John walked into the flat with the keys to a moving truck and a trickle of sweat beading on his brow. It'd been a week since he'd come back to the flat, but he was going to follow through with his decision this time. John Watson was going to leave 221B Baker Street. It wasn't as if he had much choice. Lestrade, Molly, Mycroft and even Mrs. Hudson all urged him to pack his things and leave. He died every day that he had to watch the world live outside his window and the remainder of Sherlock's belongings stared back at him, taunting him with their uselessness.
After staring down at the floor for a few moments, John walked blindly into the familiar room and looked up. He forgot how to breathe for a moment. Sitting in the leather chair worn by three years of John sleeping in it periodically, was none other than Sherlock Holmes.
John rubbed his eyes and shook his head.
"I'm seeing things again." he whimpered. All he was seeing was an illusion.
The illusion across from him frowned and stood, walking over to him. John just closed his eyes and suppressed the tears that threatened their way out. He wouldn't cry at the illusions again. It never helped. Then the illusion did the impossible: it reached out and touched John's shoulder tentatively.
John jumped and almost screamed. Illusions can't touch. The illusion frowned at John and reached out for him again.
"It's me, John. I'm back."
John stared for exactly seven seconds before bunching his face into an expression of pure anger and screamed at the top of his lungs.
"THREE YEARS!"
John had seen the ghost of his past standing before him in the flat that he was about to leave, and when John realized that he wasn't a ghost, every emotion he ever felt amplified to one hundred percent and he broke into a perfect rage.
"THREE BLOODY FUCKING YEARS, SHERLOCK HOLMES!"
Sherlock stood and kept his back straight. This was to be expected of John. Sherlock knew what his reaction would be. John, not being one to reveal weaknesses, would undoubtedly choose anger. Before Sherlock had time to react, John's clenched fist met his nose. Sherlock stumbled back and caught his balance. That was not expected…
"Three years, I thought you were dead!" John swung again and barely missed.
"John, listen –"
"NO!" John punched Sherlock square on the nose again. Surely something was broken now.
He was about to punch Sherlock again when the detective caught John's fists and entwined their fingers slowly against his struggle. John lost his resolve and began to tremble beneath Sherlock's gaze.
"Three…years." John whispered out.
"Shh…" Sherlock hushed John and brought him to his chest.
With Sherlock's arms wrapped tightly around him, John shakily brought his hands up and clutched onto the material of Sherlock's blazer. His smell was different. He was much bonier than John remembered. John abandoned his better judgment for a moment and buried his face into Sherlock's chest and allowed himself a good sob. Sobbing was the only thing that he could do at that point. His anger had been lashed back and a mixture of sorrow and relief flooded his senses.
Sherlock tightened his arms around John and did what he longed to do since he forced John to watch him jump. Sherlock breathed. He breathed John's scent in and pressed his lips to John's head. John was having none of it and pushed Sherlock away, his tears freely flowing down his face and sobs forcing his chest to heave. Once he could form a proper sentence, John closed his eyes and breathed in. Sherlock stood and watched him. He didn't dare bring the doctor out of his fit.
"If you turn around and bloody leave me one more damn time, I will use that gun." John growled in a rough tear-addled voice, "If you think you can just walk out of someone's life like that and come back…"
"John, would you like some tea?"
"Shut up."
Sherlock did what he was told, but walked into the kitchen to make tea anyways. John closed his eyes and tried to remember a few moments ago when he was debating between moving out or curling up in Sherlock's chair again to sleep away the numbness and wake up screaming just to feel something. Sherlock came back a few moments later with a mug of tea for him. Of course John took it. Why shouldn't he?
"Tell me why." John demanded quietly.
One hour later later both men were sitting in their respectable chairs and neither one of them spoke. Sherlock had just explained everything from his "suicide" to the last of Moriarty's web, which he had solved one week prior and John was processing it all. Sherlock was waiting; He'd waited three years to see his beloved again, and he didn't want to wait any longer. But if that's what was required of him to be forgiven and loved again, he would do it. John looked up from his empty mug and looked at Sherlock intently.
"Will you be here in the morning?" John asked quietly.
"Yes." Came a swift reply from Sherlock. He had no intention of leaving John's side again.
John nodded and stood to carry his mug to the kitchen. Sherlock wanted to stop him – grab his wrist or pull him into a tight embrace or kiss him – but he did no such thing. It wouldn't be well received at the moment. He simply watched John clean his cup and turn back to him with one quiet stare and walk out the door. Presumably to return his moving van and the keys.
Sherlock was correct. John had absolutely no intention of moving now that Sherlock was alive. He knew his tea hadn't been spiked because he felt Sherlock's body and he'd pinched himself numerous times before Sherlock finished telling him about taking down Moriarty's web. John handed the key over almost urgently and walked back to 221B as quickly as possible. He just wanted to be sure.
When he got back into the flat, John heard the sounds of Sherlock's violin being sawed at. Emotions untouched grabbed onto him with both hands as he listened to the rendition of the song that he and Sherlock danced to at Mycroft's Christmas party nearly five years prior when he and Sherlock had begun their lives together as a couple. He hadn't heard the song completely played since before Moriarty's court win. John sat down on the steps of the stair case and retaught himself how to breathe. This was not happening.
He was angry. He was angry at Mycroft for keeping it secret. Angry at Lestrade for keeping Mycroft from telling him that one time that Mycroft obviously wanted to say something. He was angry at Sherlock for forcing him to watch his "suicide" and leaving him for three years. John was angry at himself for not being overjoyed that his wish had come true.
Look, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't. Be. Dead. Would you do that, just for me, just… stop it. Stop this! I – I love you still!
Sherlock did come back. He was never dead. Why wasn't John thrilled to see his love once more? He had planned on proposing to Sherlock before the Moriarty debacle, so why was he resistant to look at him again after so many months of longing just to catch a glimpse of him?
Because he was angry at him for leaving and fooling him. John Watson had been fooled and he was nowhere near amused. John gathered his wits about him and stood once more to ascend the steps into their flat. The music played harder and louder and faster until John stood in front of Sherlock. Almost unsure of what to do, Sherlock lowered his violin.
"I'm going to bed. Will you be here in the morning?" John asked again.
"I swear it."
John nodded his head sluggishly made his way back up the stairs to his old bedroom, which he moved back into six months after The Fall. Sherlock watched him hobble up the stairs and frowned. Everything about John was different. That was to be expected.
Sherlock almost gave up The Work a year and a half ago when Mycroft informed him that John was being pressured to leave Baker Street and had stopped seeing his therapist. After seeing him with the key, Sherlock knew that he'd been cracked. But it was more than that. He'd been broken almost irreparably. John was not John Watson that Sherlock left three years ago.
Sherlock put the violin back under his chin and quietly played a few measures of Allegro moderato in D minor. He could hear John getting ready for bed from the squeaky floorboards above his head. Listening to the soothing sounds of his much missed violin and his undeniably much missed love, Sherlock reflected on his earlier deductions of John.
John's hair was grayer, prematurely. His skin almost seemed to age ten years; he'd taken up smoking. Sherlock could smell the cigarette smoke in the flat. They were cheap cigarettes. He was much thinner; not eating. Sherlock had gotten a good glimpse at John's wrists before John pulled his jumper sleeves down. There were small scars on his wrists. Sherlock tried to think of something else, but he remembered the scars more than anything.
"Some to match my own." He thought as he remembered the gashes that had littered his back three months prior and were still tender.
Sherlock stopped halfway through the concerto and put his violin down. He was actually hungry for a change and he found himself going to the refrigerator. He opened the door and found the machine cleaner than it had been when he'd been using it. There were no body parts, no chemicals, and certainly no bodily fluids in Tupperware bowls. John kept a practically empty, but tidy fridge.
There was milk, of course, eggs, cheese, a few vegetables, and a couple of bottles of fine beer. John surely hadn't turned to alcohol. That was something that not even a broken John could do. Sherlock frowned, grabbed two eggs, a bell pepper and tomato, some spices from the cabinet, and the cheese to make an omelet that he'd been taught to make when he was in Reims, France.
Once his meal was prepared, Sherlock carried the plate and a glass of water to John's armchair and sat himself down for another long night of loneliness. In the meanwhile, John was curled into a tight ball in his bed. There was no way that he would go back downstairs that night. Dinner was a distant memory and he couldn't stomach the idea of eating anything.
Moreover, John felt betrayed. He felt as if he had become a running joke and no one cared how he felt, but that The Work was done. John sighed and sat up in his bed, dizzy with exhaustion and emotion. He reached over to his night stand and grabbed a cigarette and his lighter. After he drew in a long breath, he let the smoke sit in his chest for a moment before he let his breath out and sent the smoke swirling in the air. After a few moments, he got up and opened his window and stuck his head out and let the smoke clear out of his room. He wasn't fond of ashes in his rug or his blankets.
Before long, sleep was beaconing him once more and he threw the cigarette butt down to the street below and let out his last puff of smoke. The smell comforted him somewhat because tobacco reminded him of Sherlock. Of course it comforted him. Sherlock's scent was the only reason he took up the disgusting habit in the first place. John looked at the half empty pack on his night stand and decided that he would suffer withdrawals to end the habit.
John finally laid himself out in his bed and nestled under his burrow of blankets. The comfort of the layers lulled him into a silent rest for most of the night until around two o'clock that morning when he heard sounds from his and Sherlock's old room. He decided to ignore it for a moment, but then listened intently.
The sounds were clearly distressed and almost painful. John stood from his bed and pulled on Sherlock's old dressing gown before shuffling downstairs to knock on Sherlock's door. When there wasn't an answer after the second knock, John opened the door and stepped inside. There he found a sight that he had never witnessed before.
In the double bed that had been neglected for two and a half years, laid a thrashing Sherlock Holmes trapped within the throes of a night terror.
John righted himself and disregarded his better judgment and quickly crossed over to his revived love. He placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and dodged a punch thrown his way.
"Sherlock, Wake Up!" John called out to him.
Sherlock didn't respond after the first few calls, but when John gripped his flying fists and practically yelled his name, Sherlock's eyes flew open and he launched himself at John, tackling him to the mattress and holding a clinched fist above him. After a moment of clarity, Sherlock lowered his fist and sat back on his heels and lowered his head. He did not want John to see him like this.
Unfortunately, John understood the emotional trauma behind night terrors and sat up with Sherlock, taking the larger hands into his own. A solitary tear fell onto the back of his hand as Sherlock sat unresponsive in front of him. He didn't clench his hands or fall into a fit of weeping or wailing, but sat motionless and allowed silent tears to escape onto his cheeks.
John couldn't watch the scene anymore and decided that his hurt feelings could wait for a night for the sake of Sherlock. In those three years, Sherlock had gone through horrors that John couldn't imagine; and all to make the world safer for those who Sherlock loved. John moved around to the side pillow, laid back, and pulled his tired man into his arms.
Sherlock didn't go down easily, but stiffly and apprehensively. He wasn't sure that John would want him there for long, so he barely made contact with his love. Apparently, his love wasn't having any of that nonsense and pulled Sherlock tightly and almost roughly against his body as he threw the covers over them. Sherlock was glad for the silence that John offered and put his face into the doctor's shoulder and let long unshed tears pool onto his old dressing gown.
John knew that Sherlock had been nearly broken, but his resolve to keep his emotions in tact was still just as strong as before. So when he felt the growing wet patch on his shoulder, John put his lips to Sherlock's dark curls and breathed him in. Sherlock buried his face deeper into John's shoulder and struggled against the horrid emotions that threatened to make themselves known. John could feel Sherlock's body trembling in his arm; his transport was betraying him once more. Sherlock let out a groan and tightened his arms around John's middle and laid himself out on top of John.
"Sherlock, what are you –?"
"John…John…John, my John." Sherlock moaned out while trailing kisses all along John's shoulders, neck and face. For a while, that's all that Sherlock would allow himself to say. He wanted to pour out his heart and soul and grasp for whatever there is beyond himself to find John again.
John tightened his arms around Sherlock's waist and rose a hand up to tangle his fingers into the dark curls that had once captivated him so. After listening to his name from his love's lips, John bent his head down and pressed his lips roughly against Sherlock's just to make him quiet again.
Sherlock breathed out and returned the kiss before growing limp in John's arms and relaxing against his body. He knew that he was not yet forgiven, nor was he entirely welcome, but he felt at home. He knew that he was wanted and, in time, he would be received happily. Sherlock let the last of his tears fall onto John's skin and he breathed out in fresh composure and remained silent.
"Sherlock, did you ever think about me?" John asked quietly.
"Only every day that I was gone. I wanted to tell you so much. I wanted to find you and tell you, but I couldn't. If I did, nothing would have gotten done and your safety would have been compromised." Sherlock looked up and pressed his forehead against John's, "I am sorry. I know it will take a considerable amount of time for you to forgive me, but know that I never stopped thinking about and missing you."
John held Sherlock close in the bed and breathed out.
"You're right. It will take a while for me to forgive you. To be honest, I'm still bloody pissed. But for right now, I have the real you and no one else. I do still love you, Sherlock."
"I love you more than you'll ever know, John."
John pressed his lips to Sherlock's and kissed him tenderly for a moment before tightening his grip around him and pulling the covers back up around them.
"I think I have a pretty good idea."