Author's note: I am not enjoying the way that Moffat and Co. wrote the Season 3 reunion. I decided to write a story in which Sherlock was a little kinder and more aware of John's heart as he made the choices to kill himself and how to return. So this is clearly not canon. Enjoy!
Someone knocked at the front door.
John stood up slowly, feeling old. He shuffled to the front door and squinted though the peephole. His shoulders drooped.
Slowly, he opened it. He tried not to let in too much of the cold, grey winter air. Too much of the dirt and noise from the street.
Honestly, if he thought about it, he really did not want to let anything in. Ever.
All he wanted was some peace and quiet. A dull life. This was what it was now. What he wanted. What he told himself he wanted.
Because otherwise the loss was too great to be survived.
The man who had knocked stood on John's front stoop. He was warmly and expensively dressed. He looked aristocratic and untouchable. He wore an expression of polite distaste.
John frowned back at the man, in equal displeasure.
Sherlock was dead. Why in God's name should John be forced to interact with Mycroft Holmes, of all people? Now that there was truly no point?
Mycroft had all of Sherlock's narcissism and unsufferability, and none of the...none of the...none of whatever it was that made narcissistic, nearly-autistic, sociopathic Sherlock the best friend that John had ever had.
John's best friend. His dear, exciting, beloved, hard-headed, marvelous asshole of a best friend - gone forever -
Two years now -
For a moment John was in danger of feeling something. Mycroft's face blurred before him.
Then it passed.
John held his face still and quieted the quiver in his cheek. After a long pause he managed to say quietly, "Mycroft."
He started a sentence, then stopped it. Paused. Cleared his throat.
Finally, hoarsely, he managed, "to what do I owe the pleasure-?"
He did not move away from blocking the door.
Mycroft nodded briefly. "Doctor Watson."
Silence. John did not invite him in. They looked at each other.
The wind was cold against John's cheeks. It seemed to wrap around John's eyes.
Mycroft waited long enough to be clear that he noticed that John was being impolite. Then he spoke in his typical hushed and leisurely tones.
"Dr. Watson.
"I will be brief.
"I have a letter for you. It could not be trusted to be delivered, so I am here to give it to you.
"I suggest that you read it. After I leave."
He pressed a packet into John's hand. Touched his gloved hand to his hat. Turned on his heel back to the waiting Aston Martin. A car door slammed and then the street was empty.