A Prodigious Return.
John just wanted to try something new.
Something different.
Over the past God knows how many months, he'd known nothing but pain. All-consuming, agonising, pain.
The kind of pain that occurred when you were missing something; maybe a limb, an organ, or something else vital, like Sherlock.
Sherlock was so precious and yet he had never said so – did Sherlock even comprehend the idea of romance? Chemistry? Of course, he knew what they were, of that John was sure. But he doubted that Sherlock felt them nor interpreted them nor even had any clue that John was interested in him.
Which, of course added to the blow of Sherlock's death; he'd never had the chance to say it.
But anyway, he wanted to try something new. To dull, mutate or at least distract himself from the painful aching that he felt with every second that passed.
It had worked, on the whole. The stinging in his forearm as he sliced it had brought him shame, a feeling of utter stupidity and weakness, but it had also distracted the pain. More than that, it was like a small outlet of relief. The agony within him saturated a little and instead he felt the sharp pain as blood slipped the small incisions he had inflicted on himself.
He remembered, so clearly, slipping his head back and letting out a gentle sigh as he had done so. The pain had ached for a few hours and though he had felt greater pain, it did dull the pain within him a little more. It dulled everything; with every self-mutilation, he felt a little more numb.
And numb was better than searing pain.
"Are you sure, dear?"
A little smile rose on the corners of John's lips, but didn't move any further. He swore, even though he knew it wasn't quite feasible, that his muscles had ceased the ability to smile. That it was so foreign, so unusual of him to do so, but he felt a little need to feign it for Mrs Hudson.
"Don't worry; it's about time I sorted it all out, anyway." John replied lightly, nodding her off as he pushed open the door to his old apartment. The elder woman smiled the smile of someone attempting to understand and left. Of course, that was silly because she never truly felt for Sherlock in the same way. She didn't see Sherlock jump to his death, didn't check his sighs, she didn't-
Best, he thought, not to remember too much.
221B Baker Street had, on the whole, remained relatively unchanged in the time he'd spent away from it.
Sure, there was an extra coating of dust on everything. It didn't hold the same atmosphere, either. Not to mention, John's things had mainly been moved away from here. But the furniture, the possessions of his old flatmate, they were all here.
God, he missed Sherlock. He missed the man's incredible revelations, but also his presence, his scent. He missed seeing the shape of his fully formed lips turn into a smile as he reached a regular epiphany, he missed seeing the creases of his eyes narrow in curiosity as he considered things and most of all, he missed the excitement Sherlock brought with him.
He missed it all.
Yet, somehow, he didn't feel as heavy. Today, he sensed, would be different. He knew today would be different.
Here, in 221B Baker Street, where it all began; something would change here today.
Webs are terribly intricate things.
Particularly when those webs are invisible; it was hard to see where each lead began and the next ended, difficult to be certain that every dirty little strand was disposed of.
Of course, such difficulties became easier when one was blessed with the analytical mind and impeccable perception of Sherlock Holmes.
Beyond that, there were the sacrifices that needed to be made.
Such as having to fake his own suicide.
Oh, the pain that had brought him. Had he not busied himself with the work of dismantling Moriaty's detailed game, maybe he wouldn't have had to fake it any further.
The truth was, he missed John. He missed his one true friend with all of his heart – in fact, he couldn't get the army doctor off of his mind.
He'd loved John for some time, of course he had. How could he not? John took each harsh comment and unusual mannerism under his belt; he accepted Sherlock. That was something no-one had ever done. He pushed him in line, too. Despite the detective's attempts to push John Watson away, the man came back up, determined to call Sherlock Holmes a friend.
And each time, he found himself loving him a little more for it.
Not that he understood it.
Sentiment, did John call it?
Dear sentiment, he had noticed it in John, too! He noticed how John's skin was hued less pink whilst he thought Sherlock wasn't looking. He noticed John's pupils dilate ever so slightly when he turned to look at him.
Not to mention, of course, the signs that ordinary people would notice. John's relentless attempts at offering affection, his constant defending, how he followed Sherlock whole-heartedly through everything.
And at the gravestone.
When John had pleaded, so broken, that Sherlock would stop being dead.
Oh God, Sherlock had never known such internal pain.
But today, all this would end.
Sherlock inhaled sharply through his nose as he reached 221B Baker Street.
He was bracing himself. He knew John. John would be incredibly angry. There would probably be some violence, followed by a long period of time where they would not speak. Then, slowly, they'd rebuild their old routine. Sherlock would hide his feelings for John in his work and John would hide his feelings in his blog.
Everyone had their devices, after all.
The door had not been locked. How peculiar. For once in his life, Sherlock Holmes did not stop to ponder nor deduce the prints and residue. He didn't care for reasoning, he needed to see John, just see the man's face, his smile. Everything.
Slowly, he made his way up the stairs.
It was hard to miss; a note on the door.
It had not yet been read, addressed to Mrs Hudson. Of course, he knew that handwriting. The slant was clearly right handed. The runs in the ink repeatedly relented, obviously a sign that the writer was anxious, if not then pensive.
Confusion, a foreign emotion indeed. Nonetheless, confusion snuck its way into Sherlock's mind, attempting to flicker off the lights of his mind.
Without hesitation, he took the note from where it had been hastily pinned to the wall.
Mrs. Hudson –
I'm in the middle of something important, I would like for you not to enter. At all. Call the yard and stay away.
Thanks.
-John.
Such a simple note. A request for Mrs Hudson not to enter. Peculiar? What could John be doing? Experimenting? A little twang of emotion hit Sherlock in the gut at that idea; had John tried to continue his experiments?
But, this was John. Innocent, soft-hearted, woolly-jumper wearing John. John who was so unordinary for an ordinary person, John who was Sherlock's insight into sentiment, John who Sherlock knew adorned Mrs Hudson's company now that he was not around.
John who would not dare ask for solitude.
How peculiar.
Disregarding the note to the side and taking another sharp inhale of breath, Sherlock prepared himself for meeting John after so long.
His entire being twisted with excitement, anticipation. God, he missed John Watson.
The first thing he noticed was how skinny John had become. He was wearing that same beige knitted jumper he always wore. The one that scratched Sherlock's skin to touch. But that jumper was now so baggy, hanging low on John's drooping shoulders.
Maybe Sherlock had under-estimated John's sentiment. It was clear he hadn't been eating properly.
His eyes drifted to Watson's. Those captivating, kind, blue orbs had faded to an almost grey colour. They no longer held the life and the wonder they once did. They were dull and dead. There were faded purple bags under his eyes, too.
His lips didn't curve into a smile as Sherlock entered. He didn't even frown at him. John just stared onwards, blankly.
Maybe it was just ignorance, but he was almost certain it was denial. Refusal.
Not on John's behalf. On Sherlock's.
Because that immaculate deduction of his had failed to notice the rope that supported John's neck.
His knees hit the floor quite quickly. His jaw practically unhinged itself as a scream left his lips.
So, this? Was this what John felt all that time ago? When he thought Sherlock had fallen from the rooftop?
This agonising, empty pain that flew in through every pore in his skin and made camp. Refused to leave; only manifested with every millisecond that grew. He didn't notice the hot tears on his face, nor the hands that grabbed his shoulders. He didn't hear as someone called the police, nor did the screaming relent as he was dragged from the room.
In fact, he screamed more as he realised John was getting further away. He elbowed the owner of the arms, racing forwards to John's dead body. He wrapped his arms around the man's bony torso, feeling the lack of weight, the lack of life, of reaction. Only when he felt contact with his friend, his love did he stop screaming. He clung to John, as though it would make the life seep back into him.
As though with every moment of touch, this would turn out to be a nightmare.
That John wouldn't have killed himself, because of Sherlock.
That he wouldn't be dead.
Everyone has their devices.