AN: This fic was based off a random four-word challenge I found with my friend, where we picked four random words and had to include them in our stories. Mine were: laughed, dangerous, expressed and bookbox.
Enjoy!
This Time
John gazed forlornly at the crates and cardboard boxes around the now-empty flat of 221B Baker Street. Dust had been upturned from the packaging of all of his and Sherlock's old things, Sherlock's bookbox's being the objects that filled most of the room of the flat.
He couldn't believe it had taken him nearly 2 years to clear up this place: no amount of counselling sessions could have prepared him for the grief of his lost friend; no consoling from Mrs Hudson had relieved John of his inner demons; no amount of assurance from Mycroft had stopped his mind from screaming 'wrong, wrong, wrong!' each and every time he wondered why Sherlock would commit suicide and how he could have been lying to him for the time he'd known him.
But God did he miss Sherlock. He missed the adventures, the dangerous games they both used to play with some of the world's most audacious criminals. He missed the thrill and the adrenaline being with Sherlock had supplemented after John's injury. He missed having someone to talk to.
John huffed as he readied himself to leave the flat once and for all. The removal men would be here any minute now to collect John's things for the new, smaller flat further down town - it was a far cry from Baker Street, but John just couldn't afford to pay the rent on his own any more. The flat brought back too many memories, too – and a skip would be waiting tomorrow to house Sherlock's things before being taken away again. It was all for the best, really.
"Mrs Hudson!" John called down the narrow passageway that led to 221A Baker Street, Mrs Hudson's home. "Have you seen the removal men by any chance?"
The clanks of small heels reverberated in echoes. "No sign of them yet, my dear, but they should be here any minute now," she said back.
"What's taking them so long?" John expressed to himself, flapping his arms as dust clouds in the air swirled around him in tendrils, making him sneeze involuntary.
He started to move and separate the boxes without really thinking about it, sorting the piles into two different sides of the room that John had labelled as 'Sherlock's' and 'John's' inside his head. Boring, but it would help when the removal men came to take the boxes away. Whenever they decided to show up, of course.
He did that for 10 minutes until, suddenly, a sly laugh sounded from door to 221B, its voice deep and resonant.
"Getting antsy, are we John?" The most familiar voice in the world said behind him. "Shouldn't you know that removal men are highly unreliable during rush hour? Or maybe you didn't realise that I had called last minute and cancelled your appointment."
All the air in the world wouldn't have been enough for John as he turned around and stared at the face of his roommate, the face of his friend, the notorious Sherlock Holmes.
"Sherlock," John breathed out after almost a minute of looking at Sherlock for the first time in 2 years. Hell, he'd thought he'd never see him again! Yet here he was, dressed in the same old long, dark navy blue trench coat, complete with the scarf hanging loosely around his neck.
"I'm coming back, John," he started. "And this time, I intend to stay."
THE END
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