"I need to get out for a while".
Sherlock gazed silently at the shorter man's back. "John…"
He heard the soft sigh, saw the momentary hesitance, noted the presence of his limp, even though he refused to use his cane.
"John please.."
Somewhere below him, a door slammed shut. Sherlock closed his eyes, his hands under his chin in a praying position. Three weeks ago, he had returned home to Baker Street. Many times, he had written and directed the scenario of their reunion in his head. Sometimes, John fainted. Often, he hit him. Even more often, he shouted abuse at Sherlock until his voice gave away, how Sherlock was such a dick, how he could do this to him, how long those 3 years had been. Always, John had forgiven him. But never had Sherlock even thought of this scenario. It was as harsh and unforgiving as only reality could be.
221b was quiet now, but it was no longer that comforting silence that meant both could be in the same room without needing to acknowledge each other's presence. The only silence left now was the noise of words unspoken, sentiments unexpressed. Guilt. Anger. Exhaustion. Loneliness. Bitterness. Sadness for what was lost.
Sherlock often wondered whether he had really known what it would mean to John, standing on that rooftop. He wondered whether he would have hesitated if had he been able to see John's face. He knew, when he was lying on the ground watching through eyes pretending to be empty, when he saw John's knees give away, that John wouldn't be able to walk away without a few bruises. But had he known that John would never be able to forgive him, despite knowing his reasons? And would it have made any difference?
He thought he would be sacrificing his reputation when he jumped off that building. In reality, he had sacrificed the only friendship he had ever known, and he wasn't sure anymore whether he had really saved John at all.
And should he have returned at all? Wouldn't it have been better, wouldn't John have found peace, if Sherlock had just stayed dead? If Sherlock had died cleaning up Moriarty's web, would that have been a tragedy? John was still having nightmares almost every night; Sherlock could hear the moans and muffled sobs at night. John still limped, the tremor in his hand had returned. And he had an occasional stutter too, now, which he hadn't had before. This time, a good old taxi chase couldn't fix it anymore. John didn't even go on cases with Sherlock anymore.
After no more than 30 minutes, John returned. He couldn't stay at Baker Street, but he couldn't stay away either. He wanted to leave Sherlock behind, wanted to let him know he was not ready to let him into his life again, yet after a while, he started to wonder whether it would all turn out to have been a dream when he came back, a hallucination, a simple sign to let him know that his sanity had begun to crumble, and he cursed himself for turning around and walking back.
Ignoring the man staring up at him with inquisitive eyes, he limped towards the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. If his bloody hands could just stop trembling…
"DAMN". Sherlock looked up, startled by the noise of porcelain breaking and John's loud exclamation. He silently lifted himself up from his seat and walked towards John, softly as to not alarm the former soldier, who was now looking down at his shaking hands, his shoulders sagged. Sherlock put a hand on his right shoulder. John turned around to face him, furiously wiping the tears from his eyes. He cleared his throat awkwardly, looking at something behind Sherlock's right shoulder. "I-I'm sorry, Sherlock, I'll g-get you a new one, it's just..damn hands". Sherlock looked down on John with soft eyes. "It's okay, John." He moved closer a bit, trying to give John a hug. That's what ordinary people do to comfort each other, isn't it? But John pushed him away roughly, turning around again to start cleaning up the mess he'd made.
"John," Sherlock started, his voice barely hiding the despair he wouldn't let his face show. "Please, just look at me."
"No. I'm sorry, I can't."
"John, I beg you. If it could have been any other way.."
John scoffed softly. "Yeah. B-but it wasn't any other way, was it?"
"I'm sorry, John"
"No," he cleared his throat. "No, you're not"
Sherlock looked down, giving up on a fight that he could only lose. He picked up his violin, but no matter how loud he played, no matter how angrily he formed his notes, there was no sound left that could ever make 221B sound like home again.