A/N: Yet another fic prompt from tumblr, this time for katzuh who asked "Sherlock returns home three years after Reichenbach, John already knew he was alive and Sherlock is surprised." I love this idea! In case you haven't noticed, I use prompts to experiment with style and themes and things so this... came out slightly odd. I'd love to know what you think of the format.
(By the way, apologies for the total spam of these little oneshot things - there's probably four more coming, so brace yourselves - you guys are allowed to request them too, though, anything from Doctor Who, Supernatural, Good Omens or Sherlock, any ship, and I'll write you something. PM me! Or, if you're shy, leave an anonymous review or something.)
It takes him half an hour.
Half an hour of standing across the street, hoodie pulled up over his short, ginger hair to hide his eyes and the cheekbones that have only gotten more prominent over three years of not enough food or sleep and slowly ingrained dirt.
Half an hour of watching the unwavering light in the window of the flat opposite.
Half an hour of trying to swallow through the lump of fear and excitement and anxiety in his throat, telling himself that emotion is a chemical defect.
Half an hour of working up the courage to cross the street, unlock the familiar black door with the key he has kept in his pocket this whole time, and walk up the stairs soundlessly.
He stands, staring at the second door in front of him, the one he also has a key for – but it seems wrong, somehow, to open this door. Not without permission, at least. It is no longer his door, and though these kinds of social niceties have never bothered him before, everything seems different this time.
Maybe that's just the sleep deprivation talking.
It takes him a minute.
A minute of staring at the door, eyes tracing the grain of the wood without really seeing it, blinking slowly in the gloom of the corridor.
A minute of running his hands across the rough surface of it, unchanged even after all this time.
A minute of wondering.
A minute of heart-stopping indecision, of for once trying to work out how someone else is feeling, a minute of being so sick with guilt he wants to fall to his knees and curl up on the hard floor and sleep for a century to make up for the three days of it he's lost.
Then he raises a hesitant hand, curling fingers into a fist, and knocks. Once, lightly, skin pale against the wood in the dark. It barely makes a sound, low and muffled in the dark, and as he stands there with his hand still held in mid-air he wonders whether it's even audible, whether there's anyone in or awake to hear it, whether-
It takes John Watson less than a second to answer to door.
He stands there, hair rumpled and eyes narrow and foggy with sleep, too-long jogging bottoms pooling around his ankles and a loose jumper hanging off one shoulder, and Sherlock just stands there, hoodie still pulled up to cast shadows on his face, jeans battered and torn, trainers tracking mud over the floor, one hand in the air.
It's been over three years since he last saw John's face. One million, five hundred and seventy-seven thousand, eight hundred and seventy-eight point three minutes since he heard him scream, "Sherlock!" and felt the wind wrap around him as he stepped off the ledge. Ninety-four million, six hundred and seventy-two thousand, six hundred and ninety-eight seconds since he pulled the magic trick to end all magic tricks, and had to lay still on the pavement as John's hand curled around his wrist and a broken voice called, "He's my friend..."
They stare at each other for a while, the silence lengthening and thickening, stretching like syrup, and Sherlock can't stop staring. He feels tired and hungry and sick and dizzy and wants to laugh and cry and apologise and sleep forever, and he can't stop staring.
He wonders if John even recognises him anymore.
And finally John sighs, mouth stretching in a slow yawn, runs a hand through his hair, and says, "You're late. Mycroft said you should have arrived at least half an hour ago."
This is not what he had expected. Of all things, the punches and the stares and the crying and the screaming and the fainting or slamming the door in his face, this is not what he had expected. His mouth works silently for a second, trying to find words, to as how, but what comes out is soft and hoarse and broken and, "John..."
John looks shocked, although if he has been talking to Mycroft then surely his brother had mentioned the state he would be in – or maybe he had been trying to protect John. Either way, the doctor recovers his tongue soon enough. "You should probably come in," he says gently, "the kettle's on, and your bed's still there if you want it. You look like you could do with a kip."
"How did you...?" Sherlock stumbles in after John as the man turns his back and pads slowly to the kitchen, and shuts the door behind him. "Who...?"
"Molly, originally. She said she couldn't bear to see me upset." John pours tea into two old, chipped mugs, stirs them, fishes out teabags, adds milk. "Personally, I think she couldn't handle it, knowing on her own. You left her a lot to cope with, you know." There's quiet retribution in his voice, a soft verbal poke. "And then when Mycroft worked out you were alive, I got in contact with him and persuaded him it would be useful to keep me updated with your movements."
"How?" Sherlock accepts the mug John offers him gratefully, cradles it in his palms and savours the warmth, letting the vapour rise over his face. It will take a while to get used to the comfort of living in a house again. "My brother is..." He doesn't need to finish the sentence.
"I know you," responds John simply, taking a sip of his own tea – though it must be scorching hot. He's still calm, controlled, composed, although Sherlock knows that this still can't be easy on him. Just because he knew Sherlock was alive doesn't mean that three years apart hasn't created gaps and tension. "I was... remarkably adept at guessing your reasoning for things. Mycroft was impressed."
Sherlock has no response to this. He holds his tea until it starts turning cold, and then gulps it down four short mouthfuls, forgetting that he no longer needs to worry about someone trying to take it or whether he'll find anything else to drink for the rest of the day. John just stands there opposite him in silence, waiting, watching.
Again, there is silence. There are so many things Sherlock wants to ask – how long was it before Molly told him, does John still have his job at the clinic, does he have another girlfriend, how is Lestrade, have there been any interesting crimes he's missed, is Scotland Yard still functioning without him, how is Molly, what happened to Anderson and Donovan – but his mind is swimming and the walls are blurring and his mouth can't quite find the energy to form words.
"Sleep." A hand tugs the cup from his, and he relinquishes it without resistance, too tired to argue. "Go on. I'll still be here when you wake up, and you look dead on your feet." More hands, on his shoulders, pulling him to his old room and sitting him down on the bed, tugging his trainers off and divesting him of his hoodie, pulling a blanket over him.
Footsteps, someone leaving. He wants to reach out and stop them, call them back and ask them to talk, to answer his questions – but his eyes are heavy, and it's late, and the covers are warm and comfortable and a novelty after his time spent sleeping rough. It doesn't take him long to give up and surrender to the clutches of sleep.
After all, it has been three years and thirty two minutes. He can wait another few hours.