Edited & Beta'd by the brilliant Ekko Wilde. He has been slowly helping make this story even better. : )
John missed Sherlock. It was as simple as that. John hadn't seen Sherlock in the weeks since he had gotten on a plane headed for exile. Sherlock has killed someone. Someone demeaned untouchable by the government that was ready to impose exile. But in killing a man, Sherlock had saved John. And not just John, but Mary and their unborn baby as well. Sherlock had saved John's family.
"John?" questioned a voice that seemed miles away.
It was Mary. Her voice snapped John back to reality. He looked up at her across the dinner table.
"Yes?" muttered John in a state of slight confusion.
"Don't you like your chicken? You've barely touched it, John."
John looked down at his plate. He realized that she was absolutely right as he pushed his food around his plate with his fork. He forced a smile across his face and took a bite.
"No. No, it's great. It's… uh, just fine." He mumbled awkwardly returning to the thoughts at hand.
"Oh… Good." replied Mary forcing a smile herself.
With that, they returned to eating in silence. It had been like this ever since John moved back in. He had forgiven her for the lies, the pain she had caused; for shooting his best friend. Forgetting was another matter entirely. John had half expected and fully hoped that things would be able to just return to normal. As if none of the whole bloody mess had ever happened. But it hadn't. It seemed all that was left of their relationship was an uncomfortable mix of awkward silence and even more awkward conversation.
"John? Are you finished?" Mary was now standing in front of him, her own plate in hand. John's plate was still half full, but he handed it to her anyway.
"Uh, Thanks." John said almost dismissively.
Mary nodded and waddled to the kitchen as John let out a sigh and set his napkin on the table. That was his wife and child walking away, and despite everything, he did love them. But it wasn't like Sherlock. As hard as it was for him to admit, John needed Sherlock. When they were together, everything seemed to make sense. There was none of the silence or questions that plagued him and Mary. That wasn't true. There were, but not like this, never about their relationship. John had never questioned that once. In spite of Sherlock's perpetually cold exterior, John knew the Sherlock had to truly cared for him.
But then why hadn't he called? Mycroft had informed John practically right away that Sherlock was, in fact, not being sent away. That Moriarty was back from the dead. Though the news shook John to his core with terror, as it would any reasonably sane person, it also filled him with a certain amount of joy. On the one hand, Moriarty was back and surely bent on revenge against himself and Sherlock. But that also meant that Sherlock wouldn't be resigned to exile. More than that, it would undoubtedly be up to Sherlock and himself to tackle whatever Moriarty was preparing to throw at London. Despite the nagging fear towards Moriarty's wrath, it was the idea of never seeing Sherlock again that terrified John even more. It was something John wasn't prepared to go through again.
John had fully expected Sherlock to get in contact with him right away, but more than a month had passed without a single word. John was starting to worry. He had even texted Sherlock a week ago with no response. Though that had hardly surprised John. Sherlock only answered or sent texts if it was a matter of extreme importance or to the benefit of his own amusement. Be it embarrassing Scotland Yard or asking john to bring home crushed beetles or a carton of milk.
John let out a short chuckle followed by another sigh as he shook his head gently. He actually missed it. He missed every bit of Sherlock's incessant nagging and asinine request. In fact, he missed everything. Watching Sherlock work a crime scene, or the way Sherlock's eyes flickered when he had deduced the solution to a puzzle, or even that ridiculous way he flipped his coat's collar.
John stood up from the table and grabbed his coat from the recliner in the living room as he made his way to the door. He need to see Sherlock; needed to know that he was okay. There were so many things left unsaid in their last goodbye. John wasn't sure exactly what those things were, but that didn't matter. His mind was made up.
"And just where are you going, hmm?" Mary questioned from behind John.
John was halfway out the door, fumbling to put on his jacket, when had heard Mary's voice. He turned to see her standing in the living room, suds dripping to floor from the wet dish in her hand.
"Just heading out to the pub. Thought I'd have a pint." John replied sheepishly.
Mary surveyed John's face quickly before letting out a curt nod and returning briskly to the kitchen. Of course they both knew that John was lying, but he couldn't bring himself to care about that fact much in the moment. He hurried out the door onto the busy street. John hailed the first available cab he saw, opening the door before the vehicle had come to a complete stop.
"Oy there, mate! In a bit of a hurry, eh?" The cabbie exclaimed as John slid into the backseat. "Right then. Where to?"
John could feel his heart throbbing in his throat as the adrenaline and anxiety coursed through his veins.
"221 B Baker Street." John blurted as he pulled the door shut.