A tall, skinny man stood outside a small sandwich shop on one of London's most famous roads. He was wearing a long black coat that swayed dramatically in the wind, and a dark blue scarf was tightly wrapped around his neck to shield him from the biting cold. He looked to the left of the shop, and his eyes seemed to focus on the door to the flats that were labelled 221. Then he went into the café and sat down, facing the window.
About half an hour later, yet another ordinary Londoner walked past the bright sign saying 'Speedy's Cafe'. What made him different to any other Londoner was that he stopped outside the door to the left of the shop and unlocked the door. He looked behind himself before slipping inside, holding himself in a very strict fashion.
It was only after this man had reached his flat and had opened the window overlooking the street that the man with the long coat reappeared. He walked the few metres down the street to the door that had been open not ten minutes prior. He pulled out a key from his coat pocket and opened the door, also looking around carefully and mysteriously before he disappeared inside.
And this is when the whole world seemed to explode in the confinements of the flat that was 221B Baker Street.
The first man to enter the building was called John Watson. He was an ex-army doctor, and now worked at your everyday clinic. Even still, he missed the adrenalin that he found the war gave him. If he hadn't been injured, he thought, he would probably still be there. He came back from the war with a limp, but he had been told by someone that it was just psychosomatic, and it soon went away as he got involved with his flatmate's business. Then, 3 years ago to the day, it came back. He didn't like to recall how. It broke his heart. He didn't think of it. And no one mentioned it to him. He didn't need to talk to his old friends. He had Mrs Hudson and Sarah. He talked to his patients. He didn't need other people to remind him of the past.
John walked up the stairs laboriously, and he sat down on an armchair, staring at the blank television. He had just come back from a long day at work and he had too much of a headache for the TV to be on. Then, as his eyes wandered about the room, he caught sight of the date on the newspaper. 15th January. A lump caught in his throat as he realised that today was the anniversary. The anniversary of … no, he couldn't say it. Not even after 3 years.
He heard a noise on the stairs and he tensed, pulling out the gun he always kept close by. He stood up and turned to face the door. It couldn't be Mrs Hudson; she was down in Brighton visiting family. No one else had keys to the flat. Apart from … no. He was dead. John waited in silence, breathing quietly. The door handle turned and slowly the opened. The sight that now faced John was so starling that he froze, gun dropping from his hand with a clatter.
The mysterious man from the sandwich shop was standing in the doorway.
"I'm sorry."
Two words that broke the silence. They were spoken by the man in the long coat. His name was Sherlock Holmes. He was supposed to be dead.
"What are you doing here? Is this some kind of a sick joke? Haunt the old invalid day? Leave now, or I'll call the police." John's tone was filled with fury although he managed to keep it at a normal volume.
"John, I'm so sorry." Sherlock repeated.
John flinched at the use of his name and stooped to pick up his gun. He aimed it a Sherlock, who had not moved at all. Instead, he simply raised his hands in surrender.
"What are you doing here? You're supposed to be dead!" John spat out the last word with hatred, his voice trembling as it grew louder.
"I lied." Was the stoic response.
"Three years Sherlock. Three years I believed you were dead. Three years of agony. Do you have any idea how terrible my life has been for the past few years?" John took a few steps forwards, moving ever closer to Sherlock.
"I didn't think you cared so much." Sherlock's eyes were sad and he wanted to comfort John, but instead he stayed exactly where he was whilst John advanced like a lion.
"CARED? OF COURSE I CARED! YOU WERE MY BEST FRIEND SHERLOCK!"
John was right up close now and his hands were balled up into tight fists. He brought his right one up and punched Sherlock's face with all the might he could muster. Sherlock just stood there, his lip bleeding slightly.
"I deserved that."
"Yes you bloody well did."
Sherlock stood there in silence, his eyes averted from John's face to look at his feet.
"Look at me Sherlock." John's voice was softer now.
Sherlock slowly raised his eyes to look at John. John lifted a hand and placed it on Sherlock's face, lightly brushing over the blood that was pooling on Sherlock's lips. Sherlock flinched, but didn't pull away.
"Let me clean that up for you." John said, taking Sherlock's wrist and leading him into the lounge where he sat Sherlock on the sofa. John went into the kitchen and got out the first aid kit. He pulled out some antiseptic wipes. Then he walked back through to where Sherlock was sitting and sat down next to him.
"Face me."
Sherlock complied with John's instructions. John gently wiped away the blood with the wipes, trying to not let it sting too much. Sherlock just sat stoically, taking every second as it came.
Once John had finished, he sat gazing at Sherlock for a while, before leaning in to kiss his old friend. The kiss started off gently, but it soon got passionate as Sherlock allowed John entry into his mouth. John placed his hands on the former detective's shirt and started to undo the buttons with a ravenous expression.
"God Sherlock. I missed you so much" John whispered, his voice full of emotions. Sherlock just let John satisfy his needs for Sherlock, having so cruelly deprived him for three years. He sat embraced with John on the sofa, semi naked as John ripped his shirt off.
"I'm sorry John." He said earnestly for the third time that night.
John started hungrily kissing Sherlock's bare, white chest, eyes full of lust. "I missed you Sherlock. And now you're back." John stopped kissing and nestled his head into Sherlock. "I missed you." John started repeating as a mantra, only this time his voice sounded broken.
Sherlock felt wet drops fall onto his chest, and as he looked down at John, he realised his partner was crying.
"John, it's ok. I'm back now. I'm not going anywhere." Sherlock awkwardly tried to comfort John. He soon gave up with words and resigned himself to stroking John's hair as he cried silently onto Sherlock's chest. And that's how they spent the night; John curled into Sherlock's chest crying tears of all emotions whilst Sherlock stroked him gently into a peaceful sleep. Tomorrow, they would go through the same thing again as Sherlock announced to the world that he was back. But, for now at least, they had endless time to cuddle together as long-term lovers should.