The punch that nearly breaks Sherlock's cheekbone isn't what tells him. Nor is it the flash of rage across John's face. Both Sherlock had expected, had anticipated, though he had hoped neither would occur. It's the silence afterwards. John points at him, face twisted in anger, mouth a thin line of betrayal. Sherlock straightens his shoulders, face still pounding in pain, and readies himself for the onslaught of John's justified anger. The tirade never comes. Instead, John's hand drops, and with it Sherlock's stomach. John's hand curls up at his side, not with the intent of force, but as if his rage, his disappointment, his caring for Sherlock is gone, drying and curling inward like a plant left to die. It's the way John shakes his head as if he isn't surprised at all by Sherlock's deception and then pushes past him without looking at his face again that tells Sherlock everything he needs to know.
He has witnessed the death of something precious, that needed to be handled like a glass bubble, and Sherlock had never realized it even existed until now.
He walks. Hours blend and smudge around him, blurring into greys. Shadows shove past him; curses about watching his step are lost in the miasma that clings to him. These are streets that were once familiar to him, but, like the look that had settled across John's face, Sherlock no longer recognizes them. He's in a strange land and each corner, each shop face, each skip, each alley scream his betrayal at him. This isn't London, or it's a London that he is no longer welcome in.
He sits, though he does not remember choosing to do so. The bench is cold and hard against his back and the dig of it against his spine reminds him of the sharp, pressed line of John's lips. He presses his fingers against against his cheek, until the bruises there scream. He pushes harder, feeling the throb of blood and the protest of recently abused bone just under his fingers; he presses until the pain is replaced with the numbness of always feeling it. In the ghost of London, he teaches himself to tolerate the loss of John Watson.
Learning to live without John proves to be a hard lesson, but Sherlock is persistent. He relearns London and Paganini, tea and Ravel. His fingers and throat burn, his feet ache. He wills his mind clear, but deletes nothing. His mind palace is a shrine, a catacomb, for things John Watson and, though he must force his fingers to unclench after saying goodbye to each memory, he teaches himself to let them go, to fade as memories are supposed to. He can do this one thing for his former friend, if nothing else.
He does not wallow. In the time he was gone, he learned what true loneliness felt like, could have told anyone willing to listen the exact weight of it on his shoulders. So he doesn't allow himself to reflect on the loneliness that is a life without John Watson, because he has been here before, but the distance is different. It's not a grave that separates them now, but a city and a broken trust. He doesn't allow himself to mourn the loss because he doesn't believe that he has earned that right.
Lestrade and Sherlock have taken to meeting on neutral ground. The diner suits their purpose: it makes the coffee to Lestrade's liking and lessens the chance of Sherlock running into John by accident.
"I could speak with him," Lestrade says. It's odd that of all the people in his life, Lestrade is the first to forgive him, but Lestrade has always been quick to forgive. Not a fool, of course. Sherlock has learned that nothing of Lestrade is foolish. Sentimental, perhaps, and there was a time Sherlock would have confused that with foolishness, but no longer. "Sherlock?"
"No." Sherlock pulls another file across the table and flips it open. He can feel Lestrade's eyes on him but keeps his attention on the crime scene photos. "Have you questioned the daughter?"
"The daughter? They have a daughter?" Lestrade feigns stupidity; he already knows about the daughter. "Go on, then, tell me what I should be asking."
The next hour is filled with the sound of Lestrade's pen scratching across paper and folders being shuffled. Old cases, the lot of them. Sherlock hasn't shown up at a crime scene since his return and Lestrade hasn't asked.
Just before he leaves, Lestrade gently tugs on Sherlock's arm. His hand is warm around Sherlock's elbow. "He'll come around eventually."
"He shouldn't."
Lestrade says nothing to that.
The floorboard under the carpet in 221C is loose, just as he remembered. The wood comes up easily under his prying fingers. The space underneath is not empty, as he half-expected it to be; surely after all these years someone had found this hiding spot? But no, the box is still there. The weight of it is familiar, though not comforting. Years of sobriety, yet he had kept the stash secreted away down here. John wouldn't have approved, but there was something about knowing that the heroin was nearby and not seeking it out that once gave him an odd twist of pleasure. He doesn't open the box. Opening it would begin a vicious, horrible cycle, something he does not want for him or for any of the people still in his life.
He texts Mycroft and returns upstairs to sit in his chair and wait. He keeps one hand on the box, pressing his palm against its sharp corners. It takes little time for his brother to arrive.
"I was in an important meeting, Sherlock." Mycroft's stance is rigid, his voice distant, but his eyes glance once at Sherlock's lap and his grip tightens on the handle of his umbrella.
"All of your meetings are important." He stands and thrusts the box towards Mycroft. "Get rid of it."
"Should I sweep the flat for the remainder?"
"There is no 'remainder.' That's it. The last of it." He pushes the box into Mycroft's hand and then wipes his hand along his trousers, banishing the last vestiges of memory still clinging to him. Mycroft opens the box, of course, and Sherlock forces his eyes to remain focused on his brother's face. His cheek twitches, the muscles giving away his thoughts before he can school them into obedience. Surprise. He had not believed Sherlock at first, but there is something in the lining of the box, in the dust and contents, that tells him the truth. He shuts in with a click.
"Your doctor would be proud." He tucks the box under his arm, forcibly nonchalant. "Have you tried speaking with him again?"
He turns away, eyes searching out the fog outside blanketing the street. "Let it go, Mycroft."
"He has his Tuesday afternoons-"
"Remove the surveillance from him," Sherlock says, the words sharp-edged. "I think he has had enough of both of us, don't you?" He scoops up his violin, fingers tenderly tuning the strings. He raises it and rests it on his shoulder. Bach, he thinks. Mycroft's reflection in the window pane watches him and from here Sherlock cannot read his expression.
"Of course, Sherlock. Of course."
There are cases and missed moments of connection. Sherlock doesn't seek John out, but despite London's size, they are still two men with acquaintances ('friends' still feels strange on his tongue) in common and are both creatures of habit. They circle each other, never crossing paths, but inevitably aware of each other's presence in the world.
On those occasions when he sees John- once at the park, another time through a shop window- he keeps his distance. One Sunday morning, he spots John walking down the street, groceries in hand. In the early spring light, John looks healthy. There is colour to his cheeks that was not there the last time Sherlock laid eyes on him. He allows himself a few moments; his eyes trace each line, each hair.
He means to move before John spots him, but he doesn't. Perhaps it is John's military training or something in Sherlock's subconscious that keeps his legs from moving quickly enough, but he is spotted. John's face is unreadable; not the forced lack of recognition that Sherlock had feared- there is emotion there, but he is unsure of how to read the wrinkle that forms between John's eyebrows or the way his eyes pinch just so. It could be concern, but Sherlock doesn't allow himself to believe it to be. No, the emotion must be anger at being spied on. Or disgust at seeing Sherlock's face.
Concern would mean forgiveness and Sherlock cannot have earned that.
John's mouth opens, to shout or to beckon Sherlock doesn't know, but he doesn't stay to find out. He flees. Better to leave it unknown than to know the full length of John's hatred.
Purple into green into yellow.
Bach into Monteverdi into Bartók.
He heals. He breathes. He solves cases.
He learns how to be on his own and not spiral down into drugs and depression and anger.
This is not the life he had envisioned when he returned, but it is a life and it is a life, he thinks, in which John Watson is happy.
And it will have to do.
Unexpected and unlooked for, John is sitting in his old chair. He is still wearing his coat and he hasn't allowed himself to become comfortable; his back is straight, feet flat on the floor. He is a man on guard, but it is impossible to tell how long he has been sitting there. Not knowing whether John has been sitting here for minutes or hours blanks out all other thought in Sherlock's mind. He halts, fingers arrested on his scarf. His nerves buzz unpleasantly with the urge to flee. Is that what John wants? No, he isn't a cruel man; he would not drive Sherlock from his home, but his presence is a shock. Pinned under John's gaze, Sherlock finds all he can do is remain next to the door, tangled in uncertainty.
For a moment, they simply look at one another.
John is the first to break. "I was going to leave you a note."
His voice thaws Sherlock's frozen fingers, finally allowing them to move. He tugs at his scarf and hangs it by the door, followed by his coat. "For?"
John ignores him. "I thought about texting you, but I realized I don't know your phone number." He clears his throat, dispelling any irritation that lingers in his voice. "So. A note. But a note seemed impersonal once I got here, so I thought I would wait."
"And now I'm here."
"Yes," John says.
"I've kept my distance, as you requested."
John's forehead wrinkles, shifting his expression to one of confusion. Sherlock had thought he had forgotten the way each line transformed his face. "I don't remember making that request."
"The punch seemed sufficient." He doesn't mention the silence.
"Ah."
"The note, John?"
"Right." He stands, fists at his side. It is the stance of a man about to enter battle. "Greg doesn't mention you. To me. That is."
"Well, I imagine you do have plenty of other things to talk about. I seem to remember you both enjoying discussing rugby and those awful action films." He busies himself with stacking magazines, moving papers, anything other than look at John.
"Clint Eastwood is- No. I am not here to talk about films."
"Then I have no idea why you are here, John. I have a case on and experiments that need to be tended to, so if you could please move on with whatever it is you are here for and stop wasting my time, I would be grateful." He spins away and out of the room, feet purposeful in their steady retreat to the kitchen. John follows, damn him, but Sherlock has become proficient in the art of ignoring the existence of John Watson. He turns the hot water on full blast, the rushing water nearly drowning out John's next words.
"I am here because Greg doesn't mention you. Months of him trying to get me to come talk to you and suddenly nothing. He specifically doesn't mention you. Goes out of his way not to mention you. And I haven't seen a single one of Mycroft's black cars in ages." He takes a deep breath, lets it punch out of his cheeks in one great huff. "What I am trying to say is, I can only think the reason why they backed off was because you said something to them. So thank you."
Again John surprises him. He picks up a beaker and shoves it under the hot water, scrubbing it with grim determination. "Why would you thank me for that?"
"Because I needed time to figure out how the hell to forgive you and I couldn't do that with both of them breathing down my neck."
"Forgive me?" The words come out strangled rather than aloof as he had intended. His fingers squeak across the glass and it's a small wonder that the glass doesn't break in his grip. He sets the beaker down and turns off the water. His hands are scarlet. Funny how he didn't feel the water scalding him.
John makes a hurt sound and grabs his wrists. "Christ, Sherlock." His hands are gentle as he inspects the damage. It feels like sentiment, like homecoming, like benediction. John turns the faucet back on and tests the temperature before guiding Sherlock's hands under the cold water.
"And do you?" Sherlock's throat feels strange, sticky and thick, and his eyes burn. He blinks them, feeling wetness gather on his lashes. Foolish to feel the need to weep when what he has wanted has finally arrived. He should be joyous, rapturous, Vivaldi's Spring.
John's thumb brushes back and forth over the inside of Sherlock's wrist. The callus catches against his smooth skin. He occupies himself with tending to Sherlock's hands for a moment. Muscles and tendons flex along his jaw as he tries to find the answer to Sherlock's question. "I didn't want to. I was furious, but you." He licks his lips.
"What?"
"For once in your life, you actually listened."
Sherlock doesn't ask which he means: coming back or going away. It doesn't matter. In this moment, the only thing that matters is the space that separates them (shrinking now, no longer two ships passing in the night, but colliding) and John's thumb ghosting over Sherlock's pulse.