Most homes reflect the lives and interests of the people who live within them. But this home, this flat, it simply was Sherlock in its entirety. The body fragments in the fridge were irrefutably apart of his experiments; the peculiar objects—the maps, the knives, the skull—that littered the floors could belong to no one else. The couch still bared the imprint of his slender form and, worst of all, his violin still sat in the corner, filling the room with a silent dirge.
Watson hadn't been to 221B Baker Street for months, not since it all happened. But how could he? It felt as though he were standing in the center of Sherlock's grave.
"Haven't seen you about for some time now, Dear," said Mrs. Hudson. Watson pried his eyes from the solemn instrument in order to look at his landlady.
"You've gotten my notice, haven't you?" he asked. "I'm moving in with my sister. I've only come to collect my stuff." He had obtained some of it, the essentials. But now he had to acquire the rest.
"Yes… but you know if money's the issue, I could always—"
"Mrs. Hudson," he cut in, his voice hot and on edge. "It isn't an issue of cost."
"Ah, I see," she said slowly. "Well if there's anything you need—help cleaning up, a nice meal, cup of tea."
"I'm perfectly fine, Mrs. Hudson, thank you. After all, you aren't my housekeeper." Watson let out a small, shady chuckle and turned away. He barely noticed as she left.
He took a few steps deeper into the flat. He was just examining the odd engraving that Sherlock had made some time ago on the wooden table when he heard a beep. He checked his phone and, sure enough, he had a text message.
Home sweet home –SH
Watson felt something scorching in his throat. Who could be playing such a cruel, cruel joke? He felt his body go rigid. A part of him really wanted to believe that, after everything, his best friend was really just a telephone call away.
But this was just more nonsense. Jokes, pranks, dirty looks… all for the stupid little Doctor who persistently contended that Sherlock Holmes was no fake. As if anyone would believe him…
There was a microscope on the counter. Beneath the lens was an old fruit loop. Watson exhaled loudly… it was so utterly Sherlock that his heart tensed. Without thinking, he swept the microscope, the cereal, and whatever else off the counter with one long sweep of the arm. He watched, breathing heavily, as it crumpled onto the floor.
And then another text.
Do stop breaking my toys –SH
"That's enough!" Watson roared. He chucked the cellphone straight at the happy face on the wall. "Whoevers here, just show your fucking face already!"
The floorboards creaked behind him, and Watson turned.
Sherlock was wrapped in a black robe, his typical winter lounge wear. His hair was sleep tousled but his eyes—crystal blue—remained alert. He had a cellphone, not his usual one, in his hand. "Thank God you're here, John. Things were getting terribly boring without you."
"Sherlock Holmes—" Watson managed.
"Yes, John, solid observation," he said.
"But you're dead!"
Sherlock looked at him quizzically. Then, he pressed two fingers against his own throat as if to check his pulse. "Are you sure about that?" he asked, faking confusion. "Well, I suppose you're the doctor."
"Can't you quit being smart ass, for once?" Watson cried. "You've been alive? All this time?"
He was livid, ready to pounce on the much bigger man and kill the bloody bastard himself.
"Keep your voice down," he ordered calmly.
"Keep my voice down? That'swhat you have to say to me, Sherlock?"
"I have an explanation," Sherlock said. "But I can tell you're not ready to hear it."
"Of course I'm ready to hear it!" Watson refuted.
Sherlock stepped forward. "Your gaze keeps shifting. You look not at my eyes, but at the small mole above my brow. Why? You're checking the details to be sure it's really me. But then your focus turns to my chest, to my center. The most solid part of me. You're wondering, aren't you, if I'm really here?"
"Well of course I am, you bastard! I thought you were dead!"
Sherlock outstretched his arm. "Come, come see. I'm real."
Watson's eyes focused on the extended arm before him. Then, hesitantly, he reached forward and brushed his own fingers against the ghostly white ones. But they weren't ghostly after all. They were warm, and rough from violin. They were even shaky and, God, they felt so human.
"See there? I'm all—" Sherlock was suddenly cut short. Watson had dived forward, knocking his friend's breath away with a hug. He choked back sobs, face buried into the black bath robe.
"I bloody thought… all this time…"
Sherlock couldn't even recall the last time he'd been hugged. How strange, he thought, finding comfort in one body pressed against another. Bodies were, at least in his mind, either portals for the brain or clues in a crime scene. But with John it was different. With John, the rising and lowering of his chest, the soft sniffling, and the gentle breath… it was all a blissful reminder that he, Sherlock Holmes, actually had a friend.
Sherlock's arms came up and wrapped around Watson. "I'm sorry, John."
Watson eventually drew back. His eyes were puffy, and he rubbed his face in order to regain some poise. "Go on then, explain yourself."