Mycroft knew James Moriarty and his web had been destroyed, but it was better to be safe than sorry. Reuniting Sherlock and John Watson was risky enough; Mycroft Holmes was not foolish enough to simply deliver his brother to 221B's doorstep. Not yet. A warehouse would have to do.
This reunion was three years in the making. Mycroft could not at all fathom what this meant to either of the men, and did not wish to dwell on it for it made his head spin. Instead, he organized the meetup and finally turned his back.
This was Sherlock and John's moment.
It was March. Crisp, cool, calm. Hardly dawn, the sun had just began rising. Everything was dead. This was the only time London was even a bit quiet. And it made John nervous.
John Watson would have rather had complete rukus, panic, or a riot that stretched the length of twenty Baker Streets instead of this serene, sublime atmosphere. It made things too eerie. Too surreal. A London ghost town made that day feel post-apocalyptic, and, well, John figured it kind of was.
He entered the warehouse through a familiar door. He realized this was where he and Irene Adler conversed, all those years ago, when she claimed he and Sherlock were a couple. John suddenly found a slight smile on his lips. He quickly denied it, his lips now a thin, straight line, and he stared ahead at a shadow that danced in front of him.
And, yes, Ms. Adler had been right.
Sherlock was hardly recognizable. His hair was auburn, and cut slightly. It still had a Holmes poof to it, but it was quite different than his former dark, curly mess. He was wearing dark, faded pants, and a black t-shirt that was impossibly worn out. No classic trench coat. No article of clothing was familiar.
"I couldn't continue looking like Sherlock Holmes when Sherlock Holmes was a dead fraud," Sherlock said quietly. John's heart skipped several beats upon hearing his smooth baritone voice. It finally found it's proper rhythm and settled back in.
John wanted to say something. He wanted to say anything and everything. He wanted to tell Sherlock he was a fucking git, he wanted to tell him he should have told him, he wanted to tell him he missed him and he loved him and he wanted nothing more in that moment than to feel his lips on his for the first time in three years. He wanted his colleague, his friend, his lover. He wanted him.
"I spoke to Irene Adler here…remember?" John somehow managed to blurt out. 'Totally irrelevent,' Sherlock was probably thinking. 'Why go the logical route, John? That isn't you. Where are your emotions?'
"She had come back from the dead as well. Common thing these days, I suppose. Faking deaths," Sherlock answered. Ah, his wit, as sharp as ever.
"Not a good thing," I said with a crack in my voice.
"A necessary thing."
"Mycroft won't tell me that part."
Sherlock just blinked. "What?"
He was confused. This was new. "He won't tell me why you did it. He told me how and he told me you had to, which was obvious, even to me. But he told me I should ask you why. That I can only hear it from you."
Sherlock stared at John for what felt like an eternity, then darted his eyes on something faraway and meaningless. "Mycroft," he mumbled very softly in the tone he always used when his brother did something seemingly terrible; making his name sound like a curse word.
"I, uh…I'm assuming Moriarty made you, had guns on you," John said, trying to restore Sherlock's comfoft. "I figured you felt it was better to fake your death than to—"
"No, John, no…no, just," Sherlock stammered. "No." His blue eyes continued to gaze at something distant.
"No?"
"There were snipers, yes. Three, to be exact. But not a single gun was aimed at me."
John's heart skipped beats again, then seemed to stop all together. "Then why…"
"You know the answer," Sherlock snapped, putting his eyes back on John. He softened almost immediatley and sighed quietly. "At the swimming pool. Do you remember what Moriarty threatened? What he said he would burn?"
John swallowed. How could he forget? "The heart out of you."
A pause.
"Yes, and what is my heart?"
John closed his eyes and suddenly everything made sense. "Me."
Sherlock and John made their way to a pub in the outskirts of London. Mycroft emphasized to both of them that Moriarty's web was completely dismantled, but John could feel Sherlock's apprehension on simply leaving the warehouse. John wanted to say something, to attempt to comfort him, but he knew it was pointless. Nothing he said would make him feel better. Severing your connections with the people you care about, living completely on your own, and being overwhelmed with loneliness for three years is something John will never be able to comprehend. Even though he's Sherlock Holmes, John will never be able to understand how Sherlock survived that.
Neither of the men were drinkers, but John suggested they go to a pub because any other man in this situation would suggest it. When something as overwhelming as this happens, the universal acceptable thing is to wash your worries away with liquor. It has worked for Harry and millions of other people.
They both sipped at their beers without much interest, and that is when John noticed. His mouth fell slightly agape and he knew he should look away but he could not. He closed his mouth but continued to stare. He was just about to pull his eyes away when Sherlock glanced over at him.
John expected a witty remark, or anger, or shame, or something, but Sherlock said nothing. Nothing at all. John decided to not say anything either; instead, he drank his beer with a bit more determination. They sat in silence for minutes that felt like years. Everything had become more awkward and John felt the sting of tears. He wanted to cry because of Sherlock, because of the thick, tense awkward feeling, because of his love for this incredibly stupid man.
"It was a long three years, John," Sherlock's voice suddenly whispered, detracting John from his thoughts.
John managed to look at him. He very tentatively started, "As a doctor—"
"I don't want to hear you as a doctor. I don't really want to hear you at all, but if I must, which I do, then I'd rather hear you as my friend."
John stared at his lover, the burn of tears coming back. He blinked, pushing them away, swallowed, and began. "I cannot imagine what you went through. I'm not judging, I'm not thinking any less of you. I just want to understand. And I want to know if you've stopped."
"You can't imagine what I went through?" Sherlock's voice was louder and more accussing than he intended. He dropped to an almost whisper, and his tone became almost gentle. "I dealt with it. I was alone, yes, but I'm used to that. Before you, I was always alone. Yes, I had Lestrade, Molly, and I suppose even Mycroft, but I didn't have a friend. A…boyfriend. I didn't have someone I truly cared about. So, yes, it was hard. Yes, I couldn't sleep most nights. And, yes, I started using again, as your eyes so brilliantly discovered my track marks. But do not feel pity for me. Don't. Because John…I can't imagine what you went through."
John was staring at his beer, watching the foam spin in the glass. Tears fell slowly and freely down his cheeks, he did not bother to supress them any longer. Sherlock gripped his hand on the table. It was their first physical contact in three years and John let out a sob. He was trying incredibly hard to maintain self-control; there were only a few other people in the bar, but they were in a back room playing pool, and the bartender was nowhere to be found, but John could not help feeling embarrassed.
"Have you stopped?" John asked forcefully.
Sherlock looked down. "I will," he muttered. John looked up at him and their eyes met. Sherlock's eyes were as blue as ever, but also… sad. So sad. "John, I will. I have no reason to continue."
John could tell from his eyes and tone that Sherlock was telling the truth, but it still was not enough. "Promise me."
Sherlock rolled his eyes slighlty. "Promises are childish and meaningless, just trust—"
"Shut up and promise me."
John's grip tightened on Sherlock's hand. Sherlock squeezed tighter as well.
Their gazes met again. "I promise."