John levered himself up the stairs, trying to ignore the punctuating thump of his cane. He clenched and released the paper bag in his other hand, alerting Mrs. Hudson to his bundle of groceries. She would have no reason to insist on his presence if she thought he intended to eat a substantial meal tonight.
John eased himself through the door to 221B, dropping his purchases onto the table before securing his privacy with a turn of the lock. He hobbled over to his armchair, allowed himself to fall, and leaned forward to snag the concealed bottle out of the bag. He unscrewed the cap and swallowed the burn, staring ahead.
The stairs leading to his room creaked and John turned toward the sound.
He looked the same. Dark curls dry and redless, long coat crisp and windless. His face more stoic than John could remember, even that day. Especially that day. Not that he could see beyond planes of pale skin and glassy eyes conjured through the timbre of that voice.
John struggled to his feet, legs and hands shaking despite kidnapped conversations about adrenaline and battle with London's master of strings.
"Sherlock," John said. "It's, is it really you?"
"It is really me," Sherlock said. "Sherlock."
John stepped forward, the shift of bone, tendon, and muscle operating outside of his control. His hands clenched into fists and his arms wanted to rise, to wrap around that slim frame and hold on until his grief disappeared with the ease in which Sherlock had just negated it.
Sherlock mirrored his step forward, but otherwise remained still, stoic, even with a year between them, even with the force of those last words threatening to ruin him in the effortless way that only Sherlock could.
"I can't believe," John said, "even for you, that's."
"You can believe," Sherlock said, taking another step forward. "For me."
John closed the distance between them, prepared to add some color to that blank face, to cause the kind of damage that even Irene wouldn't equate with love.
John pressed his face into Sherlock's shoulder and tried to ignore the dampening fabric of Sherlock's coat or the lack of long arms answering his grip beneath them. He let go when Sherlock stiffened and stepped back, searching Sherlock's torso for sign of injury.
John met Sherlock's gaze. His vacant gaze. And he noticed his closed mouth, the spare words between them. Their hollow quality.
"Sherlock?" John asked.
John stared at Sherlock, how his head turned and kept turning. The back of his skull looked scooped out, lost in the fall, leaving nothing but a series of circuits.
John couldn't stop watching the blue lines flicker and dance, until he had been scooped out, too.