It took time for Dr. John Watson, formerly of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, to realize why his dear friend, Sherlock Holmes, seemed so different after having been gone for two years. Of course, Dr. Watson first assumed that he had simply not seen him for so long that he had forgotten the quirks of the famous consulting detective. But it quickly became apparent that Sherlock had been doing more than he let on during his time in cognito.
Upon his surprise arrival in London and less-than-amicable reunion with Dr. Watson, Sherlock had explained that he had taken the opportunity of his supposed death to take down what remained of Jim Moriarty's underground network. This had, he explained, taken the entire two years to accomplish and upon completion of this work he had returned to London immediately.
Although Sherlock didn't say so, Dr. Watson was quite certain there was a new wall that had been built between the friends, one which Dr. Watson hoped to tear down, like so many before. When they had first met, Sherlock was a distant man, quite engaged with his own thoughts and unperturbed by the lack of social interactions in his day-to-day life. But of course, that had all changed when they met in Bart's Hospital, some years previously, and had immediately arranged to become flatmates on Baker Street in a unit managed by the strange and quirky Mrs. Hudson (who was their landlady and not their housekeeper).
The friends had lived together in relative comfort until Sherlock's supposed death after a confrontation with Jim Moriarty on the roof of the same hospital where Sherlock and Dr. Watson had met. Now, upon his eager return to London and the flat where he and Dr. Watson had solved so many cases together, Sherlock found his friend engaged- quite literally- with a woman he had never met.
Of course, Sherlock was quickly taken in by Mary Morstan's charm and intelligence (despite the fact that she later turned out to be a former assassin with a terrifying skill set), and he had no problem with the relationship in that regard. Unfortunately, happiness for his friend did not save Sherlock from the terrible loneliness that would invade 221B Baker Street; where Dr. Watson had previously sat remained only a battered old chair and an empty decanter.
Dr. Watson, of course, had no way of knowing that far beyond these feelings alone, Sherlock was suffering as near to PTSD as could be expected of a man of his caliber and rationality. He had never asked Sherlock for details of his time "abroad" as they said, but couldn't help noticing the signs of trauma, not so different from those that Sherlock had saved Dr. Watson from himself just a few short years previously.
"Can you tell me what happened? Can you tell me what happened to Sherlock?" The doctor, as worn as ever, with his firm military eyes and squared shoulders, met the unwavering look of the elder of the Holmes brothers.
"Stay the night, Dr. Watson." Mycroft finally responded, glancing down at the floor and swinging his umbrella forcefully, betraying his inner turmoil against his otherwise calm demeanor.
"I'm sorry?"
"Stay the night at Baker Street, and tell me what you learn."
True to style, Mycroft did not wait for a response, preferring to turn on his heel and walk out of the old warehouse they had agreed to meet in. Dr. Watson was left alone, again it seemed, with nothing but his questions.
When Dr. Watson knocked on the familiar door of his former flat, he felt extremely silly, not least of all because no one answered. It seemed quite odd to stand on the front step of your own home and Dr. Watson did, apparently, consider this place home still. He thought of Mary who had been so encouraging of his mission that he was quite sure she knew something he didn't, and huffed.
He opened the door.
"Well I wondered if you were ever going to come in. Why'd you knock, anyway?" Mrs. Hudson asked loudly, leaning against the railing of the stairs, having, it seemed, come out of her own flat just enough to see when Dr. Watson would finally decide to come in.
"I wasn't sure if I was allowed to just...come in." He responded finally, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.
"Of course you are, John," her eyes softened and Dr. Watson relaxed slightly, "you're always welcome at Baker Street. Would you like some tea?"
"That would be lovely, Mrs. Hudson."
"Perfect, I'll get biscuits, too. But just this one time, John, I'm not your housekeeper." Turning and retreating back into her flat, Mrs. Hudson was gone, and Dr. Watson smiled slightly, feeling as though he had entered not only his old home but also, in a way, his old life.
Dr. Watson started up the stairs, contemplating what he might say first, but thinking all the same that Sherlock was already probably aware who was here, familiar as he was with the sounds of every set of footsteps. His instinct proved correct when the door to 221B swung open just a moment before Dr. Watson reached the top of the steps, and he could see Sherlock's shadow as he returned to his chair in front of the fire.
"All right then, Sherlock?" He asked lightly, closing the door behind him and removing his coat. He suddenly wished he'd brought chips or something when he did a quick survey of the kitchen. Quite empty and quite...sad...the kitchen that had once been so full of chemistry equipment and frankly dreadful experiments was devoid of any indication of life at all. It would seem Sherlock had not eaten at the flat since returning to London the week before and Dr. Watson wondered despairingly if his dear friend had eaten at all.
"All right." Sherlock answered, his deep voice weaker than Dr. Watson remembered. "This is a surprise."
"Is it?"
"Not really, but then there's not many things that surprise me. I suppose I didn't expect you here tonight, though. Just, ah, coming to pick something up?" Sherlock tried to stand, pushing himself out of his chair and fluttering his hands as if he wanted to clean something up but wasn't quite sure where to begin. He was very frail, though, and Dr. Watson considered further that his friend had likely not eaten and was likely quite high.
The silence was palpable as the two men avoided each others' gazes and, it seemed to Dr. Watson, avoided saying what they needed very much to say.
"Shall we go out to eat then?" Sherlock looked instantly relieved at the thought.
"Very well. Chips?"
"Chips."
Dr. Watson watched Sherlock collect his things, shedding his robe on the floor in the hall and struggling very hard to keep his balance as he leaned down to pick up a pair of trousers to replace the pajama bottoms he seemed to have been wearing for a very long time.
Finally dressed, Sherlock met Dr. Watson and the two headed downstairs.
"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson gasped, running out from her flat again, "You're going out?"
"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, John's here."
"But look at you! You haven't left in days!"
"Not now, Mrs. Hudson! John's here." Sherlock avoided the eyes of the two people who, in that moment, had very different ideas of how Sherlock had been doing since his return to London, and gathered his coat and scarf and left, leaving the door open for Dr. Watson to follow, which he did after only a moment's awkward hesitation.