Author's notes: since Sherlock series 3 is now being filmed, I thought it could be a great time to (finally) publish this fanfic. I apologize for any mistake - grammar or vocabulary or typos or who knows. I hope I've found them all, but if you see any, please let me know and I'll correct them. English is not my first language (sadly), and I don't have a beta (also sadly).
So... Enjoy! :)
Disclaimer: all of this, of course, belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC (Moffat and Gatiss, yes, I'm speaking about the two of you!). I make no profit out of it, I only have fun with the characters.
Three steps separated Sherlock from John. Each three of them bore something from the past three years; pain and loneliness and the abyss of unshared experiences.
/J/
Sherlock was simply "not anymore." He was not talking anymore, not breathing anymore, not calling John home from the other side of town just to make him send a text anymore, not insulting anymore or complaining anymore or making any more awful drugged coffee nor leaving any more horrible experiments in the fridge. Sherlock was not there anymore. The jump had taken him where John would not follow, not yet. Sherlock had left not to ever return.
/S/
Sherlock had left with the very clear intention to be back as soon as the situation would allow him to. He had prepared himself for a forced holiday abroad that would last not more than a year, and only if worst came to worst. Not even in his most dreadful nightmares had he imagined he would stay away - from John and Baker Street and the cases and Lestrade and Mrs Hudson and Molly and yes, even Mycroft - for almost three years. Closed in a monastery in Tibet, for three years he waited and meditated and was mostly avoided by everyone.
Bees became his most cherished company.
/J/
London was grey and gloomy and worst of all, it stank. The sky was grey, the buildings were grey, the Thames was grey, rain was grey, the light was grey and even people were grey. It was the saddest and the loneliest place in the world. Not even once did John ever think about moving away. The grey gravestone he visited every weekend refused to be left behind, as did the memories of more colourful times, when the world had been a whirlwind of red and hurry and brilliance and fire and ice and blue, blue, blue.
/S/
London was the most beautiful place in the world. It was grey and it stank, but it was not nearly as gloomy as the mountains that had offered him shelter for the past two years and a half. Sherlock was ecstatic at the thought of coming back. Soon he would; there was only three last pressing matters to be settled, and this ones would be settled by him. No secret services, no meddling brother, nobody else but him and his preys. He had waited for this moment since the day he faked his death.
/J/
Brown eyes met his from the other side of the room. They were warm and kind and smiling shyly, and John was compelled to them. They were the polar opposites of the other pair of eyes that were haunting his thoughts as of lately, most often accompanied by guilt and loneliness and weariness. He moved through the room to reach the brown eyes, to see them more closely and maybe discover who they belonged to, and he found himself making the acquaintance of Mary Morstan.
/S/
Brown eyes met his from the other side of the room. They were cold and steely and flashing with anger, and Sherlock was disgusted by them. They were the polar opposites of the other pair of eyes that were occupying his thoughts as of lately, most often accompanied by a feeling of past happiness and a present wish to come back to that easy friendship. The person the cold brown eyes belonged to made a dash for the only way of escape that was left, but Sherlock made no movement to follow; he simply raised his arm and pressed his finger on the trigger. Red blossomed on the pavement.
Sherlock never bothered to check if the man was dead or alive; either way, Mycroft's men would find him soon.
/J/
Life with Mary Morstan in it was not as grey as it once was. There was some white in it, some green and some yellow and even some blue, but John firmly stayed away from the kind of red that still plagued his dreams. Most importantly, he avoided the memory of a very special shade of blue that would never return, and that only brought more pain in his damned leg. He kept his mouth shut fast about the pain in his chest, but that had been with him for a year anyway. It was a constant reminder of a friend he once had had.
/S/
Life with a purpose in it was not as boring as it once was. There were deductions and the hastiness of a chase once more, and none of that moping around he could not stand. The days of waiting were past; the days of action had only just returned. Sherlock was feeling alive for the first time in almost three years, and it was more addicting than drugs.
He took aim and fired at the man who had threatened Mrs Hudson's life. Again, he did not stop to look back if he was dead or alive: he had one last pressing matter to attend to.
/J/
He could almost understand Sherlock's restlessness, now that he knew how catching a criminal - alone, following nobody else's deductions but his own - felt like. Adrenaline and pride and satisfaction and the feeling of doing something good and useful again... It was heady. Addictive. He was not sure he could do without anymore.
Why in all heavens had he accepted Lestrade's offer to see a crime scene again?
/S/
London. Finally, his city. His home. His own battlefield, with one last enemy to fight before winning the war. He disguised himself, for he didn't want to be accidentally recognised in the streets, however improbable it might be: after all, it had been three years since his 'death'. Nobody - except probably Molly or Mycroft or his own enemy - would be looking for him. Not even John. Not even his best friend, who, as he'd been informed, had moved on from his 'death'. Sherlock could not, in all honesty, resent him. Three years was too much time to wait for one more miracle.
/J/
John had finally found a way to balance every single aspect of his life. He had his job as a GP, his hobby as a consulting doctor-detective (which was proving to be more difficult than expected, but also more fulfilling) and had just recently moved in with Mary. Life was finally straightening out, and John was really, truly happy.
He really had to expect that it would be the perfect moment for everything to change again and turn his newfound stability upside down.
/S/
It was an impulse too strong to be fought, too compelling to be denied. Since he could not seem to stay away, he decided he might as well not stay away and face the problem. Face John and the past and that loneliness which had taken residence somewhere deep in his chest and just wouldn't go away. He took a deep breath, checked once more that his disguise was in perfect place, and stepped in John's way.
/J/
Sherlock was alive. Alive. Alive! Alive and well - and now with a broken nose and probably a wounded ego. What was he expecting, that John would faint and then declare his undying love for him? He was not a woman, for God's sake. And he didn't love Sherlock Holmes that way. Sherlock was his best friend and he had died, but he really hadn't and he was alive and back and John had just thrown him out because he could not deal with all his thoughts with Sherlock there to dissect them and analyse them and analyse him and his life during those past three years and Mary and God, Mary had never met Sherlock and now she would have to and would she be able to stand him?
/S/
Sherlock had not known what to expect. No wilting John and no emotional breakdowns, that's for sure, but a broken nose and a cold shower of fury hadn't exactly been part of any of his mental scenarios. But that was John, wasn't he - always predictable except for when Sherlock was involved. So he had to change the plan and left a paper with an address and an hour written on it pinned on John's door. He hoped John would be predictable and join him in this last matter.
/J/
When John came back from the walk he had taken to clear his head, he found that Sherlock had left an address and an hour and a little message, too. Could be dangerous. John crushed the paper and threw it away in a fit of anger. Then he sat on his chair, fuming and thinking and generally wondering. He had thrown Sherlock out before the man could start explaining and making excuses, therefore John did not know a thing about his version of the past three years. What had Sherlock been doing in all this time? How had he even managed to fake his own death? And how many people had known that he was still alive? His brother for sure, but maybe someone else? And why, why, why hadn't he told John?
/S/
Sherlock waited. And waited. And waited. Then he waited some more, and then he could wait no more, because Moran was there, and Sherlock had to hope John would not come in right at that moment, or his trap would snap on the wrong prey - namely, him.
/J/
When Mary came home from work, that evening, John was still sitting in his chair, but not fuming anymore. Now he was more worried and curious than angry. He wanted answers now, more than he wanted to punch Sherlock for the pain he had caused him. Of course, one thing did not exclude the other - he could still have his answers and punch Sherlock if they were not to his taste. But, as Mary's presence made him notice, the appointed hour to meet Sherlock had long since passed. Therefore, he went to the only place he could think of where Sherlock would surely find him.
/S/
Sebastian Moran had been arrested. John was safe once more, but he was not there with him, his steady, safe, warm presence at his side, to tell him how brilliant he had been in all this. He briefly considered visiting him again - but if John had not come, surely he would not want to see Sherlock. So he went to the only place he had ever thought of as 'home'.
/J/
John arrived just fifteen minutes before Sherlock did. Mrs Hudson let him in, and for the first time in three years, he set foot in his old apartment. It had remained the same as he had left it, three years ago. He was not sure he wanted to know how it was even possible. He sat in his old chair, and just… Waited.
/
Three steps now separated Sherlock and John. Each three of them bore something from the past three years; a deep pain and a kindred loneliness and the abyss of unshared but parallel experiences. They looked at each other from two sides of a threshold, wary, hopeful, not daring to make the first move.
In the end, John took one step back. The door stayed open.
Sherlock took four steps forward.
The door of 221b Baker Street closed behind them both.