Here is the house Chapter 1: With or without words, a sherlock fanfic

"Three years, Sherlock."
"John…"
"No. Shut up, I do not want to hear anything you have to say."

The words full of anger uttered by John brought back the silence onto the small living room where the revived detective and his ex-blogger sat around the coffee table at a safe distance. Sherlock is trying to focus on the upset and trembling figure of his best friend while putting up his most apologetic face, but the instinct of exploring his surroundings is much stronger. His eyes alight inquiringly on the surface of the smooth table: birch wood, poor quality, certainly bought in a department store for less than a hundred pounds. That woman is likely to be the practical type and prone to savings. The light color of the wood and the basic shape of the table perfectly fit the simple and cozy atmosphere that characterizes the house, located at Algernon Road, at the middle of a quiet residential area of Kilburn. Business district, peripheral but still in zone two, well connected with the center via the Jubilee line.
At only five stops from Baker Street.
The kitchen is clean and tidy, fashionably and elegantly furnished. A painting and a bigger picture are hung on the wall. Without any doubt Sunflowers by Van Gogh and John along with the woman on the day of their marriage. He wears an out of date blue tuxedo, while she wears a white suit, simple but appropriate.
It was a simple ceremony, nothing too extravagant. Certainly in line with the personality of John.
"You cannot deduct three years of my life by simply looking around."
Sherlock immediately glares at John.
"Is she your wife?"
The silly and naïve question came out of his lips before even giving it a second thought.
"Yes", replied John laconically without adding any details, his eyes fixed on his clenched fists resting on the table.
"Congratulations." Sherlock's deep voice seemed to come from very far away.
Another moment of silence, interrupted only by the annoying ticking clock hanging above the window. Sherlock would like to apologize once again, or better ask him. During the last three years spent dismantling Moriarty's criminal organization, Sherlock tried to imagine several times the moment when he would meet John. He predicted almost everything: the initial fainting in front of his imposing figure silhouetted against the door, the phase of denial in which he would think of him as an hallucination and finally the thunderous rage once he realized that it was really him in person. After the many punches and pushes away, he would have begged him to listen. He then would list the reasons for his disappearance and the phases of the hunt and John would have forgiven him. Yes, he would have forgiven him and they would be back to live together in Baker Street, despite the resentment, the scars and the existence of that woman whom Mycroft had spoken vaguely of. He did not think that John could be married upon his return, or that he would react with stubborn silence to his tale worthy of the most exciting thriller. It seems that his fake suicide is of no interest at all.
"Does it hurt?" John's eyes are fixed on Sherlock's nose, to the particular trickle of dried blood that stains his skin; his voice does not hide a certain amount of satisfaction. The detective, suddenly distracted by his thoughts, does not respond and just shakes his head firmly. They remain in silence for a few more minutes, each perched on their chair, indifferent to the presence of the other. The sound of a key turning in the lock startles them both at the same time and they turn toward the door.
Mary is scrutinizing them motionless in the dim light of the entrance, with a bag of groceries in her arms. Red cheeks, wide eyes, mouth agape: embarrassment, loss, grief.
"Sorry to interrupt, I'm going back again if..."
Sherlock snaps abruptly, standing as if his chair had become suddenly hot.
"No need, Sherlock was just leaving. I'll take him out."John hisses before the other can utter any word, getting up and heading to the direction of the short path leading to the exit. Mary stares intently facing Sherlock – giving him a cold nod - and then she nods at her husband once he is next to the door, before walking away quickly in the direction of the kitchen.
After opening the door with unnecessary strength, John's hands linger for a bit too long on the handle.
"Will you be back in Baker Street?"
"Yes, I must speak with Mrs. Hudson, she does not know anything yet. The apartment is free, as you know John, so we can back there immediately. I already bought new equipment and a microscope, given that Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson didn't give you my things. I do not know what lame school full of kids accepted them. " His mouth twists into a disgusted grimace as he raises the collar of his coat and turns around, he walks theatrically towards the street.
"I'll meet you tomorrow!" He says when he is already halfway. His voice firm and secure.
It is only when he opens the door of his apartment and he is about to set foot on the linoleum floor that he realizes he had received no answer. It has never been a problem during the time they had lived together, but he realizes that deep silence had much more importance this time. He suddenly stops and turns back.
He sees John standing on the threshold with a grim expression on his face. The doctor swallows and speaks more loudly to overcome the noise of the siren of an ambulance that echoes not far away from them.
"I can't and I don't want to go back and live with you in Baker Street. My house is this one now. "
The harsh revelation overwhelms him like a wave of mud. He would like to point out to him the absurdity of that statement. 221b without John? It is just unbelievable! Of course, he has to come back. His home, their home is now empty, it's silent and abandoned. The balance must be restored. The objection dies in his throat as he opens his mouth to speak. He frowns and a tilts his head on a side staring at John, who seems extremely uncomfortable.
"I don't know if I can ever forgive you, Sherlock."
Sherlock had not expected that. Sherlock hated surprises.
He simply nodded and quickly rushed to the sidewalk clutching his coat. He knows that he won't keep his train of thought uncluttered for long, he wishes to get away from that place as soon as possible. Just as he reaches the intersection of Victoria Road, an incredible amount of thoughts strikes him like a whip and Sherlock presses his temples with his hands in pain.
John hit me, John has insulted me, John barely listened to me, John is not sure if he can forgive me, John is married, John will no longer live in Baker Street, John will not follow me anymore to the crime scenes, John remains at an anonymous house with a woman that he doesn't even know.

"John, do you want me to warm up the soup for you? It's been long since you sat there still, looking at it; it must be frozen by now. "
The man snorts and drops the spoon in the pot. He even forgot where the hell he was.
"I'm sorry, Mary, it's that it does not seem possible. It's all so absurd..."
His wife gently caresses his forearm and gives him a sad smile.
"I know..." she reassures him, but John shakes his head vigorously.
"No, you don't know, nobody knows how it feels like to see their best friend after three years in which you believed that he was dead, in a cemetery, where you went to see him at least once a week! No one knows, this just can't be, it's not possible! "
"John, calm down." Mary tightens her grip on his arm.
"How can I calm down? What should I do? Help me because I have no idea, I just know that I'd like to kick him nonstop!" He jumps up from his chair and leans against the kitchen counter, covering his face with his hands. He is angry, scared and happy; these are three feelings that cannot absolutely coexist.
"John, listen to me," Mary stands in front of him and grabs his wrists removing the hands covering his face, looking at him straight to his eyes, "in the past two years you have done nothing but tell me how much you were missing Sherlock, that he was unique and that there would never be anyone like him. You told me that you were full of regrets, because you never told him you loved him and that you never thanked him for having changed your life. Can't you see? Now you can do it, you..."
"But he never died Mary; while I was struggling for him and talking about how much I cared for him he was somewhere with his mind occupied by his hunt and he didn't even remember my existence!"
"You say that because you're hurt, but you know why he did it. It wasn't easy for him either, right? "
"I don't care how it was for him, I was the one who stuffed sleeping pills to not see him fall off the damn building every night!" On an instant, John frees himself from the woman holding him and walks away with his hands on his hips. "May I ask why are you defending him?"
"I'm not defending him; I'm trying to help you! I understand you're angry, but now that you know he did it to protect you, don't punish him any more than necessary, he is your friend!"
"No, Mary. No." He turns to look at her with narrowed eyes and pursed lips. "He could have let me know in some way, a message, a damn phone call and I would have left him alone. He only took me for a fool-"
"He didn't want to risk it and make a mistake, no doubt, but he apologized! Try to think rationally!"
"You cannot be serious! You saw me, you saw how bad I was, and if it was not for you I don't know where I would be now..."
"And if not for him, we wouldn't probably even know each other; you'd be dead by now." Mary's exasperated yell silenced him. He clenches his fists and opens his mouth to say something, but he fails and snorts again. A part of him knows that his wife is right as always, after all.
"Promise me that you'll speak to him again and you'll try to forgive him. Don't hurt yourself more, John, you've suffered enough." Mary approaches him and slowly puts her arms around him, framing her head under his chin. John strokes her hair with his lips, closing his tired eyes and focusing solely on her perfume. He knows that eventually he will follow her advice, because they were the only positive things in three years of hell.
"What have I done to deserve a woman like you?" He whispers.
"Don't flatter me only because the football game is on TV tonight, you will not win this time!" After hours of tension John finally gives her one of his real smiles, and let himself to the embrace of his confident wife.

The messy head of Mrs. Hudson begins to weigh on his bony shoulder, causing her a light numbness, but Sherlock seems to not care. Over the past three years, the woman had learnt to endure the pain. She had reacted better than expected given the blind faith that she has on his will. She bursts out in tears of relief only when she had made sure he was okay. Sherlock had to tell her almost about everything. The travel, the ambushes, the encounters and shootings that had brought him back to London still alive. Though he tried to shorten his story telling, he ended up talking for almost an hour. Sitting with his back stiff against her landlord's couch, he started to feel the fatigue of those days that have passed without a moment of rest.
After meeting with John, Sherlock didn't return to Baker Street. He waited as promised, sending a bunch of SMS per day... John never replied and never called back, as he had always done in the past because he said that talking personally was much faster and easier. It had been six days, three hours and thirty minutes since Sherlock saw John for the last time on the threshold of his house. He waited more than he could, but that day Mycroft convinced him there was no more time to wait. Strange rumors had started to spread about his return from the dead, rumors that had to be confirmed as soon as possible. As his brother did not fail to repeat to him countless times, providing an official, credible and detailed version of what really happened to the detective Sherlock Holmes was the priority right now.
"John will forgive you eventually." He said with his usual phlegm, perched on his chair, stroking the glass of well-aged scotch clutched in his hand.
Sherlock decides to wake Mrs. Hudson by loudly clearing his throat and shrugging his shoulder, making her jump and emit a cry.
"Oh dear, I was just resting my eyes for a moment!" The woman murmured, her voice still slurred as she quickly gets up.
"Your hip has gotten better, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock says looking up and down at her. "The evident fact that you started to dress better, the fact that you lightly put on a pound or more, and the fact that your skin appears to be much more delicate suggests the existence of some kind of boyfriend and an alarming resumption of sexual activity. Am I wrong? I doubt it, it's pretty obvious."
"Sherlock" she scolds him blushing and smoothing her skirt with her hands, then she gives him an embarrassed and mischievous smile at the same time.
"I knew it!" The detective says, putting his feet on the couch and pushing himself up with a jump, perfectly maintaining the balance despite sinking into the soft cushions. "Who is it? I want a name!"He adds shouting.
"His name is Ronald, he lives on the other side of the road, and he has just retired and ..."
"Ronald Jenkins, 72, a former blacksmith? One night I saw him in a car as he sucked the lip of an escort, a male escort. Perhaps it would be better to leave him alone and to concentrate your renewed sexual outbursts on men that aren't liars."
Mrs. Hudson remains motionless for a moment, with a frozen smile on her lips, then she caresses her cheek with the palm and whispers, as if nothing had happened, "I'll get the key to the apartment, dear!" And disappears into the kitchen.

The landlady has left him alone in front of the open door, as if she feared his overreaction in seeing again the place that has been his home for a year and a half. His pace is unusually slow and calculated as he crosses the threshold of 221b. The air smells of dust despite the fact that Mrs. Hudson didn't even make pass a week without going to the apartment to keep it clean under the express request of Mycroft, who for three years had paid the entire bill of the rent. The poor woman had naively believed that he did it to preserve the memory of his brother, in a rare burst of tenderness.
Two different chairs positioned opposite one another welcome his eyes, and give free way to his chain of thoughts in which he keeps useless memories of him and John having tea while reading the newspaper in the morning. Memories when they were having a glass of wine after solving an intricate murder case followed by the release of tension each one had in their own way - Sherlock insulting the host of a variety show on TV and John noting the events of the day to make a post for his blog. Useless memories, which certainly wouldn't help him to find out the culprit among ten innocent men, but that he can't forget by only his own will as he has always did with those social gestures of which he has never cared of. Repetitive and boring situations with no purpose other than to pass the time waiting for a new adrenaline rush. Sherlock doesn't know why he can't think of the moments he had shared with his flat mate, and that's something really rare that scares him and irritates him at the same time.
He understood since a long time now, probably since the first time his eyes met the blue and sincere ones of the other, that John was different from anyone else that he ever met. Yet he doesn't understand why he feels flattered by his compliments, why he feels uncomfortable when he thinks of hurting him, he doesn't understand that oppressive sense of loneliness he feels right now and that still has not left him even for an instant during the three years he spent away from him. He is annoyed, because if there is something that Sherlock hates the most in the entire world it's his inability to understand things, but for some time now he has made a habit to dwell on those memories as if they were clues to be examined again and again because there is something that he still doesn't understand. A sociopath does not feel lonely, does not need anyone, and is indifferent, dishonest and aggressive. All that Sherlock needs is his work and he is the only consulting detective in the world. Loneliness is an implicit consequence; it should not touch him in any way. John seems to have gotten into his life just to teach him not to take anything for granted.
It only takes a moment to quickly examine the objects that belonged to him and that waited in the empty house for three years. Almost nothing has been moved and he's glad for that because for him working in an unknown environment according to different criteria other than his own is extremely difficult. Sherlock doesn't waste his time touching the different object that belonged to him; the skull, the knife used as a paperweight, the closed laptop lying unused on the desk, he doesn't lose himself in materialistic feelings of familiarity. He sits naturally on his black chair as if only few days had passed since the last time he was in there and folds his hands under his chin. There is no absolute silence in Baker Street: you always hear the loud noise of a siren in the distance, trivial noises that makes you understand how the rhythm of a big city like London is incessant. Somehow, Sherlock feels reassured in experiencing that life that rushes undisturbed: it is his place; it's an area of experimentation. The city needs him and he needs the city, in an unstated relationship of interdependence.
He waits for the day when he can finally regain his identity and reputation, and yet he does not feel nervous, he does not feel the slight feeling of expectation or curiosity. He had imagined it more than once, and John was always at his side, because he had to be.
John seems to have burst into his life to teach him not to take anything for granted, and Sherlock once again didn't get the lesson.
Just for this time Mrs. Hudson had offered to prepare the bed, just for this time, as she always says she's not a housekeeper - but as he has kindly pointed out, he does not need it. He is widely able to control the inevitable fatigue that overcomes him. For a person like him always enthralled with thinking and always doing many things at once, sleeping was just a waste of time. The biggest mockery of humanity.
Sherlock stands up hastily and heads toward the kitchen to prepare himself a coffee. He knows that Mrs. Hudson has definitely not left 221b without coffee, although it was uninhabited. The table is one of the few parts of the house that in its emptiness shows the signs of the absence of the eccentric flat-mate. Sherlock snorts at the memory of the valuable scientific equipment that had always occupied that table and that now is in the hands of inexperienced and inept young students. Suddenly he remembers the only material object, which he had really missed during his forced absence, and he wonders if it was given to a school as well. Forgetting the coffee he was going to prepare, he quickly runs to the corridor and heads to his room. He finds the door closed but he doesn't hesitate to throw it open; he stops only when a strange smell he doesn't recognize hits his nostrils. That set of furniture would seem foreign to him if it weren't for the violin case resting on the mattress of the unmade bed, partially covered by a white cotton towel. He takes the violin out of its cover with unusual delicacy that he reserves only to that tool and stares at it for a few minutes in silence as if he wanted to apologize to it for his long absence. Sherlock carefully browses through the music sheet thrown together inside a plastic folder and finds a song he had composed for John at the last birthday they had spent together. It had been a rather memorable evening in which Sherlock had had a monologue about how useless and sometimes disturbing celebrating birthdays could be. An evening full of embarrassing words said by Molly about sex and corpses, and last but not the least a sad hangover of Lestrade who had spent a couple of hours describing in details everything about his wife whom had just left him. It was probably the worst birthday of his life, but John had not complained.
Sherlock grabs the violin, the bow and the music sheet, and leaves the room; he decided to play for the first time in three years, standing by the window. But when he goes into the living room with a fast but silent pace, he doesn't stop and continues towards the entrance and up to the stairs only to stop in front of the closed door of John's room. He opens the door forcefully as he always did when they lived together, earning John's useless protest. He enters almost furtively, shutting the door behind him. Unlike Sherlock's room, it is practically empty, except for a pair of old pants hanging in the open closet. It has been empty for three long years in which Sherlock had missed John thinking about his return as the moment when everything would be back in its place. It's been empty for six days against all logic after meeting him again. John should be in this room, berating him for having entered without knocking. Instead, it is still empty, and Sherlock doesn't want to think whether it will be forever empty. His brain does not want to observe, to process and deduct, because he knows that the deduction that he'd get would not be pleasant to his eyes.
Laying the music sheet on the dresser, he leans his chin on the violin and begins to play; he listens carefully to the first high notes of the instrument that fill the still air of the small room. He keeps playing as his eyes rapidly shift on the music staves until the song ends, hinting a brief smile of farewell, as if someone could see it. Then he fishes out his cell phone from his pocket and types a few words that his fingers begin to write automatically, out of habit.
He doesn't need to scroll through the phonebook to find the number he needs. John is the first one on the list.

I'll be waiting – SH

John tried to understand the cause of his insomnia that has plagued him for eight days by now. The blankets are too warm, the pillow is too soft, Mary snores. He never told her openly for the fear of making her feel embarrassed. The first time that they had slept together and he had found it out, he thought it was rather endearing. Not only she snored, but she moved as if she was disputing a triathlon competition, leaving him without the bed sheet for most of the time. Actually, it was not hard to get used to a heavy sleeper like her, and John admits to himself that it certainly isn't Mary the one who is keeping him awake since nearly eight whole nights, including the present one. During the day, John dozes wherever he can, at the table during the interval between courses, in his study between an appointment and another, even in the bath. During the night, instead, he just wears pajamas and snuggles under the covers. His brain is full of thoughts, images, imaginary conversations and actual conversations, and there's no herbal tea that can make him sleep.
Of course, he can't overlook the SMS that Sherlock sends him every four hours, and he probably doesn't even realize it. They are all the same: the usual two words followed by the initials of his name. There's no sorrowful request to forgive him; just kind of a promise full of selfishness and impatience as usual. John can imagine him perfectly as he wanders bored at 221b and asks him for some favors, realizing with annoyance that he isn't there. He does not know with certainty why he is so sure, but he always had the belief that Sherlock is immutable, like a sort of pattern that repeats equal to itself. The messages do nothing but prove his theory, yet the tenacity of Sherlock amazes him. Maybe Mary was right, perhaps it is Sherlock's own way of showing John how much he misses him, or maybe her attempts to psychoanalyze his best friend was worse than he thought.
Two days ago, John saw on TV and all over the papers the announcement of Sherlock being alive and innocent, next to a numerous group of stranger yarders that to his astonishment didn't include Lestrade, and the figure of his older brother barely visible behind him on the sidelines. John wonders what Sherlock felt as he demonstrated to the world his innocence and owns his life again. In the pictures his eyes were devoid of the usual boldness.
Synchronizing his breath with the rhythm of Mary's snoring, John thinks with his head between his hands. He lived those eight days in a kind of limbo, trying to go ahead with his life as he was used to, without being overwhelmed by Sherlock again. He thought that he had put together the pieces and saw a bright future ahead of him, a future in which he and Mary grew old together. But everything crashed.
Mary is an extraordinary woman, he kept repeating it to everyone who asked about his marriage. He had never met a better listener than Mary. It wasn't love at first sight, they remained just friends for several months, only going out to talk about anything that was going on in their heads and tell each other about their lives. John had spoken for more than a year and a half about Sherlock than of the rest of her life and she had paid off with a sincere interest. John realized that he sometimes described his friend in a too flattering way, but he was spontaneous and Mary had come almost to idealize him. She immediately believed in his innocence and even though John knew that Mary was the gullible and impressionable type that gave her the certainty to believe him, he had begun to love her. With her sincere smiles and the exuberant outbursts of affection, she had become an important person in his life, a sort of savior who happened to pass by during the storm, no less important to him than Sherlock, whom was the exact opposite. He was pain and regret, she was the joy of life and the joy of future projects. He had learned to see them as two sides of the same coin, because they were very different and similar at the same time. Sherlock is cold and chaotic, Mary affectionate and orderly, yet they are both childish and peevish. John's psychoanalyst had pointed out to him that it was rather unusual and troubling making parallels between your best friend and your wife as if they were equivalent figures, and since then John had stopped talking about it. The truth was that for him they were equivalent and Mary was aware of it. She was certainly not jealous of Sherlock: she had learned to admire him through John's storytelling and with her wide imagination; she had made him a legendary figure. John Watson's life was almost perfect; he had a wife he loved, a job that allowed him enough free time to take care of flowerbeds and a best friend to visit at the cemetery whenever he felt the need. He had no more nightmares or regrets, and he thought that everything was finally going into the right direction.
Everything worked perfectly right until Sherlock returned. John cannot understand how he feels right now. He's angry, that's for sure, but is also happy, scared and upset. It is as if two important stages of his life were collapsing on each other bringing him towards chaos. The same face of the coin is now split in two. In one side there is Sherlock and on the other side there is Mary. He should not feel torn between the two, forced to make a choice that would be unfair in both cases, yet it is exactly what he feels like. John turns to his wife and gently caresses her blond hair that spreads out on the pillow. He is gripped by a sense of guilt that he cannot understand. He sighs, preparing himself to lie down again and try to sleep for the umpteenth time, when his cell phone vibrates again.

I'll be waiting – SH

It is the first time that Sherlock sends the usual message after a few minutes and John is deeply impressed as if he had just heard a sour note in a musical composition that was played very well. John's stomach hurts, and his jaw aches because he grits his teeth to try to suppress the agitation.
Maybe Sherlock needs him, and he has an incredible desire to see him again.
Without thinking any further, with sweaty fingers he types cursing inwardly a short answer and presses the "enter" key almost angrily.

I will come tomorrow morning at eleven o'clock, I have the morning off. Just to talk.

Sherlock wanders relentlessly like a ghost in Baker Street, with an untied robe flapping and messy locks on his head. Should he dress better? Replace the desk? Should he remove the embalmed foot from the table? Yes, probably, it would be more appropriate. Even just the fact of asking himself all these questions and feeling so nervous about a stupid meeting makes him uneasy. John will come to visit. John almost certainly was exhausted of his continuous messages and just wants to tell him to stay out of his life forever, or maybe he wants forgive him. Weighing the con and pro, the first hypothesis is much more likely. Sherlock hits his forehead with the palm on his hand and then sinks into the chair in agitation.
"What are you looking at?" He shrieks to the skull that seems to observe him critically on the shelf above the chimney.
John will come in fourteen minutes and forty-five seconds, and Sherlock is still in pajamas messing up his hair violently.
A beep coming from the table distracts him for a moment. With a leap he gets up from his chair and grabs the cell phone, frowning as he reads the sender's name on the display.

Calm down – MH

Sherlock throws the phone on the couch with a snort and raises his arms to the sky. He didn't really need the person he hates the most in the world to cheer him up with his meddling. As usual it is inappropriate and intrusive and does nothing but fuel his nervousness.

Why do you write messages while you're in a meeting at Buckingham Palace? The Queen would not approve – SH

While angrily clicking on the send button he vividly hears footsteps on the stairs.
"Sherlock, you didn't dress yet?" Mrs. Hudson has appeared in the doorway carrying a tray in her thin arms.
"John is coming, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock's voice is lower than usual, and his gaze is lost in space.
"I know, dear, is the tenth time that you mention it today! That's why I made tea and I brought some cookies. "She smiles at him encouragingly before heading to the kitchen to set the tray on the table.
Sherlock plasters a fleeting grin on his face when the strangled yell of Mrs. Hudson reaches his ears.
"Is that a foot of a man?" The voice of the poor woman who comes towards him wide eyed is weak and trembling.
"Would you please put it in your freezer, Mrs. Hudson? Mine is full." Sherlock says just in time before the woman turns in a flash and disappears down the stairs. He sighs deeply, not even scaring Mrs. Hudson manages to calm him down.
Another beep coming from the couch warns him that Mycroft is not going to leave him alone.

Put some clothes on. Make yourself presentable and try to make a good impression. Put your foot in the fridge if the freezer is full – MH

Seven minutes and sixteen seconds.

When the heavy footsteps of John alight on the seventeen steps that separate them from the main entrance - his - apartment, Sherlock is sitting elegantly on the black armchair, his hands on the chair's arms and legs crossed. He was wearing one of his usual full-blacks and a white shirt that has found in the closet with a gleam of satisfaction. The nervous and unsure man of before is but a distant memory.
"John", he greets him with a neutral tone that betrays nothing of what he felt last week. He does not get any response.
When he looks up, John is standing in the doorway, with clenched fists. John's eyes roam the room, they lay on the couch on which they sat many times together and back to him again, they dwell on the desk where they kept their laptops facing each other, they set on Sherlock again, then stop on the chairs on which they dropped tired after solving a case and come back on him once again. Everything in that room reminds him of Sherlock and John, their crazy days spent running around London, the discussions and the childish Sherlock's reactions, the blood stains on the carpet, on the pillows and the curtains. To see Sherlock sitting on the chair with his usual attitude of who doesn't know how it is to have never gone out of tune with the pain that John has lived within the walls. At the same time it seems right and normal, just as it should be. A miracle that he had asked, without hope for it to come true.
"Would you like some tea?" Sherlock spoke to him without even looking at him. John does not feel ready to talk, not yet. He closes his eyes for a moment and breathes, making a mental note of Sherlock's smell that has already spread in Baker Street. When he opens them he finds Sherlock standing by the fireplace with his right hand pointing to the armchair on which he sat the first time he set foot in the apartment, and the last time he had the courage to enter. John automatically approaches Sherlock, glancing at the kitchen and at the table almost cleared of all the utensils. There is only a microscope and a new pair of beaker. When he reaches the chair, Sherlock finally looks at his eyes and furrowed his brows unequivocally betraying his concern for the outcome of that meeting. It is only a moment, because as soon as John sits Sherlock immediately averts his gaze and pours the tea for him into the cup, then he clears his throat and murmurs a quick "Mrs. Hudson has also made cookies."
When he hands him the cup, John thanks him with a nod. John's throat is completely dry so he decides to take a sip of tea before trying to speak. Sherlock doesn't take his eyes off from him for even a moment and watches him with his head tilted slightly as John brings the cup to his mouth and sips his tea again. The embarrassment that defines their first meeting after Sherlock's return is still present, amplified by the distance of that week in which John did not want to look for him. As they sit facing each other in silence, John feels that it is now time to talk and deal with the speech that fear both of them.
"How are you?" he says uncertain.
"I'm fine," Sherlock replies quickly, looking down to the saucer.
"You've lost weight."
"You too. This was the conversation I expected that would take place during our first meeting, not the one we had eight days ago. "
John begins to move in the chair, as if he were sitting on an uncomfortable stool.
"Should I apologize for punching you, Sherlock? After what I went through, after what you've put me through? "
"No, I suppose not."' Sherlock's tone is slightly irritated and John takes the note with amazement. He places the cup on the saucer and puts it back on the tray; he wipes his hands on his jeans, indicating that he is about to leave.
"Do you know what, Sherlock? I was wrong to come here. I should have not listened to Mary. "
"What did that woman say?"
"That woman is called Mary and she's my wife." John significantly raised his voice and then became silent, waiting for the other so that he rectifies his question.
"What your wife has to do with anything?" Sherlock spits out in anger, uttering the word wife with a grimace on his face.
"She told me to forgive you, Sherlock. To try, at least. She insisted for days. I shouldn't have listened to her and trust my instincts. "John jumps up and Sherlock imitates him immediately.
"No." Sherlock's scream amazes both of them and the silence falls in the room. They remain there for a few seconds looking at each other as they remember those three years of distance, loneliness and longing and see them reflected in each other eyes.
Sherlock is the first to succumb. He swallows, takes a deep breath and prepares himself to pronounce a word that he'd barely used in his thirty years of life.
"I'm sorry."
John's eyes widen and he raises his eyebrows in disbelief.
"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock repeats, raising his eyes upwards, "I don't want you to go."
John remains dumbfounded for a moment, with pursed lips and swollen veins on his neck; Sherlock stares at him without blinking. A moment later, without even realizing it, John finds himself sat on the chair again and Sherlock seats as well.
John's anger begins to subside gradually as he frowningly looks at Sherlock and his fingers caress the edge of the cup. For a moment it seems that those three years have never passed and that Moriarty never entered their lives. After all they've been through, both of them are still together, healthy and not broken, and they can still look at each other. John's eyes linger for a moment too long on Sherlock's face and he notices the nasty scar he has on his forehead around the hairline. He protrudes forward to look more closely and Sherlock stiffens immediately, realizing John's confusion.
"The scar," says John with an avail tone, pointing at it with a light movement of his hand.
Sherlock caresses it with his index finger but he doesn't respond.
"Who stitched you up? It's really ... "John manages to complete the sentence only with an eloquent grimace.
"No one did, that's the problem," Sherlock cuts short curling the right side of his lip upwards. Without thinking, John rushes onto the carpet, and falls on his knees in front of Sherlock's chair.
Fixing his eyes on the scar as he raises his hand to touch him. Sherlock pulls back as he tightens his fists on the armchair, obviously annoyed.
"What are you doing?"
"Who did this to you? With what? "John questions him, resting his hands on the armchair just a few inches away from Sherlock's hands and keeps watching him closely.
Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but the words die on his lips. His face darkens and for the first time, looking at those eyes usually overflowing with arrogance, John sees a new, unknown sadness. For the first time John has the uncunning and sincere desire to know what happened to Sherlock during the three years he spent away from him, alone with his delusions.
"You didn't tell me everything, right?" It's more a statement than a question. Sherlock doesn't need to answer and indeed he remains motionless, clearly uncomfortable with a stiff and unnatural expression that betrays an indifferent one on his face. Seeing Sherlock so different from the person he used to know makes John feel an intense emotion that he can't understand and he is not able to determine whether it is positive or negative. The anger slowly begins to give way to feelings of relief, worry and happiness. A violent and overwhelming happiness fills his chest and forces him to breathe deeply.
His best friend is alive. He will never need to speak again with a dark tombstone in the silence of a desolated graveyard. Sherlock is in front of him in person, and he never ceases to amaze him.
John watches his hand move slowly until it touches with the tip of Sherlock's index finger, who unexpectedly doesn't pull away. John gently caresses the back of his soft slender hand, going up to the wrist, forearm and elbow, looking up only when he rests his fingers on his bony shoulder. Sherlock carefully avoids looking at him and keeps staring into space in an apparent defensive move, as if the eyes of the other could read him. John smiles at his childish attitude and tightens his grip on Sherlock's coarse jacket, then moves onto his back and caresses it gently with the palm of his hand.
"John ..." Sherlock seems to warn him.
They look at each other's eyes, their faces are not far away from the other as their breaths mingle. The air is filled with tension and expectation, Sherlock suddenly just clicks forward toward the face of the other, in a fit of unconsciousness that vanishes soon after. But Sherlock suddenly stops and looks away, frowning with the obvious intent of thinking. John then pushes towards him and tightens him in a big hug, resting his chin on Sherlock's shoulder. He has never hugged him before, and it feels weird. Sherlock's body seems fragile and strong at the same time: he is afraid to tighten his grip too much but at the same time it's as if he knew that it would be of no harm. Sherlock does not reciprocate his grip, but that's okay. John doesn't care, not now that he can feel him alive.
A faint sound of footsteps startles John, who frees Sherlock from his tight hug to be able to turn toward the door. He can see the back of Mrs. Hudson just before she disappears behind the wall.
"Mrs. Hudson!" He calls as he gets up with a grunt, rubbing his knees, and she reappears with her shoulders hunched and an embarrassed expression on her face.
"I didn't mean to interrupt you," she murmurs softly, "but I heard your voice, John, and I wanted to say hi ... after all this time ..." She represses a sob while covering her mouth with one hand.
John approaches her fast and kisses both her cheeks gently, smiling at her. The woman caresses his face and whispers a shy "welcome back".
When he turns back to Sherlock, John sees him still motionless in his chair with his hands clenched into fists making his knuckles white and a frown fixed somewhere else on the carpet.

NOTES:
This story was originally written in Italian and the extremely kind lovercandi (lovercandi . tumblr . com ) offered to translate it into English.
The title of the story and the titles of the chapters are taken from the wonderful song "Here is the house" by Depeche Mode.