Reunion
An introduction to The Empty Hearse.
It was a dark, grey London day, but to John Watson, everything was gray and cold lately. Not the stormy gray of Sherlock's eyes, but the colour of his world before Sherlock had come and filled it with the light that John had forgotten could exist.
It had been three years, but to John, it had felt like a million and one years in the desert with no water. A million and one years in the rough ocean with no air. A million and one years in space with no stars. A million and one years in a dark, cruel world with no colour or joy left in it, no matter how hard John looked.
Reading through the newspaper, things seemed dull and repetitive. The same wars going on, the same celebrities being exploited, and the same politicians fucking everything up. John folded up the paper and tossed it to the side aimlessly, and rubbed his head. The migraines had been getting worse lately, and he had become purposely careless with the medicine doses he was taking.
Every time John looked up from his chair, the flat was empty, and it was dark, and it was quiet. There hadn't been life here for three years. No mad genius sprawled out on the long couch, no frantic typing on John's laptop, no amicable chats, no violin at the most random hours, nothing worth living for anymore. Each time John looked around, the rock in his stomach grew heavier and his heart sank a little more, and he was getting more friendly with the idea of getting his gun from the top desk drawer and sticking it in his mouth.
God, he needed to get out more. But there was no allure of the outside world left in him. People just pushed past him on the pavement, talking and laughing loudly with friends and lovers on their arm. They made John sick. But no matter where John looked, he was always compulsively searching from the corner of his eye for the long coat. He habitually scanned the windows of every cab that went by for the raven-black hair. He strained his ears for even the slightest trace of the familiar voice to warm him.
(Sometimes, if he focused hard enough, he could pretend that Sherlock was there right beside him again, walking with his hands in his long coat pockets, eyes straight ahead and focused, his brilliant mind whirring away. John could swear sometimes he could still see Sherlock's shadow walking beside him, but it was never him, and it felt like another punch in the gut.)
John always found himself walking to St. Bart's; yet he could never tell if he was dreaming or wide awake. The nightmare looped over and over and over again in his mind, like a broken tape. Sherlock crying over the phone, Sherlock tipping forward, Sherlock falling effortlessly like a doll. John ran but he was never quick enough, he could never get there in time. The sound of his body hitting the pavement made John's heart stop, and the sound echoed in his ears every lonely night.
John stood up from the couch and shuffled across the flat into the kitchen. He filled up the kettle and let it boil. He reached into the cupboard and pulled out two mugs, and put one back. He looked back into the living room, craning his neck, always half hoping Sherlock had been sitting on the chair across from him the whole time, as if John had just woken up from a horrible dream.
He really should give Greg a call. But the same thing would happen as with all his friends. John would shower and put on a nice shirt, take a cab out to some pub, and meet him outside. Inside, the people would be too noisy, the music too loud, the smell too much. They'd find an isolated table away from the crowds by the telly, and order a few pints. John would sip idly to some alcohol that had long lost its taste, and ask Greg about his ex-wife, then his kids. The answers would be the same, the stories would repeat. There was no point in bringing up news from the Yard, because what did it matter anyway? Nothing seemed to matter anymore. The joyful, youthful grip John had on life was now slipping away. There was no point in pretending to put in effort when the desire to live was gone.
There's no point in trying to breathe air into a long-dead body.
The kettle finished, and John poured some gray water into a gray cup, and dunked the tea bag in until the water was a dark gray, and tasted as bitter as John's mouth. John sat and watched it, as the dark water turned darker and darker.
John's trance was broken by the sound of electric guitar.
John jumped, dropping the heavy tea bag in the water and splashing the hot water on his shirt.
"What the—"
It was a riff that John could remember from when he was much younger, when he was still in Uni...it sounded like ACDC, but he could be mistaken. He hadn't listened to that sort of music in years... where was it coming from?
"Back in black, I hit the sack, it's been too long, I'm glad to be back!"
Well, that was a blast from the past. Wherever the music was coming from was loud enough to be in the same room, but he hadn't touched the telly or the radio in ages.
"Yes I'm let loose, from the noose that's kept me hanging about!"
John ditched the tea and went into the living room, crossing over to the cluttered table where John had left his phone. "I keep looking at the sky, 'cause it's gettin' me high!"
He picked up his mobile, examining the screen.
UNKNOWN CALLING
"Forget the hearse, cause I'll never die!"
Right at that second, the door to the flat was kicked open, and there stood none other than Sherlock Motherfucking Holmes, hands on hips, and his long coat billowing in the air with help from a fan John could have sworn was not there ten minutes ago.
"JOHN. I AM ALIVE."
John screamed and threw his mobile sharply at Sherlock's chest. "SHERLOCK. WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK."
"I FAKED MY DEATH THREE YEARS AGO TO SAVE YOU BUT NOW I AM BACK..." Sherlock dropped his voice to a whisper, "...in black."
John was in hysterics now, shouting and screeching and throwing the nearest projectiles at Sherlock; an old coffee mug, a book, a fork, a vase, and a lamp.
Sherlock dodged everything, except the lamp, which hit him in the knee. "JOHN MY LOVE FOR YOU HAS DRIVEN ME BACK HOME! YOU ARE THE BEAT IN MY HEART; THE AIR IN MY LUNGS!"
"I AM GOING TO STAB YOU IN THE FUCKING THROAT I SWEAR TO FUCKING GOD SHERLOCK WHAT THE ACTUAL FRESH HELL IS THIS I AM GOING TO SHOOT YOUR FUCKING FACE OFF-"
"JOHN NO WAIT-" Sherlock held his hands up in surrender, trying to step closer to John, ducking out of the way of an encyclopedia and a letter opener being thrown at his head. "JUST SIT DOWN AND LET ME EXPLAIN-ow, fuck!" He clutched the side of his head as the offending remote control bounced off of his head.
"-I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL RIP OUT EVERY ONE OF YOUR TEETH AND I WILL CUT YOUR FUCKING HANDSOME FACE AND I WILL KILL YOU SO HARD YOU'RE GOING TO DIE FOR REAL I AM SO FUCKING SERIOUS RIGHT NOW SHERLOCK-"
Sherlock took slow, small steps towards John, his tactics similar to one you would use as if you were trying to approach a rabid, homicidal bear. John continued to shout profanities and throw his arms about. Sherlock wondered if the whole neighbourhood was listening in right now.
"John," Sherlock said calmly over John's shouting. "I want you to take some deep breaths and calm down, yes?"
"-THE FUCKERING FUCKITY FUCKING FUCK I WATCHED YOU AND-"
"John...shhh..." Sherlock proceeded to outstretch his long, gangly arms and envelop John in a very awkward, slightly restrictive hug; half affection, half straightjacket. John's cursing was muffled as his face was shoved into Sherlock's chest, and Sherlock couldn't quite rest his chin over the other man's head comfortably. John fought and squirmed and tried to get out of Sherlock's hold, but the taller man practically folded over him and held him securely.
Sherlock waited patiently until John fought less and less and could feel him dissolve in his arms. John freed his arms enough to throw around Sherlock's neck and he buried his face in the crook between his neck and shoulder.
They were silent for a very long time. Sherlock held John, who was surprisingly still and for once is very small and vulnerable. Sherlock could feel a familiar pain in his stomach rising up to his mouth, and he'd been waiting three years to say it in person. "John. I am so, so sorry."
He waited. The flat remained still and absolutely silent. Soon, Sherlock could feel John's head move slightly over his chest. "There hasn't been a single day where I haven't thought about you," John said. His voice cracked and Sherlock could feel his heart breaking all over again.
There was no point in saying anything more. John knew everything Sherlock was going to say, and Sherlock knew every thought that crossed John's mind as they stood together in the middle of the flat, that was now strewn with the remnants of John's anger. Sherlock wound his arms around John with more affection than restraint. With the shift, Sherlock discovered how perfectly they physically fit together.
He had broken John; torn him to pieces. Now it was his duty to hold him, love him, and repair him. And he would wait until the job was done.
After a while, John pulled away. He straightened his shirt and set his shoulders back again. Sherlock watched him unashamedly wipe his eye, and it made his knees threaten to give away.
Sherlock fully accepted the punch to the face, but as usual, his nose and teeth are avoided.
John watched Sherlock, and Sherlock watched John. John used his usual commanding tone and accusative pointing finger. "You have a lot of explaining to do. I want to know everything that happened since we met Moriarty, because I know you haven't been completely honest with me. Then you'll explain the phone call, the jump, and the body. And after, I want to know what the hell you've been doing for three years while I suffered, and also how you changed my ringtone and got that bloody fan in here to make your coat all billowy." John paused, and surveyed the damage from earlier.
"But first," he looked up at Sherlock. "you have to clean up."