Three Years - A Sherlock One-Shot
"I was right."
John stares, barely holding himself together. He curls and uncurls the fingers of his left hand, moves his jaw once or twice, swallows hard.
"Three years. Three years of glimpses, bloody heart-stopping glimpses. You know, I thought I was going mad."
He shifts his grip on his cane and shuffles his feet uncomfortably, stirring up dust from a floor long untrod. One set of footprints leads past him, where he's stopped in the doorway. He casts a quick glance around. The furniture is exactly where he'd left it when he'd moved out. Everything else, all the papers and books and science equipment had been boxed up and stacked in the corner between the fireplace and the window. The harpoon is against the wall behind them. Mrs. Hudson had never gotten around to taking the cow skull off the wall. The flat exists in some strange space between past and present, hollow and empty and yet, somehow…
"I'm so sorry, John."
… it is full of life. The kitchen light is on, a long dark coat is hung on the door hook.
Sherlock stands by his armchair, violin in hand. The way he holds himself is reserved, hesitant and unsure, as if he knows that John can read his poor habits over the last three years in the dark circles under his eyes and the gauntness of his face.
"Three years, Sherlock."
John's voice brims with anger, barely held in check. Three years of suffering, of moving past the grief only to be flung back into it by the sight of a tall figure in a dark coat darting into an alley or standing in the shadows of a doorway, bubbling over, finally finding a way out.
"I know."
Sherlock sets the violin on his chair and straightens, turning to fully face John.
John glares at him.
The cane clatters to the floor.
"No, you don't. You really don't."
John closes the distance between them, limp forgotten. He closes his right hand into a fist, pulls his arm back, preparing to swing, aiming for Sherlock's face.
Sherlock moves more quickly. He takes a single step forward and wraps his arms around John in a tight, desperate hug.
John uncurls his fingers.
"Sherlock… ?"
"It was cruel of me to have haunted you like that, John, but I was worried you would forget me, and… sometimes I needed to remind myself why I had to do it."
John closes his eyes and counts his breaths. One. Two. Three.
"And why was that?"
Sherlock squeezes John tighter. "To protect you from Moriarty's web. I had to die to save you, and I had to cut every last thread in order to come back to you."
Hesitantly, John wraps his arms around Sherlock.
"God, you're such a liar."
Sherlock pulls back just enough to study John's face, his eyes narrowed in confusion.
"No, John, I really had to—"
John buries his face in Sherlock's shoulder.
"You said heroes don't exist. That if they did, you wouldn't be one of them."
"Oh."
John's breaths come too quickly, ragged. His shoulders are shaking. Sherlock holds him carefully, closely, and lets him cry. They stand like that for a while, the dusty silence of 221b Baker Street heavy around them.
Eventually, John gathers himself enough to speak, his voice muffled by Sherlock's shoulder.
"Welcome home, you big git."
The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitches upwards.
"It's good to be back."