Standard disclosures and generic statements of lack of ownership of Sherlock apply. Offers may vary based on location. See stores for details.
Years later, in eidetic hindsight, John would never be able to recall what had pulled him back to 221b let alone spurred him to hurry up the stairs, but he could remember, with painful clarity, the feeling of urgency. And so, as it happened so many years before, the cane tumbled from his fingers to clatter forgotten in John's wake as the hobble melted to perfect, adrenaline driven gait.
There was movement rustling above, knocks beating a tattoo of warning, groans of floorboards and shivering whispers of papers sliding together too purposeful to be that of a wayward thief or any other random creature having slipped in from the outside. Not for the first time, John wished for his gun but having long since abandoned his own will to thrive, heedlessly rounded the corner and into the flat.
In some corners of the world and texts there are poetic descriptions of the world stopping or suddenly falling to a lethargic crawl-of time suspended seemingly inanimate and yet wrought with violent epiphany. Perhaps others may find superior description to mark the moment when desperate eyes met, breath chopped to a stuttering, sucking, gasping halt, and twin souls fibrillated with resounding recognition. Perhaps there are thought fragments far more viable than winded disbelief, vasovagal, betrayal, hyperventilation, impossible, solidity, here, home, alive.
"I'm back."
~~{~
::ahem:: Of all the things I am, a writer is most certainly not one of them. I blame the fact this even exists on the wine. The very...very...very delicious bottle of Muscato I am enjoying. Behold the shame of the very first 221b ever penned by one Ramus Myelin. May your eyes stop bleeding some time before you must rejoin society.