The eyes of Sherlock Holmes watched as little drops of rain slowly trickled down the window of the cab that was taking him to his old home. Home. He hadn't thought of it like that in a while. Now that he thought about it, had he really ever had a "home"? Sure, he'd had a place he slept and kept his things, but was it a home? He briefly expelled the thought from his mind as the cab pulled up to the curb that he had known so well. Had. Now, it just felt like he was a visitor. But he was back. Sherlock Holmes had come back to 221B. Sherlock Holmes, had come home.
Taking gradual steps toward that familiar door, the last three years ran through his mind like a movie. The fall. John's shouts echoing in his ears as his face rested on that curb. The day at the grave. John's words. His words had bothered him. The words that he spoke at the grave made him feel like he was doing something wrong. Was he wrong? He was protecting John. That was the whole point of the fall. But, would John see it that way? His memory movie continued to play, the three years spent in the hotel room, tying up all loose ends from the Moriarty fiasco. Taking care of the shooters and left over clients of the consulting criminal. The movie ended with his hand, reaching out and opening the door to 221 Baker Street. John was home. He could tell. John always kicked up the mat when he went out. He had noticed that a long time ago. The door mat lay flat on the ground, telling him that his blogger was indeed upstairs. Sherlock hadn't had to do much research to find out that John still lived here. Nothing a couple of intercepted mail deliveries couldn't tell him. Step by step, Sherlock made his way to the door to his-... John's flat.
John Watson was having quite a nice day. Jam on toast for breakfast, good jam as well. He had taken Mary to an early movie before coming home and relaxing in front of the telly. The beauty of bank holidays. He had a genuine smile on his face. Sipping his cup of tea, Doctor John Watson was once again content with life. Knock. Knock. Knock. Setting his cup of tea down, he calls to his wife. "I've got it, dear!" Knock. Knock. Knock. "Alright, alright I'm coming!" John shook his head, smiling, making his way to the door. Reaching out his hand, he opened the door. And his life was never the same again.
Sherlock avoided eye contact. Choosing rather to look at the surrounding objects. The door frame, the wall behind John. "John." He said sternly, nodding once. John was less composed. His eyes were wide, his mouth hung open, trying to speak words which just weren't forming. In front of him stood Sherlock Holmes. The man who had changed his life. His best friend. His DEAD best friend. So many words. Was he real? Was this a dream? No. This is real. The more he thought about it, the more real it seemed. This was Sherlock Holmes. This is what he did. Of all the words and questions, he could only utter one. "No." John said, shaking his head. "No, you're.. you're dead." John was collapsing inside. This is what he had would have killed for 3 years ago. For Sherlock Holmes to be alive. But not now. He had moved on. He had cried all the tears he could possibly cry over one man. Sherlock responded, in the same condescending tone he had always used. "Well obviously not, John. I'm here. Right here, in corporeal form. You're not THAT stup-" Sherlock was cut off by a very loud, very angry John Watson. "Shut up! Just- Just shut your mouth! How dare you, Sherlock! How DARE you come back here!" The worlds only consulting detective studied John's face, but couldn't work it out. Anger? Why?
John and Sherlock, standing each side of the threshold of 221B, stared at each other. Both men showing very different emotions. On John's face, a look of anger and confusion. On Sherlock's, a look of calm mixed with slight disbelief. "You- How-" John could barely speak the words as anger pulsated through him. "John, are you angry?" This sent John over the edge, throwing his head back in laughter. "He finally gets it! Three years. THREE years, Sherlock. You. Were. DEAD. Dead to me. I thought you were gone! Forever. You were my best.." John trailed off, tears forming in his eyes as all the emotions of that year came flooding back to him. "You made me think you were dead. It doesn't matter that you weren't. Do you understand THAT, detective?" Sherlock listened carefully, trying to understand the emotion of the situation. "But now I'm not. I never was. Everything is solved. I completed the case. I couldn't do that if I was "alive"." Sherlock felt that the explanation was an acceptable one. John however.. "The CASE? THE CASE!? Is that what mattered to you when I was going through hell!?" John seemed to compose himself briefly, speaking slower. "You're dead, Sherlock Holmes. Dead." Sherlock still didn't understand. He spoke quicker, louder. "But I am not! I'm here now! We can continue! Just you and I versus the world!" Sherlock's words are cut off by a woman appearing at the door.
The woman stood behind John, a puzzled look plastered on her face. Then he noticed it. He cursed himself for missing it. John's hand. John's FINGER. A ring. A ring that also sat on the woman's hand. He swallowed thickly. "Sherlock," John began, clenching his jaw, "this is my wife, Mary." The woman's eyes also widen at the mention of the name. This was him? The man that had died? The man who her husband had lost countless hours of sleep over? But he was dead! John turned to Mary, placing his hands on her shoulders. "Go finish your program, dear. Sherlock was just leaving." Mary nodded slowly and quietly. "Oh..oh-kay" She turned and walked away, visibly confused. Sherlock watched the woman, sizing her up. "A wife. Seems your type." John whirls around, speaking low but quickly and angrily. "Oh yes of course you'd know that because you've seen her for more than 6 seconds so you obviously know every single thing about her!" John took slow breathes, preparing. "Understand this. You are dead. As far as I'm concerned anyway. You're a ghost, Sherlock. I spent months just getting over the fact that you wouldn't be insulting me any more. Years to move on. And.. if it's all right with you... I'm going to stay moved on."
Sherlock raised his chin, nodding. "I see. Forever?" John stared straight into his eyes, looking for any sign of sorrow. "Forever. You're a ghost, Sherlock. And I just don't believe in ghosts any more. Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes." The door to 221B closed, separating John and Sherlock for the last time. On one side, John turned and slumped against the wood, sinking to the floor in silent sobs. On the other, a man who had just lost his home. His best friend. A man who had lost the only thing that mattered to him any more. But he'd never show it. Silent, he turned slowly, making his way back down the stairs. He barley noticed the water drops hitting the floor, let alone the fact the water was coming from his own eyes. "They should fix that leak.." He muttered, looking at the ceiling making his way to the exit for one final time. While John was consoled by his wife upstairs, Holmes stepped onto the street. Everything seemed slower. Turning his collar up and wiping the water from his face, Sherlock Holmes left Baker Street for the last time.