"And that's all there is to it." Cameras clicked away, all bright flashing lights and shuttering lenses. Reporters and journalists shoved each other, shouting out questions they demanded must be answered, lest they not satisfy their editors. This could be their career building scoop, the one column that paved their way in the world of their trade. John Watson, however, was quickly getting annoyed. He'd been standing there for a good majority of an hour, smiling politely as the questions kept coming. His companion was helping none in stopping the noise.
Though he shouldn't be surprised. It had been about two years since Sherlock Holmes could play it up and be, well, Sherlock Holmes. And being Sherlock Holmes meant being a bloody show-off. Boy, was he really laying into it, leaving no little detail behind as he described the case.
They had just breached the topic of his suicide –for the third bloody time – when John had finally interjected. He had a numb leg, a nearly blinded sight – thank you cameras – and friends just upstairs to celebrate his engagement. He'd be damned if they'd put off that expensive champagne a moment longer.
Pulling a wide fake smile, John grabbed Sherlock's arm and pulled him up the steps of 221 Baker Street. Home, they both corrected in their minds, though one no longer lived there and the other had only just returned. It still was, and always would be, home for them. John slammed the door shut behind them and turned to Sherlock, both men now standing in the little hallway at the base of the stairs that led up to 221B. John's face was stern, the way it always was when Sherlock had done something a bit not good; Sherlock's was one of pure confusion, his eyebrows scrunched in confusion. They only managed to keep their masks up for a few moments, before promptly bursting into giggles.
'Chuckles,' John reminded himself. They were chuckling, as men did. The mere thought sent him into another round of hysterics which Sherlock followed without question. As both men stood there in a fit, they let themselves become immersed in their memories. Memories of the countless times before when they stood here, laughing breathlessly at the amazing feat they'd accomplished together. Whether it be coming home after days of no sleep, their laughter bordering on delirious as they revealed in another solved case, or as they took refuge from a chase, as they had on their first night of friendship; they always seemed to find themselves here. It was easy and routine, as if they'd been doing it all their lives. Sherlock's deep baritone drowning out all, but John slightly higher hehehe's, their sounds mingling as it always did. Or so it seemed on the surface. It only took a few moments to realize that the sound was slightly off. It took even less for the pair to pinpoint what exactly it was, and by that time the laugh had ceased and their smiles had gone.
"How do we fix this?"
John's question was followed by absolute silence in the little hallway at the foot of 221B. Upstairs, their friends – family – could be heard moving about, laughing and celebrating as the men below gave in to what they both had been putting off. There now, with both of them staring at the banister of the staircase, they could almost imagine it. The body of a young woman, smaller than John in height and build, pale as moonlight with a smile that shined brighter than the sun, leaned heavily against that banister. Brown eyes came to focus that sparkled with something akin to mischief; faded freckles splattered across the bridge of her nose and cheeks above light pink lips that were pulled into a wide open mouth grin. Wild ginger hair spilled down her sweatshirt covered shoulders in loose curls and rested against her chest. If they tried hard enough, they could hear the laugh that tumbled out of her mouth as she gasped for breath. A low chuckle followed by a small high pitched shriek, the noise she made as she took in a breath, that most people found annoying and that they found sounded like home.
"Everything," Sherlock's voice pulled John out of reverie. His eyes snapped to meet those of his companion, but Sherlock's hadn't strayed from the railing.
"To fix this," He clarified. "We do everything."
" – And you're sure everything's all set?"
"Yes. The plane is one of my own personal. The staff is my own. The weather is going to be clear and sunny, though I know how much you detest that. I had my staff stock the house with your preferred meals. I've got the spare bedroom prepared for you. It will all be f –"
"But what if they don't need me home, Mycroft?"
"Oh believe me, my dear. They've never needed you more."