This is part of a series of five different versions of how Sherlock's and John's reunion could go. Eventually, there will be something before and after, but right now it's just these five little scenes. Please also read other versions (1.1, 1.2, 2.2 and 3.1)! I'd love to know which one YOU find the most realistic. :)
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Reunion(s) Version 2.1 (- has Mrs. Hudson)
John sat bolt upright in the arm chair he'd dozed off in while reading. There was a bang and he could hear Mrs. Hudson shrieking downstairs, the sound of her voice shrill and panicked.
John jumped to his feet and before he had even realized what he was doing, he was halfway down the stairs, gun out and ready. He could see Mrs. Hudson leaning against the wall by the front door, one hand pressed to her chest, the other splayed out against the ugly wallpaper to steady herself. Her head turned towards the noise on the steps, eyes wide in her pale face. "John," she called in a half-choked voice, lips quivering.
The ex-soldier felt his features harden in the face of her fear. He brought up his gun to aim past her at the door. It was closed. That must have been the bang he'd heard and which he had mistaken for a gun shot. "What happened?"
"It's him." Mrs. Hudson sounded rattled.
John frowned. Who? Moriarty? "Get back into your flat," he instructed her, displaying outward calm. "I'll deal with this."
She looked at him, but her shoulders drew back in defiance. "No, it's him. - Oh god! - It's Sherlock!"
"What?!"
At the same moment the lock clicked and the door swung open to reveal a familiar silhouette. His hair was longer and his face thinner, but it was still unmistakably Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, apparently returned from the grave.
"What…?" John breathed. "How…?" He felt his legs give way and just managed to stumble back a step and sit down hard on the stairs instead of the floor.
Mrs. Hudson had fallen back against the wall again, her hands clapped over her mouth, staring with her eyes even wider than before. She clearly had not anticipated that the impossible apparition would still be there after she had slammed the door in its face. Sherlock took one step inside the hallway, cloak swishing around his knees, and, after a brief glance at John, took a gentle hold of her shoulders since she was clearly only a breath away from fainting.
"Mrs. Hudson, calm down," he said gently, and the sound of his voice made tears well up in her eyes. "It's alright. Just breathe," he encouraged, holding her eyes to underline his instruction.
For a moment they stared at each other, her hands slowly sinking from her face, before she suddenly moved forward with a huge, soul-wracking sob and engulfed Sherlock in a strangling hug. He looked startled but did not push her away. After a moment, his arms came up around her thin back to return the embrace, while she sobbed into the crook of his neck.
He turned his head, looking over at John, who stared at the display before him, open-mouthed and utterly dumbstruck. No one said a word. Their eyes met and their gazes locked until Mrs. Hudson calmed several minutes later.
When she finally withdrew her arms from around Sherlock's neck, Mrs. Hudson gave a wet, shaky laugh and began straightening his lapels. "Oh, look what a mess I have made to your coat, Sherlock! It's all soggy now. I'm awfully sorry, dear."
"That is quite alright, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock murmured in a quiet voice that spoke of a long time of disuse and hushed conversations in dark, lonely corners. He petted her back a few times before letting go of her completely and turning towards the other occupant of the hallway.
"John."
Abruptly, John stood up, expression stony and back ramrod straight, turned on shaky legs and stormed back up the stairs without a word. Sherlock took a step forward as if to follow him, but Mrs. Hudson held him back with a small hand on his arm.
"Give him a moment, dear." She gently tucked on his sleeve to guide him into her own kitchen. Sherlock fell into a chair, silently listening to her bustling about the room to make him some tea while she chattered away in her usual manner. He found the familiarity comforting, calming his nerves, frayed from three years on the run.
After he had drunk two cups of blissfully hot Earl Grey and watched Mrs. Hudson alter back and forth between babbling happily and crying again for a bit, he excused himself, enduring another tearful hug and made his way up to his and John's old flat. The door was closed – and for the first time in his life, Sherlock knocked before hesitantly pushing it open.
However, he did not step into the room but remained standing in the doorway. John sat huddled on the sofa, cradling a cup of tea that had clearly gone cold a long time ago. In the coffee table lay his gun, dismantled and surrounded by cleaning utensils. At the sound of the door opening he had looked up and in Sherlock's direction, his knuckles turning white over the porcelain in his hands. His eyes burned into the man standing across the room.
"John…" Sherlock began.
"Shut up!" snapped John, quietly but with force, putting his cup down hard with a crack and slopping cold tea all over the coffee table. "Just… shut up."
He ran a hand through his hair, looking utterly torn. "You have no – idea - What I've been through after… well, after you died." He gave a little hysteric laugh. "Damnit, Sherlock! You died! You were fucking dead! Have you any idea what you've put me through?"
Sherlock remained silent. There was nothing he could say to that just yet.
"Jesus! You can't just do this sort of thing to people, Sherlock! You can't do this and then waltz back into this house as if nothing had happened."
Sherlock nodded, meekly. "I understand."
"No you don't." John gritted out. "Three. Years. Sherlock. Three bloody years!" Suddenly he was a lot closer to tears than he had been a moment ago. "Damnit, Sherlock," he whispered, "where have you been?"
"Would it help if I said I'm sorry?" Sherlock offered quietly.
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Part of a series of 5 stories. Please also read other versions (1.1, 1.2, 2.2 and 3.1)! I'd love to know which one YOU find the most realistic. :)