting. Sherlock had known he'd go back to Mary, to his unborn child. After all, he loved that woman, and he had wanted a family.
Sherlock had tried to enjoy those months as much as he could, sometimes not eating for days just to hear John nag. It was all stored in his mind-palace, in that stupidly big part that was John's.
Then John moved in with Mary again, and Sherlock had tried to close his heart against the pain and cope by meeting them as often as he could. They, and soon after little Ellie had come over at least once a week, or he had gone to them, but it wasn't enough. Memories weren't enough.
And then Mary and Sherlock and Ellie had gone out, John staying at home, and at the smallest blink of red laser he had thrown himself in front of his god-daughter and the woman who had the thing he so much craved.
It hadn't been enough, and he can see it in John's eyes every day. Not that John blames him, but he still grieves. Did he grieve like this when Sherlock had 'died'? Sherlock isn't sure he wants to know.
But somehow, he remembers what happened, has it in his head like a video, like the view of a bystander.
His limp weight had forced Mary and Ellie to the ground, covering the small six-year-old completely. He couldn't cover Mary as well. Impossible. And so he had chosen one, by instinct, and that had been Ellie.
The second bullet hit Mary's temple, killing her instantly. At least she died without pain, if not without fear.
And Ellie, sensible, clever little Ellie had called for help, somehow taking his phone out of his pocket, and pressed the speed-dial to Mycroft, before the shock had set in.
It had been hard to take his, Sherlock's, unconscious body off her, as she had clung onto his coat and his shirt, not minding the wet, warm blood that seeped from him into her clothes, mingling with the blood of her mother; her wide eyes staring at his slack face.
Another bullet scar, Mary's and the one of the sniper, slightly lower than the first. The scars are similar, the only difference was the scar at his back he got from the second bullet.
Sherlock had been in the hospital for months, again, healing. Ellie had been put in the same room as him for the first two days; she had started screaming every time they did something else.
The look in John's eyes had been something Sherlock never wants to see again, emptiness, so much that nearly all pain was suppressed. It had taken weeks to change that, to get rid of that look. John and Ellie had visited every day, often spending many hours a day with him.
Of course, that had been a distraction technique. Staying in the home he had lived in with Mary for so long must have been painful, Sherlock had been able to see it everyday, the slump of John's shoulders when he and his daughter left the room.
When asked, Sherlock would say he doesn't know when exactly John decided to move back into Baker Street. John just came one day, weeks after Sherlock had left the hospital, to his and Ellie's daily visit and hadn't left.
But Sherlock knows exactly. He remembers every single word, every single movement, every single action he tried to manipulate John to coming back. There's nothing for him to stay with anyway, is there? Nothing but pain and loss.
At first it was strange. Sherlock had to be more considerate, especially with his eating, sleeping, and violin-playing habits, but he got used to John's presence at the flat quickly. It was so comforting, so easy, to slip into those too far gone times, to remember the careless first eighteen months of their acquaintanceship. Whenever he thought of it, consciously wasted brainpower on that useless thought, he feels a bitter-sweet aching feeling in his chest. They were older now, many years had passed since those youthful days, a lot more pain and responsibility rested on their shoulders.
But getting used to Ellie was somewhat difficult. In the beginning she and John slept in the same room, with two twin beds, and somehow they had never changed that. Ellie needed routine, Ellie needed safety – something they, two of the most able people in the whole city, couldn't completely ensure. But that was normal with a child, wasn't it?
Sherlock remembers how he didn't take cases for months, keeping himself busy with cold cases, files he could solve from the living room, and experiments. Not that Lestrade would let him have good ones right then. Apparently one couldn't chase after a suspect having been shot three months previously.
Ellie asked a lot. About his experiments, about the pictures she found in files about gruesome murder cases, about the solar system. For some strange reason, she didn't mind the blood in the pictures.
John wasn't happy, but at least Sherlock was doing something with his god-daughter.
And somehow, they were managing. Sherlock doesn't know when their daily life changed from being a chore to normality, when John could look at Ellie without pain in his eyes, when Ellie stopped flinching every time she heard a loud bang or when Sherlock closes his eyes for more than a second. The one time she had found him before, on the sofa, in his mind-palace, it taken a lot to stop her screaming.
Sherlock looks at John again, the movements of his blogger clearly visible, the usual twisting of the ring. He doesn't need to think about why John is nervous. It is clear, and Sherlock can feel his finger twitching, only very barely, on his laptop.
He scans the page he is looking at with his eyes, twice, and shakes his head quickly, harshly, when things don't slot into place in his mind-palace.
Only minutes later, the front-door opens, a cheery hello is called out, Sherlock hears how their land-lady closes the door behind her. A rush of little feet distracts him from listening to his land-lady any further, John gets up and catches the running Ellie just at the right time to twirl her around.
Sherlock watches the relieved smile that appears on John's face and sees the soft kiss he places on the little girl's head, his eyes shining with love.
He feels relieved as well, that both Mrs Hudson and Ellie are well. He winks at his god-daughter and flashes a smile at Mrs Hudson, who had come up the stairs after putting away her coat and coat.
Locking the sentiment away, the ridiculous jealousy he feels towards the little girl, for having what she had, what her mother had for so long, for not even realising how precious it is, doesn't hurt any more. He is used to it.