The early spring tended to be cold in the city of Amsterdam. People were wearing warm clothes and even Sherlock, like always though, was buried under his jacket, the worn out blue scarf around his neck. His hands were tightly in the jacket's pockets, the collar lifted up and a stern look was all his eyes reflected. He dragged his feet along, and for so many months now his steps had felt so heavy, so troublesome. He knew exactly why they felt like that, but he hadn't admitted it to himself aloud, and probably would never do so.
He didn't actually like Amsterdam that much. Too bright, too colorful. Full of useless people. The people were what bothered him the most. So stupid, people who didn't use their brains and think. In that way he preferred London. On the way back home he passed a cafe that had a gaudy marquis over its terrace, and he could hear every droplet of water that fell over it from the gloomy clouds on the sky. His gaze glanced through the people that were standing under the marquis, and with every people all he could think was useless, useless, useless. Sherlock merely looked away and lifted the collar of his jacket even more.
Whether he liked it or not, he had felt lonely for the past few months. His head supposingly smashed against the concrete in the street of London, he vividly still remembered the look on the other man's face when he had seen him. From that day onwards his chest had felt tight, and no matter what he did, the pain wouldn't ease. It would probably never ease.
The dark curls on Sherlock's head were getting flattened under the rain. He shivered from the slight coldness and only stared in front of him, not actually seeing anything. He was so bored. Every day the same, no real cases. The last one had been already two weeks ago. What an unimaginative headline the news reporter had came up with! The case of the Opium killer. He knew someone who would have written a better headline in no time, but that particular someone wasn't there anymore to write headlines or better, titles to blog posts.
But Sherlock wasn't missing him. No, he wasn't even being sentimental, just stating an obvious fact.
By the time he had turned around a corner to the street where his house was, his steps were slowing down, until he eventually stopped, only few doors away from his own door. He squinted his eyes when he saw how a man was standing in front of his house's door, holding a red umbrella, eyeing what he was seeing in front of him. Sherlock only needed to take one step forward when he was already making his deductions from the man.
Slightly shorter than average, hunched back. Maybe an office worker, no, someone who has been doing a lot of sitting. Not for work, though, a personal project simply because he doesn't look too tired. Chubby, hasn't probably given that much of attention to his looks. Wears the exact same jacket as... Ah!
Sherlock's eyes widened. From one deduction to another, it had suddenly started to become more clear. He took a short gasp of breath, and it seemed to catch the other man's attention who startled and turned to look at him.
John.
His mind was now running even more frantic than a second ago. He eyed the man from head to toe, seeing everything that there was to see.
Tired eyes. He has been staying up late. Each night by the look of the dark circles around his eyes. He has been concerned, the wrinkles in his forehead has deepened since I last saw him. The ink in his fingertips, he has been reading newspapers, possibly trying to find news about me. So many newspapers that the ink has carved its way into his skin. The way he smiles now—
John was, indeed, smiling to him, tiredly. Sherlock's dark eyebrows drew in into a frown, and his muscles didn't obey him anymore, so he only ended up standing there. Though John made no movement, either, so they ended up standing there, staring each other. For the first time the curl-haired man had so many questions in his mind that he was baffled and didn't even know how to start.
How did he find me? I was making a precise work so that no one would trace me. How did he—
"Two-two-one B again, huh?" was the only thing John said, pointed towards the front door. Sherlock's eyes widened.
Ah... Too sentimental.
Surely, there were the bronze numbers and letter, so familiar to both of them. Not in Baker Street, though, but a trace enough for the other to track him down. Sherlock had to admit that for once he didn't mind losing this sort of game.
The red umbrella was tossed to the ground when John made the first movement and for his surprise, Sherlock took him into a warm embrace. The arms wrapped themselves better around the shorter man, right in the middle of the street of Amsterdam, in front of 221B. The simple hug was enough for both of them, it served as an apology for the lies.
Suddenly Sherlock began to like Amsterdam a lot more.