A/N: I decided to attempt a Johnlock fic. I've never written anything like this before, so let me know what you think!
Sherlock waits. He tries to remain still, but his body craves to fidget. He leans up against a brick archway in front of the twisting stairs leading to John's own flat, hoping the urge will subside.
Sherlock hadn't been surprised when John moved out of 221B nine days after the fall, but it still left a strange feeling of emptiness to resonate inside of his chest. He had obviously watched John ever since he faked his death, and kept close tabs on the doctor. Many times, he had come close to revealing himself, almost unable to bear the sight of his very best friend breaking down into tears during the late and random watches of the night. Sherlock's disappearance was necessary, but he couldn't keep himself hidden from his best friend any longer. The previous day, he had decided suddenly that he would reveal himself, and he would do it as soon as possible.
Now, he begins to count down, attempting to prepare himself for the moment when John will turn the street corner and see him for the first time in two years. Earlier, the detective watched the doctor enter a café some mile and half away from the flat, and precisely calculated the time it would take for John to make it back to his apartment. Sherlock took off from his hiding place the moment he saw John make a move to leave, and performed the equations and algorithms in his head as he jogged along the pavement. He arrived at John's flat three minutes and twenty-two seconds ago, and has been trying to keep his breathing in check.
Sherlock's internal clock buzzes at him suddenly as he realizes that only fifty-two seconds remain until John sees him. The detective has calculated John's steps perfectly, estimating that he is perhaps a block and a half away. He takes a deep breath, and watches the corner of the street. Time is passing too slowly, and Sherlock's heart begins to do small and frightened jumps in his chest.
"What will John do?" Sherlock thinks to himself. "Punch me, most likely." He decides. He takes a deep breath and imagines John's fist coming into contact with his left cheekbone.
Forty seconds.
Sherlock shuffles, feeling his breath begin to come a little more quickly than he wants.
Thirty seconds.
Sherlock's feet are tapping furiously against the pavement, and the urge to run is almost overwhelming. But he is glued in place.
Twenty seconds.
Sherlock is sweating. Almost gasping.
Ten seconds.
He can hear footsteps coming from around the corner. Footsteps getting closer and closer, louder and louder.
He wipes the sweat from his forehead and takes the deepest breath he's ever taken.
Sherlock closes his eyes. The footsteps halt abruptly.
His eyes open, and John Watson- beautiful, wonderful, insolent, ignorant John Watson is standing twenty yards away from him, eyes wide, and frozen in place. The doctor's mouth drops open, and he's staring. Sherlock is at a loss for what to do. For some reason, the detective smiles. He lets his hand fly up in a single wave, and in the complete silence, he speaks.
"Helloo."
Continue? PLEASE, let me know! I would certainly bake you cookies. The good kind. *wink*