a/n: I think I did a Reichenbach fanfic mostly to just release all that built-up emotion I've been dragging around since the 15th. I've done a fanfic already called "I Should Punch You" when Sherlock returns, but this was right before The Reichenbach Fall (so I had no idea of the emotional damage I was about to experience the next day).
Anyways. It's Sherlock POV. It's hard to capture his POV sometimes, so I'm sorry if it goes a little OOC. I'm trying to perfect it, so forgive me.
And to give you a heads up, it DOES end happily (some of the fanfics I've been reading had me ending in sad tears. Even though they were good - I had been looking for some cheer-me-up fluff, you know?).
Enjoy~
Review~
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"I've decided."
"Sherlock, you need to be careful while doing this-"
"I know this. You don't need to tell me."
"…just remember he's suffered a lot in the past ten months."
"He's not the only one, Mycroft."
"…"
...
..
Rain drummed against the window softly as it had been for the last couple of days. The light from the streetlamps outside were blurred from the constant drip of water down the glass, and apart from that, the flat of 221B Baker Street was completely darkened.
A tall silhouette stood outside of this flat, coat collar turned up against the rain, gaze fixed upon the building.
Ten months.
It had felt longer, that's for sure. Each day away from home, from his best friend, had seemed like a week. Each day he had to force himself to stay away a little longer – just a little longer to keep them all safe. He had to be sure they were completely safe before returning.
Sherlock Holmes let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. He felt nervous – an emotion he hadn't felt in a while. How would John react? Angry, definitely. Sherlock hoped behind that anger would be at least a slice of happiness and forgiveness.
He had planned out his exact words, and as he stood there in the light rain the consulting detective mulled over them again, rehearsing them in his head for the hundredth time.
Mycroft had clearly stated that John had been suffering while Sherlock was presumably 'dead'. Sherlock didn't doubt this – but surely his best friend had moved on, or at least was trying to. John was a strong man – a man who could cope with emotions.
Sherlock stepped up to the door, lifting his fingers to the numbers there and tracing them slowly. Memories flooded back, but he shoved them away. Now was not the time to reminiscence.
His brother had said John worked late into the nights now at the hospital. Sherlock presumed this was an excuse to stay away longer from the flat – away from the memories.
The consulting detective slipped through the door, closing it quietly behind him. Mrs. Hudson would normally be asleep by this time, considering it was near midnight. Long legs climbed the seventeen steps easily, and Sherlock paused at the door leading to the flat.
His heart skipped a beat as he realized John would have probably changed a lot of it – probably most of it. Sherlock silently prepared himself for this as he pushed the door open.
Out of pure habit, fingers searched along the wall for the light switch and he flicked it on. Soft light filled the room, and with a smile forming on his lips, he took it all in.
The kitchen was tidier – no experiments lying around or miscellaneous body parts in jars set on the counter.
The common room also was cleaner. Their two armchairs still sat facing each other, and Sherlock's skull still placed above the fireplace. Papers were stacked on the desk, along with John's laptop and the…
Sherlock snorted, his fingers brushing over the deerstalker hat. He had at least hoped John would have burned this for his sake. People were sentiment that was for sure.
Curiosity got the best of the detective and he found himself walking to his own room, turning the lights on and taking in the sight. Everything looked like it had been since he left-his eyes narrowed when he saw the bed – sheets and blankets rumpled along with the pillows out of place. Sherlock swallowed the lump forming in his throat. John.
Maybe John was doing worse than what he thought.
As if on cue, Sherlock heard the downstairs door shut and footsteps shuffling along and climbing the stairs. John's limp had come back, the detective realized as he returned to the common room. He listened closely. John had paused outside of the flat, most likely registering the slight ajar door combined with light flooding out into the hallway.
Sherlock straightened, titled his chin up a little, and fixed his coat.
"Mycroft, I told you to phone me next ti-" John started as he stepped into the flat. Sherlock quickly took in the details: weary expression, shadows under the once-bright eyes, hair a little longer than what it had been. The grocery bag the ex-army doctor had been holding now slipped from his grasp and thumped to the floor.
Sherlock tried to remember his speech, he really did. But in the span of a few seconds, everything vanished from his mind. Blank. Completely blank, nothing. All he could focus on right now was his best friend in front of him who looked like a complete and utter mess.
"John." He murmured. They both stood there in silence, and all the while Sherlock scrutinized everything. The muscles in John's body tightened up, his eyebrows pulling together in confusion.
"John?"
He could read John like an open book, as always. He saw him piecing everything together, putting together the evidence right in front of him.
"Joh-"
Pain exploded in his left cheek, and he stumbled back from the impact. He honestly did not expect the punch, but now that he thought about – why hadn't he?
Sherlock was suddenly yanked forward by the lapels of his coat and he was met face-to-face with the shorter man. "John let me explain-"
"You selfish, idiotic, stupid arse!" John yelled. Their foreheads bumped painfully together. "You think you can just prance back into my life after leaving it so easily? Just because you're the brilliant Sherlock Holmes," he spat out his name, "doesn't mean I'll just forgive you right on the spot. What did you expect? Did you expect me to run into your arms, happy as a clam?"
Sherlock touched his bruising skin, his pale eyes never leaving John's. "It wasn't easy for me, either, John."
The grasp on his coat released and John stepped away, shaking his head quickly as if not believing him. Sherlock realized these were the wrong words at the moment. What had he planned?
Oh, yes. Apologize. That would probably be what one would do at this moment.
"I'm sorr-" Sherlock started, but the other man cut him off with a harsh laugh.
"Sherlock, I don't…I don't want to hear an apology."
The consulting detective watched curiously as John turned from him, hiding his face. With his shoulders slumped forward a little, and a hand pressed to his face, John looked exactly as he had been at the cemetery all those months ago.
"Then what do you want to hear?" Sherlock replied quietly.
Silence hung between the two of them for a long moment and the consulting detective waited impatiently. It took all of his willpower not to talk. He heard John take a few deep breaths before turning back to face him. "I don't want to hear anything right now."
A couple of tears streaked John's cheeks, and Sherlock's throat tightened involuntarily. "John, I had to fake my own death. You…" Sherlock cleared his throat loudly. "People's lives were at stake, and I…I would not have been able to deal with blood on my hands. Especially the blood of my…friends."
John stared at him and then shook his head again. "I know that, you bloody idiot. I know. I know."
Sherlock should have been expecting it – but this night just wasn't going so well for him as far as his deducing skills were concerned. Sherlock should have expected it when John grabbed onto his coat again and pulled him close. He should have expected the slightly chapped lips meeting his in an awkward kiss. Sherlock should have expected these things – but he didn't. For a split second, the consulting detective was frozen in place from shock (whether it was the kiss or lack of thought process that had put him in shock, he would never know).
John's hands released Sherlock's coat and felt one of them press against his neck, the other softly on his uninjured cheek.
Everything was John. He saw only John, and felt only John. And he knew in that moment, that he would never forget this. He would never forget the way his emotions skyrocketed, or the way it felt so right to be this close to his best friend.
Sherlock titled his head to the side, angling it better. Slender fingers slid through the sandy hair. His soft lips slid over John's as he deepened the kiss.
"I'm sorry." He mumbled against those lips. "I'm truly am sorry."
John slightly pulled away, and they stared at each other. John ran his thumb across Sherlock's lower lip, giving him a small, shy smile. "It's fine. It's all fine."