Homecoming
It was the three-year anniversary of Sherlock's death. John Watson wasn't entirely sure of what to do. Mrs. Hudson suggested he visit Sherlock's grave, but John didn't feel that was the right thing to do. He visited the cemetery every other day, but it felt different today. What would Sherlock want me to do? He thought for perhaps the thousandth time since his death. With a sigh, John sank down into his chair across from Sherlock's chair in the living room where so much had ensued. Here, John had really come to know Sherlock Holmes. This was the room where, on select evenings, when himself and Sherlock weren't running themselves ragged over a case, they talked. John on his blog, Sherlock playing his violin, sometimes they sat in a comfortable silence until Sherlock grew bored and began to shoot the spray painted smiley face on the wall. This was also the place where Sherlock solved many of his cases, pacing a rut in the floor, talking to himself, sometimes shouting. Now it was mostly empty, Mrs. Hudson came around every once in a while to clean, but otherwise, Sherlock's old things stayed in place. John felt as though he should perhaps leave and find another place, where he could leave the memories behind. The nightmare of his best friend jumping off of a building, the blood, Sherlock's blood, staining the street where John stood, barely breathing and trying to take the nonexistent pulse of Sherlock.
John had stayed though, not being able to bring himself to leave. Besides, what would Mrs. Hudson do? Someone had to stay. Even if he was at the station most of the time, helping Lestrade with some case or another. John felt that Sherlock would have liked him to keep on being a detective, or at least try. There were many cases so far in which many had grown so frustrated, that once, Lestrade had thrown down all of his papers and cursed loudly. Then he had shouted; "Where the bloody heck is Sherlock when you need him?!" He then grew quite pale and sank down into his chair saying, "Sorry about that. It's just.. he would have taken one look at the poor victim and told us it was obvious and that we were all idiots, then explained everything from how it had gotten there to where the murderer had eaten their bloody dinner." Anderson had promptly followed suit in throwing everything down before stalking angrily out of the room. Sally looked around and declared something about how much better it was without him. I glared at her and ran at her. If Lestrade hadn't held me back, she would have been hospitalized.
The lock clicked on the door, starting John out of his reverie. "John, dear, I've just brought you a cuppa." Mrs. Hudson's voice, small and quavering, sounded near the door. Dr. Watson heaved himself up with a sigh and went to meet her. He noticed that she was wearing her black dress, the one she had worn to Sherlock's funeral. "Been to the, eh, cemetery then, eh Mrs. Hudson?" John asked Mrs. Hudson nodded gravely. "Yes, of course dearie, I expect you'll be headed over with Lestrade later then?" she asked, making sound like more of a fact than a question. John cleared his throat without answering. "John, I don't see what's so hard about it, you go every other day already and you were just there yesterday! What is so awful about today, why is it any different?" Mrs. Hudson asked desperately. "It's um not the right day." John muttered. "Oh now that's just silly!" she exclaimed. "help me out and get the tea into the kitchen then go sit down in the living room and rest your leg."
Since Sherlock had died, John's limp had returned and he had been using a cane again for the past five months. As John limped back into the living room, he listened while Mrs. Hudson busied herself with making him and herself tea. It had become routine, Mrs. Hudson coming up to the flat to share a cuppa with John and talk about Sherlock. They kept everything clean between the two of them, with John in charge of all of the science equipment and Sherlock's violin, and Mrs. Hudson kept everything dusted and tidy. It was sometimes as if Sherlock hadn't died and he was just out as usual, running around the city looking for a murderer or kidnapper of some kind. The mess was still there, just oddly clean. John wasn't even sure why they did it, it wasn't as if Sherlock was coming back anyhow. It just felt like the right thing to do.
"Here we are, nice cup of tea, dear." Mrs. Hudson said warmly, setting the tray down on the table. "Here you go John, nice and hot, the way you like it." she smiled, handing him a cup of steaming tea. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson" "Now then John, let's have a talk about something. You need to see his grave today. He would have wanted it, and I believe that he would like to hear you talk to him today, don't you think?" John sat down his cup of untouched tea with a sigh. "I know, but when I'm there, it just seems more...Real. When I'm here, with you, it's almost like it never happened, and when I look over, Sherlock will be on the couch laying down thinking or something, or shooting the wall-" he broke off and stared off into space for a moment. Mrs. Hudson and his therapist both thought he should visit Sherlock today, even though he had vehemently disagreed. Should I? John thought, trying not to seem rude for tuning Mrs. Hudson out.
With a defeated sigh he turned back to Mrs. Hudson. "Fine, I'll go with Lestrade and Molly later." he grumbled. "There's a good lad. Now, drink something dear, or have a biscuit" Mrs. Hudson offered, holding out a plate full of biscuits. Just as John reached out to take two, the buzzer rang and Mrs. Hudson sighed. "I'll get it." she said, looking at my leg. Shaking her head, she headed for the door. The buzzer sounded again, and Mrs. Hudson called, "I'm on my way, dear, just a moment." her feet scuffed then floor as she opened the door. There was a single sharp gasp that I heard, then just one word, strangled and soft. "Sherlock!"
There was a grunt and then a thumping noise, as though someone had fallen. For a moment, John didn't move. Could he have possible heard...? No, Mrs. Hudson was seeing things. "Mrs. Hudson!" John called out, starting to grab his cane to get up. There was no reply. "Mrs. Hudson!" He called again, "Are you alright?" As fast as his psychosomatic limp would let him go, he went out to the front hall, where a strange scene awaited John. A very tall, black haired man was leaning over Mrs. Hudson, who was obviously unconscious and slumped on the stairs. "Oi!" John shouted. "What do you think you're-" he broke off as the man straightened up and looked at him. He held up his hands and Sherlock said, "I, I can explain John."
For a moment, John couldn't see, he couldn't hear, he couldn't feel. There was a blur, and a flash of uncontrollable anger. Suddenly, Sherlock was stumbling back, holding his now bleeding jaw. John shook his hand, pain jarring his clenched fist. "Wait! Wait, please, I can explain, I can explain, John." Sherlock cried. "Please. Just help me move Mrs. Hudson to the couch. Taking her legs, John leaned all the way on his left leg as to not agitate his right anymore. Sherlock and John half carried-half dragged Mrs. Hudson on to the couch, where while John went to grab his cane, Sherlock fixed her so she was in a comfortable position. When John returned, Sherlock looked at him in concern, his gaze fixed on his leg. John cleared his throat. "Well, what the bloody heck is going on here?" he snapped.
Sherlock looked at John for a moment before beginning. "Well John, the first thing you must understand is that if I had been able to, I would have asked you for help." "Then why didn't you?" John interrupted "John, your life was hanging by a thread, if I asked you for help, I knew you'd be killed! So I went to the next best, the one I knew could truly help me, with the pulling it off anyway. Not that you couldn't, but, well, you understand I'm sure." "Er, ah I actually don't under-" John was cut off mid-sentence "Details" Sherlock said airily "But anyway , I went to Molly for help and she was able to help me-" "SHERLOCK!" John yelled suddenly. Sherlock, startled, stopped. "I could have helped! You should have called or texted or something!" "YOU WERE BEING HELD AT GUNPOINT, JOHN AND I COULDN'T WATCH YOU DIE!" Sherlock roared. "Sherlock! I used to be a bloody soldier! I'm used to being shot at!" "Ah, but you also often went out prepared with gear and something to fight back with! You were unarmed, unprotected, and the only way to save your life, Mrs. Hudson's life, Lestrade's life, and I don't know how many others, probably very few, if I'm honest, was by my death, even if it wasn't real!
"It was one of the hardest thing's I'd ever had to do, John, leaving you." Sherlock continued. "And I know-" "No you don't" John said suddenly. "Pardon?" "You don't know! I missed you Sherlock! I missed all of those stupid things you did, The pacing during your cases. I missed it when you got up in the middle of the night and played that bloody violin of yours until my head was shrieking with a headache the next day because I couldn't sleep! I missed you telling everyone they were idiots and how boring it must be in their funny little brains. I missed it when you weren't there shooting up the wall when you were bored and then flinging yourself onto that couch and tried to think. I even missed our games of bloody Cluedo when you'd get angry that the victim couldn't have committed the crime and started tossing the pieces. I missed it. For. Three. Bloody. Years."
"Well how do you think I felt?!" Sherlock shot back "I was able to see you but I couldn't comfort you. I couldn't help you John! It tore me apart seeing you in so much pain, for these past three years. I missed you too! I was rarely around you, always having to hide. I missed you telling me to stop being such a smart mouth and to be kinder to Molly. I missed it when you weren't there being bossy-" "Bossy?!" "-And I missed your bloody blog and all of those times when you'd give me those looks when people mentioned your blog and how wonderful it was. I also missed your calm, and your quiet encouragement. John, I missed it when I'd pull someone's life apart and spill it all before that person and all you'd say was 'brilliant, or 'amazing'. I missed you John, and now... well I don't know if I'll be able to get back to the way it was anymore."
Sherlock sank back down, he had stood when beginning to shout at John, and put his head in his hands. For the first time since John had known Sherlock, he looked defeated. "Afghanistan or Iraq." John said suddenly. Sherlock lifted his head. "What?" he said, bewildered. "Afghanistan or Iraq." John repeated. "Those were the first two words you ever said to me and all I can remember thinking when you explained yourself was: "My good Lord this man is good." I still think that today Sherlock. You are a good man Sherlock, in all the ways that matter, and that don't. I missed you, and now, if I'm totally honest, I am looking forward to not missing you anymore." With a small smile, John leaned forward, holding out his hand to shake. Much to John's surprise, Sherlock jumped up and pulled him into a tight embrace. For a few moments, the two men hugged only slightly awkwardly. Then John remembered; "Sherlock, I believe we should wake Mrs. Hudson now...