This is my first full (well...) try at writing fanfiction. Title comes from the Muse song 'Exogenesis: Symphony Part 3 (Redemption)'. I recommend listening to it as you read. Then continue listening, even after you've finished reading and the song keeps playing. It is a very lovely song. (Gives me feels. Especially at 1:39.)
John H. Watson picked up his pace when he felt the first raindrop land on his left hand. The same one that gripped his cane as he made his way back to 221B from the shopping. He had come back to live at the flat, but only after many dark weeks – or months, John wasn't sure - of chronic mourning. His limp had come back, too, and it was worse than ever.
But John had known that he had to move on, and painful as it was, he did. He tried and mostly succeeded to keep his food down and slept every night. However, many of these nights he would wake up, sweating, with tears wetting his face, but at least he could say he tried. And it wasn't as if he was disturbing anybody else's sleep.
He went back to work as a GP where Sarah would warmly greet him every morning. She treated him the same as ever, but John could see the underlying concern in the looks she gave him when she thought he wouldn't notice. He let it slide, used to everybody treating him like he would snap at any given moment. Sarah was a break compared to how the others would ask him tiring questions on 'how were things' and 'what was his week like'. There was a time when John would have happily engaged in conversation with them; now he kept mostly to himself.
By the time he got to the flat it was lashing rain outside. He put the shopping bag down and placed his cane against the wall before shaking off his jacket. He stopped when he heard footsteps upstairs. In his flat. He'd seen Mrs Hudson in the sandwich bar. He didn't remember locking the door.
'Fuck.'
He placed his jacket on the floor as quietly as he could, grabbed his cane, and cautiously made his way up the stairs, stepping over the creaky step. At the door, he reached back for his gun and bit his tongue when he found it wasn't there. His cane would have to do. He didn't even know if he'd need it, it could be Mycroft in there for all he knew.
John breathed in then pushed open the door, and froze.
Leaning on the table was the man from his nightmares, his palms pressed together in front of his face, middle-finger tips touching his nose. He wore that same damn coat and scarf, but the clothes underneath were far more casual than his immaculate suits. Ice, mercury and flecks of amber intently scanned over John, analysing him and finding out more about him than most people did with their tedious questions. John stood paralysed.
Sherlock Holmes swallowed and cleared his throat. His voice sounded croaky all the same as he spoke. 'Hello, John.'
And that was as half-arsed attempt as any. I have a lot more in mind (involving punches and fluff), but I am far, far too lazy to type it all. Perhaps some time in the future, when I cease to procrastinate... (Pshht, as if.)
Any reviews would make me hyperventilate, be it criticisim or praise. Flaming would only amuse me. Write as you wish.