Authors note: Thank you so much for reading! This is my first real fanfic and I'm still pretty clueless as to what I'm doing or where the story will go, but I hope you enjoy it!
Updates: I've added slightly to chapter 1
Sherlock's beautiful sculpted face contorted in pain as he paced quickly past the place of his death. It had been two years, twenty four months, 598 sleepless nights, and countless bitter memories but he was finally back. He was finally home.
"Mary," John called, "Your tea's ready!" With a smile on her face, Mary swept into the room and wrapped her hands around the delicate china, edged with a floral pattern that John had always found nauseating. Cradling the cup in her hands, she rose it to her lips and,
"John!" Her face twisted, and she stuck out her tongue in a comical fashion, "How many sugars are in this!? Four hundred?!"
"No… just four." John shook his head sadly, the way he often did when a ghost of the past resurfaced. Mary reached out to him and rubbed his forearm comfortingly in an attempt to brush away the shadows in John's soul, but all he wanted was the touch of someone else, someone long gone.
Sherlock dipped his hand into the small bowl on the table, bringing out four sachets of white sugar. Muttering angrily he reached back in for a fifth,
"How is one expected to believe that these are equivalent to full spoonfuls?" With a sigh he tipped each packet into his cup.
Sherlock began to stir his tea, watching the liquid swirl round and round, as though it was mimicking the thoughts that hadn't stopped dancing round and round his mind. With a sigh he brought the cup up to his lips and took a sip, taking comfort from the sweetness and warmth that spread into his stomach. Although deep down he knew that no amount of sugar and boiling water would ever fill the void of darkness that had been lining his soul for these past years.
Suddenly losing interest in his tea Sherlock scrapped back the chair legs, forced himself to his feet and, sighing as though each movement pained him, headed for the café door.
John's voice was barely a murmur, "Sorry about the tea, I really am." Again, Mary shot him a sweet, warm smile and reassured him that it was fine, no big deal, only a cup of tea. But John knew it wasn't 'just a cup of tea', he knew it was proof; proof that he wasn't over Sherlock's death, proof that maybe he never would be. Pushing these thoughts to the back of his mind he smiled back, convincing himself he was happy, he was content, and even without Sherlock he was going to be ok. To reinforce these thoughts John rested his hand on Mary's thigh, and in retaliation she laid hers on top of his. John smiled limply at the sight of the two rings which graced her fourth finger; one a simple gold band which supposedly bound them for life, and the other shimmering silver, with a small diamond that blinked innocently when the light caught it. Under the lamplight the ring began to sparkle, Mary beamed at this display but John only winced. He felt like he'd been blinded by the shining jewel, as though it was trying to distract him from the truth. The truth that he simply could never love someone to the extent that he'd loved Sherlock.
Sherlock impatiently tossed his phone in his hand, flipping it over, gently nudging it back and forth with his graceful, ring less fingers. Of course, after his 'death' had resulted in the loss and destruction of his old phone and this new one had only one contact, one person he could never call. A sigh escaped his lips, he wasn't sure why he'd even bothered to save the number into the useless device. Sherlock was used to deleting meaningless information from his brain, but he knew that no matter how he tried the number could never be erased; he could write it backwards, in seven different codes and in his sleep – not that he'd had much of that lately.
Btzzzz, Btzzzz, Btzzzz
John glanced at his phone which was vibrating on the chair arm. He peered at it, trying, without avail, to stop his heart fluttering helplessly as he prayed so see the familiar name illuminate the screen.
"Who is it?" Mary questioned, turning her head away from the flickering television to meet her husband's eye.
"Unknown number," John replied, shrugging, "Dunno."
Btzzzz, Btzzzz
Then nothing. A light sigh escaped John's pursed lips and he returned to face the TV. He tried to savour the silence, and appreciate that here, snuggled up on the sofa with Mary, his wife, he could actually follow and understand the shows without angry comments being thrown in every few minutes. This, however, was yet another thing John was not convinced of. He missed these loud outburst of ingenious and occasionally, just once or twice, he would conjure them up, as though there was a tiny Sherlock sitting in his head, rolling those incredible eyes, and crying, "It's clear the next answer will be 'C', the pattern has been blindingly obvious since question three!" Without such regular interruptions it was almost impossible to stop the same two words spinning round John's mind: He's dead. He's dead. He's dead.
Sherlock slipped his phone back into his pocket and continued walking. His feet pounded the littered, London pavement in a steady rhythm. Tap, tap, tap. The pulse reminded him of a heartbeat. It reminded him that he was alive.
"Mary. Mary?"
Her voice drifts through into the kitchen, "Hmm?"
"Milk, we're out of milk." He slams the fridge door shut, and grabs his scarf from its perch on the kitchen table. "I better go and get some, so I can make you a cup of tea that doesn't inflict diabetes." He stepped back into the living room and swiped his keys and phone from the sofa, smiling. On his way to the door Mary tweaked the end of the familiar striped scarf and pulled him in for a kiss. "Bye, I won't be long."
"Okay, make sure you're back by four. Remember, Paula and Steve are going to come over; we'll need the milk for then. But don't worry," she grinned, "I'll be in charge of the tea making!" Another kiss. John finally escaped through the front door, taking gulps of the cool air as it caressed his tired face. As he walked he suddenly became aware of how empty it sounded just one pair of feet echoing off the paving slaps. It had been two years but he'd never got used to these moments; the moments when it was painfully obvious that part of him was missing.
Despite all this time he still knew each and every street that pieced together to make the vast expanse of London, he knew the names of every shop within a 12 street radius, and could tell you precisely the destination and stops of each bus that swished past. Sherlock turned another corner, painfully aware that although he had so much knowledge he did not know where to go or who to turn to. It seemed, for the first time in his life, he was stuck. His mind was whirring, observing the pace of the people who walked past him, their occupations and their destination yet he couldn't put together a plan of what his destination was going to be.