Sherlock's POV
The streets of London were bursting with people Christmas shopping, yet Sherlock Holmes felt as though he was completely alone. There weren't any major differences in the city he used to reside in; the crowds consisted of urgent strangers and there were a few different shops and vendors here and there, though he was happy to see that Angelo's was still in business.
He didn't hear the thousands of conversations; he didn't smell the horrid mixtures of perfume and body odor; he didn't feel the light flirtatious brushes and urgent bumps of the people passing by.
Sherlock just stood and took in the strangely unfamiliar sight of London.
He couldn't pinpoint what was different about the city. There wasn't anything missing that would give him such a horridly strong feeling that he didn't belong. There wasn't anything sentimental about it, there couldn't be anything sentimental about it; all of the discomfort merely stemmed from the foreign-ness of the city.
A sleek black car pulled up on his side of the street, and Sherlock sighed. Couldn't he spend five minutes in London without being pestered?
Yanking the door open, Sherlock slid in beside Anthea who was, much to his shock, twiddling on her phone (playing Words With Friends with Mycroft as usual).
The detective didn't look at her for the rest of the trip, choosing instead to stare out the window.
They drove by Baker Street, and Sherlock was rewarded with a glimpse of a certain doctor, limping into 221B with a sack of groceries.
"Don't even think about it," Anthea warned, not looking up from her game.
Sherlock inwardly slumped, though he didn't allow himself to show any signs of hearing her words.
It was going to be a long drive.
Two hours later, they finally arrived at Sherlock's childhood home in the country, where Mycroft was waiting. Anthea moved to walk in front of him, but Sherlock brushed past her. He didn't need to be led around in his own house.
It wasn't hard to find Mycroft; he was in the library, lounging comfortably in a large chair beside a bookshelf that went from floor to ceiling. The desk in front of him was overflowing with papers and photographs.
"Long time no see, dear brother," Sherlock greeted, plopping into a chair across from Mycroft.
"I see your manners haven't improved during your absence," Mycroft sniffed.
"I was too busy to worry about pointless niceties, as you well know."
"Yes, well, now that that is out of the way, I suggest you start."
"I have more important things to worry about," Sherlock spat.
"Ah yes," Mycroft smiled. "The doctor."
"Military doctor"
"Ex-military doctor."
"But a military doctor nonetheless."
"Why are you avoiding his name? Don't tell me you've forgotten it."
"I haven't." How could I?
"Of course," Mycroft smirked. "But that isn't what troubles you."
Sherlock was silent, though he never looked away from his brother.
Instead of spouting a snide remark from his lips, Mycroft silently leaned forward and pushed a file toward Sherlock.
"It has been a long three years for him too. He didn't take your suicide very well. Would you like to read those files?"
The detective hesitated. He wanted more than anything to read the documents and see every detail of John's life during the absence, but it felt like a violation of the worst sort. It was the same reason why he never read the doctor's military files; it was a topic neither of them discussed. Besides, after all he had done, did Sherlock really deserve to read about the doctor's personal life?
"No."
Mycroft's eyebrows shot up, and Sherlock wanted to laugh at the ridiculous sight. He knew the doctor would've.
"Well," Mycroft began, his eyebrows sinking to their normal position. "John took up some... interesting habits while you were away."
"What did John do?" Sherlock loathed the emotion that drenched his tone, but his brother acted like nothing happened.
"He began cutting himself during the first year, but I put a stop to that. I was, however, unable to make him quit smoking."
"What did he say?"
"He ignored me."
If the situation were different, Sherlock would've smiled at John's stubbornness.
"He still mourns you; that much is obvious. He's shut everyone out but Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. He actually started helping out at the crime scenes; he works for Lestrade now."
"He's not working at the hospital anymore?"
"He quit. Apparently he couldn't stand it there anymore. He's currently working on a case with the D.I.," Mycroft handed Sherlock a relatively light folder.
Sherlock scanned it over before snapping it shut and handing it back. "Child's play."
"Indeed."
The detective stood and walked to the door. He didn't say a word as he left the house and entered the car.
The sun was beginning to rise as Sherlock flounced up to the relatively nice door and knocked, rather loudly, three times before stepping back.
He could hear grumbling as footsteps grew louder and louder until locks were being fiddled with and the door swung open.
Lestrade blinked rapidly and rubbed his eyes (recently divorced, stressed (about the case), healthy, dating a new girl (Molly?-
Sherlock's thoughts were interrupted by the D.I.'s fist slamming into his face before grabbing the detective's scarf and yanking him into the flat. Lestrade slammed the door and turned to Sherlock.
"You better have a damn good reason for this Sherlock," Lestrade hissed, his barely-restrained fury evident in his tone and clenched fists.
Sherlock briefly explained the conversation on the roof and the threat. The D.I.'s anger didn't vanish, but his eyes did soften as Sherlock uncharacteristically rambled, and, when the detective was done, Lestrade sat in his chair and continued staring at the man in front of him.
"Do you know how much you hurt John?"
"I had no idea he would be this affected."
Lestrade blinked, clearly not expecting to be answered. "Mycroft?"
"He told me about the cutting and the smoking."
"Did he tell you how long it took me to get him to leave his flat? Did he tell you that he moved out of Baker Street and only just returned? Did he tell you that John hasn't dated anyone since? Did he tell you how John nearly died three times from malnutrition?"
"No," Sherlock whispered, his face growing whiter with each question.
"Did you really think that John wouldn't be hurt by you plummeting to your death RIGHT IN FRONT OF HIM?"
"I THOUGHT THAT HE WOULD MOVE ON! I knew he would grieve, we were friends after all, but no one has ever cared for me beyond tolerance before. I thought that after a few weeks he would be able to return to normal."
"A few weeks? You really are an idiot."
Sherlock moved to the window, his back facing the D.I. as he processed the man's insult. There was something he was missing, something vital.
"Sentiment?" He muttered, his hands clenching on the windowsill.
"Yup. He was your only friend-" Sherlock turned and glared at Lestrade "-calm down, he told me everything. He was your only friend, and, you know what? You were his. Sure he has me and Mrs. Hudson, but our bond with him doesn't come close to yours."
"I wasn't his only friend." Sherlock stubbornly crossed his arms in front of his chest. He wasn't, not really. John was the social one; he was the one that could enter a room and, in five minutes, become friends with every inhabitant. Sherlock had always envied John's natural ability to ease everyone around him. Perhaps that had been what had drawn Sherlock to the doctor when they first met; perhaps Sherlock had seen that John was the one man that could tolerate him.
It wasn't exactly a mystery to Sherlock as to why he never had a flat mate for longer than two weeks before John.
"You were his only close friend. I don't know, maybe you two were more than that, but it wasn't a secret to anyone, not even Anderson, that there was something between you two."
Sherlock didn't say anything; he merely turned back to the window. For the first time in his life, he didn't trust his voice to not betray him.
"Does he know?"
Sherlock shook his head.
"Shit Sherlock what the hell are you doing here then?" Lestrade fumed for a few moments, pacing back and forth before suddenly stopping. "You need my help to do that don't you?"
Sherlock nodded.
"I'm assuming you already know about the case?"
Sherlock nodded.
"Alright, I think I have an idea."
Sherlock hid in the shadows of the abandoned flat, his heart racing and his breathing ragged.
He had been crouching in the corner for two hours, and his legs had fallen asleep though his mind was louder than ever.
What would John do when he saw the detective?
Would he-
The sound of footsteps assaulted Sherlock's ears as they grew louder and louder until suddenly the doorknob was turning and the door burst open, the doctor scanning the room and freezing when he saw Sherlock in the shadows.
"Show yourself; step into the light." John's voice, hard and apathetic, sliced through the silence.
"John," Sherlock replied, rising from his crouch, legs screaming in pain, and stepped hesitantly towards the stunned doctor.
"Sherlock?" John lowered his gun.
(tired, sore, lonely, smoker, still not eating properly (Sherlock would fix-
A loud thump shattered the detective's thought process as John collapsed to the ground. Sherlock ran to the doctor, cradling his head in his hands.
He felt something hot and sticky seep onto his fingertips.
The sight of John's blood made Sherlock dizzy, his ears buzzing and his mind entirely focused on his doctor.
Something tugged John out of his grasp, and Sherlock growled, ready to yank the doctor back until he saw that it was Lestrade that had taken the man from his grasp. Sherlock relinquished his hold somewhat, his hand still clutching John's as the three of them entered an ambulance.
As the paramedics bustled around him, Sherlock absentmindedly rubbed his thumb in circles on John's hand.
He ignored Lestrade's well-meaning attempts to comfort him.
Of course John was going to survive, he had to.