It felt wrong.
He had only been back to the flat once so far; and only out of a pure human desperation he would never admit aloud. Just once, on a cool evening when John was locked in firmly at the surgery without any opportunity to leave after a nasty twelve-car pileup that Sherlock may or may not have had some small part in causing. Unsurprisingly, it was easy to be played off as a large deer when to was raining and dark on an overpass, but that was another story he would be keeping to himself. There was no pileup, though, this time, and no surgery, and merely curiosity; no, John was at the pub, with Lestrade, and from the looks of the round Greg had just beckoned over, he was going to be there a while.
Exhaling silently, he stood in the doorway and stared around the unfamiliar scene with face blank and crisp blue eyes as calculating as they had ever been, silently taking in the living room of the flat. Furniture all still in order, but not a stacked paper in sight. The carpet was clean, the wallpaper replaced and void of powder-fringed holes. Some things remained – his chair, his black leather modern thing sitting opposite the deep red recliner of John's, afghan neatly folded over its back, likely Mrs. Hudson's doing as she was the only member of the house who folded each blanket with tassels and dangling additions inwards. The mantel was freshly dusted, mirror clean, barren along with the wall of papers tacked into place no longer being present. The ceiling was also void of bullet marks, and hanging mannequins, and as had been his decision the first time he had visited, it was limitlessly dull.
But more importantly, there was no John, and that was…actually, he didn't know how to refer to that.
Stepping into the room slowly, he reached for his pocket to don a pair of blue latex gloves, the plastic snap cacophonous in the silent flat but not surprising. He made his way slowly towards the kitchen, clean and actually now resembling a place of cooking and eating, though obviously for only one person. Nothing of interest in the fridge or pantry. Nothing he found of any importance elsewhere, except for excessive cleanliness that, while appreciated, was out of place in this setting. Very out of place.
He didn't feel like he was standing in 221B Baker Street. Not the 221B he knew. No mess. No chemicals. No cases. No John.
No John.
Setting his lips in a firm line, he set down the plate he'd been examining by the sink – spaghetti, Mrs. Hudson's recipe, a small serving, garlic bread on the side, and the mug had held a plain strong black tea – and stepped back into the living room. The drapes were closed and it was dim, though not so much so for it to be unrecognizable generally…however, it was definitely not the same flat he had called home a year and a half ago. He didn't know what to call home anymore. Mycroft's spare bedroom in the off-wing of his estate was not home. The sewers and shoddy motels he occasionally bunked in were not home.
This was not home anymore.
No, no, wrong, he thought, cursing himself for the idea. This wasn't home now but it would be, soon, someday, hopefully. No, not hopefully, definitely! Definitely. Yes. Yes. It would be. He would finish his work, and then he would be back, and…
And then nothing. He had yet to decide how he might return, or how he might have the opportunity to. He hadn't discussed it with molly, or Mycroft, though he had only told Mycroft of his not-dead status a month prior, so speaking terms weren't particularly present yet. They hadn't really been there to begin with, so he didn't expect them to pop up very soon. No matter. He didn't need them to. Molly listened. She let him ramble and rant and occasionally shout at things as he busied himself with chemicals in the lab or a fresh corpse or a not-so-fresh one; he reminded himself to relocate the ability to thank another human being in a less-than-curt manner and place it somewhere in his mind palace in the room he had reserved for her, the room of Molly Hooper and her not-very-brilliant-but-blossoming kindness and genuine humanity. It was a kind room, and again, he wouldn't even admit it to himself, but he enjoyed being in its presence.
John's room. John's room was not the same.
No, it was a dim room full of military organization and a crisp step and a cane, no, a redacted cane as he could find it nowhere in the flat with just a glance, possibly it was hiding among the umbrellas in the foyer, and a lack of condescension and far too many things he couldn't bear to drag to the surface as he stood in the almost-familiar living room and stared at the life he had once lived.
The room smelled of John Watson, and Sherlock inhaled slowly through his nose and out, feeling wrong once again for being there alone, for being there at all, for leaving like he was about to, and for having avoided coming here for so long. Standing there in dark jeans and sneakers and a jacket all bought from the scummy secondhand shop he'd passed on his way here, he was brown-haired and he'd let it grow long and shaggy now, irritatingly cumbersome just like the short beard he'd managed to sprout. It itched, and more than once he'd considered merely shaving it off in an aggravated rage, but no; he had more self-control than that, and it was a beard that he refused to lose to yet.
Yet. He might break eventually.
Taking a shorter, less lingering breath, he exhaled more stiffly and looked around again at the flat in all its unfamiliarity and unpleasant lack of distinguishing features. It wasn't worth it. He shouldn't have come. Visiting only inspired unnecessary emotions, and emotions…were not convenient right now. He didn't have the time or the patience for them, and they were only a distraction. Anything except for his work, right now, was a useless distraction, and he shouldn't have come. A step backwards towards the empty doorway, initiated his exit. He needed to leave.
No, he reprimanded himself. He needed to come home.
And he needed John. He would never say it aloud. Well. Not now, not yet, at the very least. But he needed him. Needed to hear his voice, his level-headed sense of human clarity that only came to the really shiningly bland, normal people. Needed his blunt non-acceptance of Sherlock's utter and honestly astonishing lack of understanding of basic social interactions, and his amazement at everything else that was Sherlock Holmes, and he needed him. Another step back. He was getting notions, ideas forming in his brain and pressing him to stop stepping backwards, ad he forced it anyways, standing in the doorway. He looked across the room once more, and his eyes paused next to his chair, and on the case beside it.
It wasn't.
It was.
Oh the temptation. To run across the room just for a moment, take it out of its case, to play even just one note – no. He was definitely in need of a quick exit now, this was getting ridiculous. His violin, so tenderly cleaned and cared for as he had by John, and no one in the world could have denied that hearing him play so terribly was a bittersweet serenade every now and again when he could sneakily catch him in the graveyard without himself being seen. He just wanted to touch it, perhaps to smell the lingering scent of John on the bow and neck-rest, but that would be ruinous. Devastating, negatively climactic. It would poison all of his hard work. He'd crumble like the weak-kneed man he had so many times pretended to be to gain access where needed, and he'd sit there on the floor until John stumbled home by a late-evening cab, and it would all have been a waste. Swallowing with a sudden thickness in his throat, he inhaled sharply through his nose, setting his mouth again firmly and lifting his hand as if gesturing to the figure that wasn't currently there.
" Soon, John, " he said quietly, his hand not sure where to gesture and merely resulting in a vague, outstretched position, somewhat towards his laptop case and somewhat towards his chair, and the violin. He backed out of the room and dropped his hand, turning and making his way out the door and down the stairs, gloves still on. He locked up the flat with the key he had never lost track of and slipped off the gloves to dispose of them three blocks away in a trash bin outside an apartment complex, and strode on with hood up and a purposeful stride, determined to leave the area before his emotions struck too sensitive and distracting a chord. Taking several firm and controlled breaths, he glanced about, disappearing from the world in the blink of an eye and a sharp turn down a random alleyway.
Soon.