Dr. Watson grimaced as he looked up at the typical London sky, the bleak London sky. Maybe today wasn't the best day to do it. Maybe he should wait for a sunny day, a day on which he might at least pretend he was happy. John sighed. His best friend had been dead for three years, there hadn't been a happy day since.
Realization hit John and he stopped his walk down Baker Street. His best friend had been dead three years to the day. He inhaled sharply and blinked away the tears, stinging his eyes. Clearing his throat, he nodded. Today was the perfect day, however depressing it was. Besides, he'd been putting it off for ages. He was going to finally visit 221B Baker Street, a place that haunted him in his dreams every night and a place where anything he looked at or touched brought back painful memories of his favorite sociopath.
John shook himself and continued, with long belicose strides, down the nearly empty London street. The only civilians on the street were an elderly woman, her shopping hanging on her arm; a couple of tourists, obviously lost, someone John would have helped out three years ago; and a tall man, his face covered by thte hood of his sweatshirt, and dragging on a cigarette. John felt tears sting his eyes again. Sherlock had been as tall and nearly as thing…when he was alive.
Again, John mentally shook himself and looked to the door labeled 221B. He slowly took out the keys he always carried, but never used. The keys were lifted to the lock with shaking hands. Before he could reach the lock, he slammed his fist against the door.
"Damn you, Holmes," he whispered. Over the past few years he had cursed, damned, pleaded, and begged with the memory of the man. Whenever he thought of Sherlock. He always thought of Sherlock.
Every relationship the doctor had had with anyone else was ruined after Sherlock's death. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Molly had all taken him out multiple times to try to help him cope. But Mrs. Hudson was too motherly where Molly and Lestrade had ended up going out themselves some nights and John hadn't wished to be an inconvenience by ever joining them. Not only did it seem inconvenient to them, it highlighted his own loneliness. He might have been happy if only… If only Sherlock hadn't jumped everything would be different. Not least of which was the moment in which he found himself now. John wouldn't be standing in front of his old flat, mentally preparing himself to open a damned door.
"Pull yourself together, John. You have to do it sometime. It'll hurt whenever you do it," he mumbled to himself through gritted teeth. John let out a sigh with a quiet whimper, but squared his shoulders and took a deep breath, pushing in the key and turning the handle. In a moment he was inside.
The hall was dark and smelled of dust. Mrs. Hudson had moved out over a year ago and no one had been back since. She hadn't been able to stand the stillness, despite all the complaints she had voiced about Sherlock's experiments and ruckus when he was alive.
Everything stood as it had three years ago. Mrs. Hudson had spoken of giving Sherlock's things to a school, but in the end couldn't bring herself to do such a thing. In a way, John was glad; he wanted to be able to look back fondly at Sherlock through the things left behind. But memories brought pain with the fondness, pain that John still wasn't sure he was prepared for.
The doctor looked up the stairs to the where he knew he would feel a rush of emotions, most powerful among them, of course, grief. He sniffed and began the long walk to his painful past, or rather present.
The man in the hooded jumper looked up sharply as the door closed behind the doctor. He had pale skin and his sharp cheekbones protruded in a sickly way. He looked as ig he hadn't seen quite enough food or sunlight for a long while. Stubble covered the cheeks under the pale eyes that looked towards 221. A tear ran down his face and he shakily put a hand to where it settled. Bringing his moist fingers in front of his eye, he looked startled and amazed. He sniffed back the rest of this moisture and took one more drag from the cigarette in his hand before crushing it beneath the toe of his Converse. He glanced down the street in
either direction before dashing across, hands stuffed in his pockets.
At the door, he raised his arm to knock but resisted for a second longer. He had been waiting for this moment for years. Ever since he began following John he had wanted to reveal himself, or for John to recognize him. There were times he thought John had realized who he was: times on a nearly empty bus, a crowded tube car, or a deserted street. Today, again, he thought John would come to his senses and understand who the lonely man in the torn jeans and oversized hoody was, but no. Would he have preferred John to recognize him on the street or did he want to knock on the door of their old flat as he had planned? Either way it would be slightly awkward and quite emotional, he was sure. Two experiences he was not familiar with.
He took a deep breath and knocked out the beats for "Vatican Cameos," the safe word they had made so long ago. He doubted John would recognize the meaning, but he knew and somehow it gave him more confidence.
John stood in the middle of the living room with clenched fists. He was handling everything much better than he had expected he would. He looked around and saw Sherlocks old robe draped casually across the seat the man had always inhabited. John let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding as he picked it up. He brought it slowly to his nose and inhaled. Even after three years he could remember Sherlock's scent, and this one fabric had managed to keep it safe for him.
Watson jumped as six sharp, distinct knocks sounded on the door. "Who the hell-?" he asked aloud. No one stayed here any more, who would be knocking on the door? "Mycroft," he groaned. Mycroft probably had the flat watched, he realized. His "minor position in the British government" allowed him to have any place he wished watched.
Carefully setting the robe back, John stormed down the stairs. If he wished to visit his old flat, he'd bloody well visit it. No one in the British government could tell him otherwise.
He jerked the door open and saw someone he would not expect to work for Mycroft, bur rather someone who would be in Sherlock's old homeless network. John frowned.
"Yes? Can I help you?" he asked brusquely.
The man looked at him intently and John stared back blankly.
"Well? I'm sorry, if you're looking for Sherlock he's – not here anymore," John said, gulping down emotions.
John began to close the door. "Wait!" the man said, stopping the door with his hand.
"What is it?" John asked, glaring at him now.
"I – I … John, please," the man whispered.
John's stomach dropped and his eyes widened. He could feel his knees going weak under him and he gripped the door. It was Sherlock Holmes, begging with him, and alive.
"Sher – Sherlock," he gasped.
Sherlock quickly grasped John's arm and stepped into the dark hall, closing the door behind him and taking all of John's weight on himself.
John quickly regained himself, however, and embraced Sherlock, clinging to him in disbelief. Sherlock responded to the embrace in kind, wrapping his arms above John's. He felt John shaking and realized that the smaller man was crying. Sherlock felt his heart falter and tears came to his own eyes, but he quickly halted them.
"Sherlock, how are you here? I can't – I – I … Why, Sherlock? Why?" John asked, unable to understand how he was suddenly hugging his dead friend.
He pulled away and looked up at the younger man. His face was even more sunken in that it had been before and he was unshaven. It wasn't surprising John hadn't recognized him. Sherlock smiled slightly.
Suddenly John was filled with a burst of rage. He pulled back his arm and swung at his friends perfectly carved, if somewhat sallow, face.
"That's for ruining the past three years!" he shouted at the now fallen man.
Sherlock didn't respond, he knew he deserved much worse. He stood up but was quickly knocked down again.
"That's because you never gave me the slightest hing!"
"I know, I'm sorry, John. I wanted to but –," he couldn't finish as he knocked down again.
"And that's for causing me more pain than a bullet wound," John finished.
Sherlock looked up from where he crouched, nursing a bleeding lip. He brought himself to his full height slowly until he towered over John.
Tears ran down John's face and he bowed his head, not wanted to look at the man in front of him any more, yet wishing he could hug him and never let go.
Sherlock could feel his heart breaking. He had never meant to cause John so much pain, or himself just as much. But it had all been for John's safety. He had spent the last three years of his "death" removing all of the intricate strings in Moriarty's web, and there hadn't been a day where he didn't wish he could return to 221B and sit quietly with his friend.
"I thought of you all the time, John," he said at last, his voice raspy and unfamiliar to his ears, thick with emotion, he realized. He had heard such a voice from John as he had watched the man visit his "grave."
"Well that's wonderful news! Now everything is forgiven, Sherlock! As long as you recognized there was a person out there that you had hurt," John yelled, lifting his face and glaring at the man not shrinking in shame before him. "You knew what you were doing and yet you couldn't even give me a clue? I know I'm not as clever as you, but I could have picked up on a subtle hint during that horrible phone call."
Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but John cut him off.
"Don't try and defend yourself by saying you had tapped out some code beforehand in the lab because I'm not buying it." John turned and stomped back up the stairs.
Sherlock frowned in surprise, John was clever. Moriarty had used a code, could John have known about it? Of course not, it was just a coincidence, John knew the kinds of things Sherlock would have come up with. He rushed after his friend.
"And that time in the lab!" John greeted him with, turning around forecefully. "You knew Mrs. Hudson wasn't hurt and yet you let me go –!"
"I had to!" Sherlock defended himself, pulling himself up to his full height.
John pulled back in surprise, affronted. He hadn't expected a response. "Oh?" he said, suddenly silenced.
Sherlock sighed. "Nothing I did was meant to hurt you. Please," he begged, his voice husky again as he swallowed back the emotion building in his throat, "let me explain."
John eyed him warily, but he realized it was truly unfair of him to yell without at least hearing the man out. "Fine," he breathed out. He gestured to the man's old chair. "Explain."
***To be Continued***