Blinding Heartache
The cab turned onto Baker Street, its precious cargo sat still; only the eyes betraying a sudden excitement. It was 2pm and the day was overcast, miserable even.
The elegantly tall man paid the cab driver before stepping onto the street and closing the black cab door behind him nonchalantly.
The brunette allowed his sharp eyes to roam over the stone face of 221B, examining each crack and crevice that had appeared in the many years of its existence. The rain slowly dampened his black and brown curls, seeped into his collar and was caught by the gaunt skin of his face as he stood in the middle of the pavement.
Sherlock Holmes had returned from his three year long escapade. He had fought in battles, rescued damsels and young political idols, travelled 62 countries and all to be allowed to return to Baker Street, return to his community that were now so deliciously out of dangers' path thanks to him.
Sherlock forbid the thought that he had actually been the reason for them to be in danger in the first place, but what had that mattered? He had protected them and died for them.
Sherlock's ice sharp eyes skimmed over the black painted door to his old home; the locks had not been altered, nothing had changed.
Sherlock used his key, the most precious item he had on his person, to enter the building. Closing the large door with silent reverence, Sherlock allowed his senses to fill with the smells and sounds of home, of comfort, of happiness and slight boredom. Sherlock allowed a smile to contract his face as he spun gracefully on a heel to survey the corridor and staircase. One look in the direction of Mrs Hudson's closed kitchen door told him that she had been out at least an hour –food shopping at the local market. Sherlock proceeded towards the staircase, his long coat falling behind him sophisticatedly; once at the familiar landing, Sherlock swiftly glanced around him; his own bedroom door was closed fast, the bathroom door ajar; slight steam emanating from within; someone had just bathed. Sherlock then turned his attention to the open living room door and the man within.
Sherlock stood in the doorway and studied the scene; John was wearing his old stripped dressing gown; his hair still slightly wet; his skin flushed from the bath's heat. The ex-soldier was sitting in the armchair that Sherlock used to claim as his own, he was in somewhat of a trance, his eyes open, staring in the general direction of the floor.
The state of the room was somewhat irrelevant but Sherlock still noted the absence of paperwork and experiments. The only items Sherlock now possessed in the living space were the faithful Skull and his beautiful violin.
Sherlock went to remove his coat with a flourish, but was caught short as John looked vaguely in his direction, his eyes unfocussed;
"Greg, is that you? I have been thinking about the Yohash diamond, could it still be at the museum?" John said in thought as he turned his head to the side slightly.
Sherlock froze to the spot at this behaviour; he walked closer to John and waved his long fingered hand slowly in front of the doctor.
"Greg?" John asked, his brow furrowed; "Why are you hiding?"
"John" Sherlock murmured as he sank to his knees in front of his friend.
"Who's there?" John demanded as he sat bolt upright in his chair, reaching for a stick that was resting beside the coffee table.
Sherlock looked sadly up at his old flatmate and lay a hand on John's knee; "John, its' Sherlock."
John looked wildly around him;
"You do not have a colour" he said eventually, looking down at Sherlock's shoulder.
"A colour?" Sherlock queried gently.
"Everyone has a colour. You can't be real." John murmured, obviously calming himself in a practiced manner.
Sherlock went to pull away but John grasped at his hand; "Better to have an imaginary ghost than none at all" he whispered urgently with a bemused smile. Sherlock smiled sadly at the shell of his friend, he noticed the weight loss, the sleepless eyes, the obvious contact with Scotland Yard and therapist with no apparent relief.
"I am here, John." Sherlock stated plainly, grasping both of John's idle hands and placing them on his own face, palm up. "I have come back."
John paused as his fingers freely roamed the long lost detective's face, stopping short at the high cheek bones. Without warning the doctor dropped both hands from the consulting detective.
"I'm going crazy" he mumbled as he reached for his stick once more, getting to his feet and walking past Sherlock towards the kitchen. The taller man raised himself from the floor and sat in the recently vacated armchair; he tucked up his feet and steepled his long fingers under his chin, examining the blind man without shame.
"How long have you been blind?" Sherlock asked clearly, over the noise of the kettle.
"You tell me, you are the figment of my warped imagination, you should know." John said angrily, slamming the kettle back onto its stand.
"Can I have a cup?" Sherlock asked, unperturbed by John's anger, emotion was a good sign.
"I am not going to – you know what; yes, ok let's make you a cup. Two sugars right?" John asked with a brief expression of a mad man as he threw his head in the detectives' direction.
"Actually, none" Sherlock murmured as he carefully watched John's reaction.
"None?" John asked.
"None, there was no sugar in many of the places I have stayed." Sherlock confirmed.
"And where have you stayed?" John asked, bracing himself against the kitchen counter.
"Europe, Asia and America to name but a few." Sherlock said as he tilted his head to the side still surveying the doctor cautiously.
"Why so many places?" John asked as he continued to blindly make the refreshments.
"Oh, I just had to chase down a few of Moriarty's contacts, ensure their death and our freedom" Sherlock said with a sigh.
John used both of his hands to ensure the liquid passed from the teapot into the cups as he listened to Sherlock.
"How long have you been blind?" Sherlock asked again, sharply this time.
"Three years" John mused dully. "About the time that it all happened, no apparent physical reason."
Sherlock smiled without warning. In an instant he saw the entire pathway lay ahead of him, the clues were all there, he just had to observe.
"What does your therapist say about it?" Sherlock pressed, watching the doctor step cautiously back into the living room with the full cups.
"She says that it was a traumatic time, and that trauma affects people in peculiar ways." Sherlock stood to receive his cup from the shorter man.
"How stupendously stupid of her" Sherlock murmured with a roll of his grey eyes, he noted the sudden furrow of John's brow and the twitch to his lips. The tall detective stooped to take the remaining cup from John and place them both on the small coffee table.
John went to sit down when Sherlock grasped his shoulders securely;
"John. You have psychosomatic blindness." Sherlock said calmly and firmly.
John's eyes widened as he appeared to look into no where.
"You can see objects, am I right? Like shadows, no colours, until you see people. You DO see people, think John, Think!" Sherlock implored, still holding onto John's shoulders.
"You see them with your eyes but your brain ignores the signals. It's in a state of shock. You just need to want to see something; you need to desperately desire to see something. Or get shocked out of your current state" Sherlock muttered more to himself than John.
The Doctor stood still, staring blindly into the darkness.
"Sherlock, it's no good, they did a load of tests–" John was stopped short as Sherlock pressed lips to the Doctors' own.
After a blissful moment, Sherlock pulled away and watched anxiously as John let his dark blue eyes flutter open. The ex-army soldier furrowed his brow and allowed his eyes to focus on the outline of Sherlock Holmes. John first saw his light grey eyes and travelled down his stoically high cheek bones to his pale pink lips. Sherlock smiled as he watched the reactions of his flatmate's eyes, knowing full well that he had once again 'fixed' his broken Doctor.
John allowed his mouth to hang open as his jaw remained slack, he brought a hand up between the two bodies and touched his own lips gingerly with his index finger.
"You kissed me" John said dumbly.
Sherlock smiled widely; "I repair your sight and you accuse me of the method in which I resorted to" he said dully, his tone not matching his dancing eyes.
John let the hand on his lips move across the no-man's land to Sherlock's own, now repeating the gentle touch to his friends' lips.
"You're really here" John whispered in disbelief.
Sherlock smiled sadly watching his friend.
"How?" John asked numbly, his hand dropping back to his side, idly.
"Well, come and sit, I will explain it all." Sherlock took a seat on the armchair he used to own and waved a hand to John's old seat opposite.
John did not remove his eyes from the tall detective on the short journey to his forgotten armchair.
They sat in companionable silence; surveying each other over the rims of their teacups until the last dreg was gone.
No sooner than the china teacup was placed back on the small table had the exhausted detective had fallen asleep. John smiled, he allowed himself now to look about the room he was in. His vision back to Technicolor quality thanks to Sherlock; once again he owed the man so much. It was perhaps for this reason that he was not angry at his un-dead friend; the trickery that had obviously been played upon him that horrible day and that haunted him each night didn't mean a thing now that he was back. Sherlock Holmes was home…and if John wasn't mistaken, the doctor was very much in love with him.