This is a little 221B that was inspired by watching a dance. It is dedicated to all my good friends here that are patiently waiting, either for promised fics or for updates on the series and stories that I have on the go at the moment, those lovely people (you know who you are) who have supported me through some niggling health issues that have stopped me writing like I want to. Here's to you my lovelies!
John sat, as he had so many times in the past, in 'his' armchair in the living room of 221B Baker Street, staring into the fire.
Mary was gone. Her passing both a blessing and a pain, but what was done was done.
And so he sat, internally examining the facts, the clues, and pondering.
Sherlock's support in times of strife (of which there had been many over the years), his seemingly cold demeanour that hid a warm and protective heart, and his immediate offer of a return to his old room while understanding John's need for space and peace meant a lot.
That Sherlock still included him, all but begged him to resume his 'Boswell' duties, yet gave up his juiciest crime scenes if the Yard's finest became too obnoxiously vocal was heart-warming.
The final clue, the last piece of evidence, were the little touches, the soft smiles, the glow of delight in their friendship that lit those oddly mesmeric eyes.
John knew exactly what he was doing when he grasped in both hands his courage and his dreams, stood, and turning towards the man standing in the doorway took the three paces required to bring them face to face…
There, looking for the one thing that would remain once all else had fled, he proceeded to open Pandora's Box.