I know, I know, I haven't made any of the updates I said I would. School's been busy and I just haven't had the muse with me to continue some of them, but I promise I'm trying my best! I had this (and a few other Sherlock pieces) sitting in my computer, so I figured I could at least give you guys something. So here ya go, I hope you enjoy it!
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John Watson heaved a heavy sigh as he stamped off the snow from his boots on the doormat, then fumbled through his coat pocket trying to extract his keys. It took him a few moments, but he finally was able to get the blasted things out and open the door labeled 221B.
Once inside, he gave a slight shake, welcoming in the heat of the warmed building. It was in the dead of winter in London, England, meaning that the air was bitterly cold and even more so when it snowed, which had been happening quite frequently.
John placed his keys back into his pocket, then shifted his bag of groceries to his other hand. Another sigh slid through his throat. Sure it had been bitterly cold, but it hadn't bothered the man as it used to. Usually he'd be mumbling about the frigid air if he had been out on a case with Sherlock, but that hadn't happened in a very long time.
Every muscle in his body suddenly became weary and sore, even his bones felt as if they had taken a pounding. With his free hand, he rubbed his eyes and face, trying to focus on something other than memories of chasing a dark, long coat clad detective around the city.
John began to make his way up the steps to the flat, grateful that Mrs. Hudson was out somewhere so she couldn't question the man's weary condition.
The wooden step boards creaked and groaned under John's heavy footsteps. He decided that a hot cup of tea and a long nap might do him well once he got up to the flat. Ever since...the incident, John hadn't been able to sleep well at night. He was tormented by nightmares of falling, of blood stains, and of terrible silence. What made it even more torturous was when he'd wake up, it had all happened, and it had all been very real.
John was now about halfway up to the flat when something out of the ordinary, but eerily familiar came to his attention.
The sweet, sad noise of a bow gliding across violin strings drifted down the hall and swirled about the stunned man.
Violin music? Was he imagining this?
John's heart began to beat hard against his breastbone, his tired brown eyes flitted about his surroundings. Was this really happening?
He dropped the grocery bag with a clatter and found himself racing up the steps, skipping two at a time so that he reached the entrance to his flat in a matter of seconds.
The door hung open, and the lights were off as he had left them, the only light source was coming from the setting sunlight streaming in through the windows.
A tall, dark, and very familiar figure was silhouetted next to the far left window, a violin tucked under his chin and swaying slightly to the rhythm of the music he was making. His back was facing John.
John on the other hand, found that he could not breathe, any breath that was left in his lungs had been snagged in his throat. He tried desperately to swallow. He leaned against the door frame, gripping it as if it were his only attachment to this world.
The figure by the window withdrew his bow from his instrument, turned, then set it and the violin down in the chair behind him. The orange sunlight caught the sharp features of his face, casting long shadows over the man. His steely green eyes locked into John's.
John stood where he was for a long moment, then took a slow step forward.
"...Sh...Sherlock..?" He could barely even whisper out the name. His mouth hung agape in complete shock of what was happening.
The tall, dark man took a few tentative steps around the chair and towards John.
"...John..." the ever so familiar baritone voice rumbled in reply.
A gasp with a mix of a choked back sob escaped John's mouth. He took a couple of hurried steps until he was standing right in front of Sherlock. He looked over him multiple times. Yes, the same dark curly hair, pale complexion, high sharp cheekbones, and tall lean figure. This was Sherlock Holmes...Sherlock was standing right in front of him, alive and well...
Sherlock closely watched his friend taking in his presence. It had been quite a long time. He could see the shock, the anger, and the overwhelming relief flash across John's face.
"John, I-"
John's fist flew with such force and speed that when it connected with Sherlock's face, the impact sent the consulting detective sprawling flat on the ground.
Dazed, Sherlock slowly sat up, his nose tingling in an odd fashion. Surely it was broken now. He brought a hand up and felt the wet heat of fresh blood trickling down his nose and lips. He looked back up at John.
John's hands were clenching into to fists, then releasing and clenching over and over. The man's eyes shone with tears that had yet to fall, and his face kept twisting into a look of pain, then anger. He tried speaking, tried to form words, but they stopped and evaporated before they could leave his tongue.
Sherlock gingerly got to his feet, not taking his eyes off of his dear friend. He wanted John to yell at him, he deserved it, just as much as he had deserved that blow to his nose. He could only imagine the suffering that John had to go through, watching Sherlock "die" right in front of his eyes. To have everyone around him doubt Sherlock's intentions.
The tall man stood awkwardly in front of his suffering flatmate, unsure of what to do next.
But he didn't have to do anything.
John lunged at Sherlock, pulling him into a tight embrace.
The startled detective stood there wide-eyed, his arms held up a bit in astonishment as the first watery sob erupted from John's chest.. He could feel John's hands grip the back of his dark coat.
Then slowly, almost nervously, Sherlock lowered his arms and steadily wrapped them around the trembling man's shoulders.
John's hold tightened and he buried his face into Sherlock's chest, so Sherlock tightened his grip as well, pressing his face into John's hair. Blood smeared into the sandy blonde strands, but neither of the men cared.
It had been painful for Sherlock during his hiding as well. All that time...alone. He handled solitude well before, but that was before he had met John. John had shown him how wonderful it felt to have someone nearby that cared, even if the detective had acted aloof and cold, he was eternally grateful for the friendship that had formed between them. Coming up here to the flat to see John had taken every drop of courage Sherlock could muster. He had been scared. Scared that John would reject him in a fit of rage or just want nothing to with him.
But now here he was, holding onto John like his life depended on it, and with John doing the same. Sherlock knew that John had hundreds of questions, but he also knew that they could wait.
They were here, and they were together.
For the time being, all was well.
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