He's halfway through the door.
Soft, subtly sobs whimper down the stairwell, quiet but loud enough for him to hear. His fingers trace the wrinkled wallpaper as he climbs the rickety stairs. He does his best not to make a sound, but when he missteps, the loud squeaking of floorboards stops the continuous crying from upstairs. The man on the stairs stays stone-still until the soft sobs resume. When they do, he finishes up the stairwell as if he were a ghost. The tall man on the top of the stairs hides in the shadows, careful to stay out of the bright daylight from the windows that threatens to reveal him. Faster than a flickering shadow, he crosses the beam of sunlight to the next shadow on the landing, in a vantage point such that he can see the sobbing figure.
The crying man sits hunched, with his back to the stairwell, holding a thin gold wedding ring. His wife had died three days ago, the funeral held earlier that day. Despite the mournful occasion, the sun had been ironically bright and warm, the rest of London cherry and lively.
They were married less than two years, the couple spending all that time at Bart's hospital; John, for his occupation as a doctor, and Mary, for having bone cancer. They were star-crossed lovers, knowing that Mary wouldn't last more than five years. The sickness took her sooner, claiming the only person he had left in the world.
Today was also the anniversary–three exact years after his best friend, the one, committed suicide. It was a terribly hard day for John, leaving the short blond man a mess, only to be comforted by whiskey-laced tea, an old scarf that did not belong to him, and his former wife's wedding band.
The man by the door stifled a sniffle. The last three years has been hard on him too; he never stopped, not even for a moment, to rest. He wore the years on his face, in his eyes. Everywhere he went, he faced death and danger, untangling a web of lies, manipulation and power. After three years, he had burnt the web to the ground, and was ready to return home. As he watched his John cry there, on the floor of their once shared flat, he felt a deep pulling in his chest he had never felt before. It made him want to run to John, wrap his arms around his stout frame, and tell him "it's going to be okay." But the tall man knew it wouldn't be that simple. John would have questions. He would hit him, he would yell, he would cry more.
The tall man descended the stairs as quietly as he had ascended them, and left the open door from 221b Baker Street.
As he waited for a London cab to drive past, the tall man tooled back at the flat. Through the front windows, he saw John looking out at the sky, the sunlight illuminating his face. Something else was glinting in the sunlight, silver and metallic, held by John up to his own head…
"John!" the tall man shouted at the top of his lungs. John pulled the gun away from his temple, looking for where the deep baritone voice had come from. His eyes fell on the tall man, who was staring up at him in shock.
"Sherlock." He mouthed. The tall dark man ran back inside 221b, as John ran out. They met halfway down the stairs, stopping short of each other. John blinked, dumbfounded. Sherlock had tears pouring down his white porcelain face, as he pulled the stout man into his arms.
"I'm here. It's okay. I'll never leave you again."
