Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. SH
John put his phone down and went back to his morning paper.
"What did he want?" asked Mary.
"Mmm, nothing." John quickly glanced at his girlfriend, and the expression she wore told him she knew he was lying.
It had been two years since that horrible day at Bart's Hospital, and less than 24 hours ago, John learned the truth that his best friend was alive. John's reaction was that of anger and confusion, the opposite of what Sherlock was anticipating. Deep, deep down, John wanted so badly to put away his anger and visit Sherlock, and know why he had faked his death. But his pride wouldn't let him. He felt he was entitled to at least 72 hours of giving his friend the cold shoulder.
"John, you really should go see him." Mary said as she walked out of the sitting room to go make breakfast.
He continued to read his very interesting story on the robbery of a local jewelry store. He knew what Sherlock's reaction to his crime would be. He would solve it in ten seconds flat but refuse to help Lestrade when he came to ask for help.
His phone buzzed on the arm of the settee. He picked it up and opened Sherlock's text.
If inconvenient, come anyway
John had to smile to himself. Sherlock had sent him those exact same texts when they first met. No doubt he was trying to guilt him into coming by the old flat.
He knew it would be difficult to incorporate Sherlock back into his life. He lived with Mary now, had a stable job as a GP, and was planning his marriage proposal. He had planned to do it last night at the restaurant, but had crashed and burned when Sherlock announced that he was still alive.
He loved Mary with all his heart, and she understood his grief and pain, and had helped him through it. He enjoyed living in a new flat with her, though he felt guilty about leaving Ms. Hudson alone.
"Mary, I'm going out for a bit." John stood as his made this announcement, and Mary immediately waltzed in.
"Go, I'll save your breakfast for you."
He slid his coat on and kissed her. She smiled at the fact he had shaved off his horrendous mustache, she had never liked it.
John sighed and stepped out of the warm, cozy flat into the light rain and wind. He was an empty cab coming towards him, so he raised his hand to wave it down. When it stopped, he opened the door and told the driver his destination. He stepped in and sat on the lumpy seat. The driver accelerated, and the buildings sped by.
He let his mind wander to his time spent with Sherlock Holmes. He thought back to their first case together. He had been sure their relationship would end quickly, and he would have to find a new flat mate. But not even forty-eight hours after their meeting, John had shot a homicidal cab driver to save Sherlock's life. The exhilaration he got from chasing serial killers and international gang members through the darkened streets of London allies could not compare to the dull life of a general practitioner.
He idly glanced at the pedestrians on the sidewalks, their coat collars turned up against the drizzle. The cab turned onto Baker Street and the cab came to a halt in front of Speedy's Sandwich Bar and Café. John's eyes landed on the deep green door with the gold brass knocker and numbers.
After paying, he opened the taxi door and got out, accidentally stepping in a large puddle forming below the curb. He muttered a curse, slammed the door shut, and heard the taxi pull away.
John approached the familiar front door, which was to the left of Speedy's. His hand hovered over the brass knob. He took a deep breath before turning it and walking through over the threshold.
A wave of nostalgia washed over him as he shut the door and faced the stairs leading to the flat. He heard the lilting sound of Sherlock's violin floating down to him. The steps creaked under his weight as he slowly ascended.
When he approached the entrance to the flat, he saw that the door was open and Sherlock standing with perfect posture at the window, playing his instrument with ease. The collapsible music stand was in front of him, covered in papers with handwritten melodies. John didn't know the tune he was playing; no doubt he was composing.
The music stopped abruptly when he entered. Sherlock slowly turned his head toward him.
"Hello John" he said placidly.
"Oi, where's my chair?" John asked, surprised and slightly offended.
"You were gone, it was blocking my view to the kitchen, I saw an opportunity." Sherlock replied, waving his bow absentmindedly at the empty space.
"No, you saw the kitchen." John retorted, a little crushed that Sherlock had moved it after only being back twenty four hours.
"Yoo-hoo!" Ms. Hudson popped in. "John! Good to see you back here, I quite missed seeing the two of you together. I've brought some tea, but I'll grab a second cup for you, dear." She set the tray down and bustled into the kitchen, got the cup, and came back in. Before the boys had uttered their thanks, she was gone. John pulled up a kitchen chair in the empty space where his seat used to be while Sherlock poured them tea.
"Last night, you told me why you faked your death, that you had to stop Moriarty's associates, but you didn't tell me how."
"John-" Sherlock paused as he stared into his tea.
John sighed. "What? Sherlock, you're my best friend, just tell me."
After a long silence, Sherlock looked up. John saw fear in his light green eyes. It was intense, John was afraid for him. He had only seen his eyes like that once before, at the Cross Keys in Dartmoore. That night in the restaurant Sherlock was out of his mind from fear and uncertainty. Whatever Sherlock was about to tell him wasn't going to be good.
"John… I died."
[End chapter]