The tea kettle whistled shrilly in the kitchen of 221B. John turned from the frosty window and slowly got up to attend to the annoying thing. After pouring a steaming mug of chamomile, he returned to the window. He spent a lot of his spare time by that window overlooking Baker St. He supposed the neighbors might think he was a bit off, but he was past caring. It gave him faint smiles now and then to see the things people would do when they thought no one was watching. He had noticed a few returning odd balls over the years. John sighed. No matter how much time he spent by the window, he never caught a glimpse the one person he hoped to see.
On the other side of London, Sherlock stood alone, frowning to himself. He adjusted his coat and hailed a cab. Perhaps he should have been happy, but in reality, he was just tired.
"Where to?" the cabbie asked as he got in.
"221 Baker St." The man nodded and the cab began to move.
Pale eyes watched the cars moving with little care. Perhaps he should have waited or perhaps-
Excuses, excuses, Sherlock, he scolded himself. It's all ready been three years, you've kept him waiting long enough.
Should he give up? John questioned as he watched the street. Mrs. Hudson sometimes told him so. He chuckled to himself and sipped his tea. As if he could.
"Where are you coming from?" The question startled Sherlock out of his thoughts.
"France," was the terse reply.
"Were you gone long? You seem rather anxious to get there."
There was no reply, but a wry smile, one that said 'you have no idea.'
A rap on the flat door startled John from his thoughts. He crossed the small sitting room, feeling a slight pang in his heart when he passed the wall that was once decorated with yellow paint and bullet holes.
"John, it's about time you opened up!" Mrs. Hudson shoved passed him into the flat. She carried a tray of super items and a few handsomely decorated treats that were leftover from Christmas.
John nibbled at his food. No matter how delicious Mrs. Hudson's cooking was, it was one of those days that he didn't have an appetite. His most recent girlfriend had broken up with him a month or so previous and he was still recovering.
"Well here you are, mate." The cab came to a stop and Sherlock gave the cabbie some money before stepping out.
He cleared his throat as he stopped at the door. Should he go in? He knew, logically, that he would reopen old wounds and he wasn't sure if John was still dating that Morstan woman.
His breathing hitched as he thought about the day he was told of their relationship. Well, at least John was happy, if he was still dating her.
With a shaky breath, Sherlock finally stepped inside of 221 Baker St. His eyes moved towards the stairs.
After shutting the door, he walked up the steps and paused in front of 221B's door.
He raised his hand to knock.
Mrs. Hudson was halfway through chiding John for letting Mary go so easily when another knock echoed through the flat. John looked up from his plate, swallowing his mouthful of toast.
"Hold on," he said to Mrs. Hudson. "If you're here, who's at the door?"
Mrs. Hudson shrugged, but her eyes reflected the hope in John's.
'Maybe he's out,' Sherlock thought uneasily as the door remained unanswered. 'Maybe he's at Mary's house or he's off visiting Harry.'
He knocked again.
There was a clatter of chairs and the two rushed to get the door in unison. John got there first, fumbling with the door awkwardly before finally wrenching it open.
Sherlock took a step back, intending to leave, when the door was forcefully pulled open, John's eyes locking with his.
"John."
"Sherlock, you git," John said. He didn't know if he would rather hug him or punch him.
Unsure what he should say, Sherlock shifted, his left hand opening and closing. It still ached from when Moran's knife had stabbed into it, many months ago. The scar was sensitive to the cold, making Sherlock unable to hold his hand still.
John wasn't much good at the science of deduction, but he had learned what he knew from the best. He reached out to grasp Sherlock's twitching hand. It was shivering and cold, a stark contrast to the warmth of the flat. John smiled up at Sherlock, pulling him into the sitting room and out of the dreary winter weather. John was sure he would never think of anything as dreary ever again.
Slightly startled by John's move, Sherlock let himself be led inside the flat. Was he supposed to say something? Was he supposed to try and explain where he had been? His mind was faltering; too tired from the days he had spent awake trying to return to London- to John and 221B. The warmth from the flat made him shiver, his body suddenly remembering how cold it was.
"Take off your coat when you come into your own house," John instructed with a shaky voice. "It's okay now. It's okay."
His house? Did john really still consider it his? Shaky fingers rose to undo his coat as his left hand tightened on John's.
He didn't want to let go.
John's fingers tightened in response. His eyes itched. No, he wasn't going to cry. Not this John Watson. He rubbed his eye with his right hand to get that dust spec or small planet or whatever it was out. Mrs. Hudson had both hands over her mouth with silent streams running down her cheeks.
Sherlock frowned as he watched Mrs. Hudson cry and John rub his eye.
"Why are you upset?" he asked after finally letting go of John's hand to take off his coat.
"Is it because," he paused, tired eyes looking John over, trying to come up with a reasonable cause. Only one came to his tired mind. "Is it because I'm back? Do you want me to leave?"
He was used to people wanting him to leave. He was used to people not liking him. So why did the thought of John hating him hurt so much?
John grinned and Mrs. Hudson choked out a weak laugh. For all of his knowledge, Sherlock really could be thick sometimes.
"Don't be stupid," John said with a hint of their old banter. "We've been waiting for you to come back ever since Mycroft leaked that you were still alive."
Sherlock started. "He knew? When did he figure it out?"
"It was a joint effort, really," John said, polishing an invisible badge on the front of his jumper.
Mrs. Hudson rolled her teary eyes. "Goodness!" she exclaimed in some frivolous realization. "We need more toast!" And with that, she hurried down to her flat to collect additional supper items.
Sherlock stared in the direction Mrs. Hudson disappeared for a moment and silently wished that she would come back. He wasn't sure what he should say to John. Turning, he walked to the mantle and touched his skull.
"You kept it," he murmured.
John made his 'I suppose you would notice that, wouldn't you?' face. "I kept a lot of things that you left. I cleaned up the rancid experiment in the bath tub, though."
Sherlock let out a weak laugh. "Suppose it wouldn't still be good, would it?"
John grinned. He glanced out the window and back at Sherlock again, his somber air returning.
"Don't ever make me do that again," he said sternly, fixing Sherlock with another look. "In fact," he continued, crossing the small room and putting his arms around Sherlock in a gentle hug. "Don't leave anything behind. Science experiments... or me."
Sherlock stood stiffly in John's embrace. Slowly, he wrapped his arms around him and leant against him.
"I'm... sorry John. I could see no other way to..." he hesitated.
"It's alright," John filled the silence. "As long as you're back. But you do have a /lot/ of explaining to do."
Sherlock flexed his hand again, phantom pain throbbing as he nodded. He fixed a tired stare on John.
"Do you know why I did it?"
"I've had a lot of time to theorize," John admitted. "At the very least it had something to do with Moriarty. That's how we knew you weren't dead, even after you'd been... gone a while. Moriarty-like crimes became less and less common." John hesitated, wondering how much he should say. "It's still a mystery why you had to do it... like /that/."
Sherlock walked until he stood in front of the window and looked down onto Baker Street.
"He would have killed you. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade; you- you all had someone about to take you out, unless I..."
He trailed off, a shudder raking his body.
John blinked in shock. "I had no idea." It pained him to see the detective like this, even if was thankful to see him at all. For three years he had been through fazes of feeling shock, regret, and betrayal over Sherlock's disappearance. He shook his head in disbelief. To think the whole thing had been to save him. To save everyone he cared about.
"That was the point. Moriarty wanted the world to think I was a fraud. Beaten and with nowhere else to go, I had to die and I had to make you believe I was dead and never coming back. Because the world would believe it if you did." Sherlock shrugged. "So I killed myself."
Sherlock's shoulders tightened, left hand twitching. The things he had gone through these last three years had been torture. His scars ached and his head hurt, emotions spilling out from his carefully crafted mask.
"I'm sorry, John," he whispered, left hand closing. "I truly am."
"That doesn't make any sense!" John walked back and forth, suddenly angry. "I saw you, I-I saw you dead. I- you didn't have a pulse. They took you away, they buried you!" John looked up, a crease in his brow. "You survived that, you tricked the world, you sacrificed all that for us... and you're... sorry?"
Sherlock spun around to face him, eyes blazing. "Yes, John. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I had to put you through that. I'm sorry you had to bury me. I'm sorry you had to deal with the world thinking I was a fraud. I'm sorry, but do you have any idea what I had to go through to make sure they wouldn't come after you, after any of you?! Do you have any idea of the HELL I WENT THROUGH TO KEEP YOU SAFE?!"
John stepped back with an ache in his chest.
Sherlock slumped back, suddenly drained, hand twitching again. "I went through so much," he whispered. "So much. I just wanted to come home."
The tears (there was no use denying it, that's what they were) dripped down his face. He would have wiped them away with the sleeve of his ugly jumper (there was no denying /that/ either), but he had more important things to attend to.
"Sherlock," his voice cracked. "Your hand. Let me see your hand."
Sherlock looked at his friend, eyes tired and haunted. Slowly, he offered his hand.
"I can't play the violin anymore," he confided in a shaky whisper. "There was too much nerve damage; and it went too long untreated."
His entire body hurt with the loss he felt for his friend. The violin- Sherlock had played so well. It had been one of the only things he truly enjoyed besides solving cases.
John took the shaking hand in his own, examining it carefully. When he finished, he looked up at the weary detective.
"There's a lot of damage, but not all of it is permanent. We can fix it," John smiled. "Trust me, I'm a doctor."
Sherlock let out a shaky laugh, his fingers gripping John's. It felt good to have a hand to hold again.
After the years he spent in solitude, it felt good to not be alone.
The door to the flat burst open loudly, causing both men to flinch. It was Mrs. Hudson returning from her quest. "My, my, I've brought more toast, so much toast. ALL the toast!" She averted her eyes from the crispy bread slices and saw the two with their hands intertwined. "Hope I'm not interrupting anything." She grinned mischievously.
Sherlock cleared his throat and tried to pull his hand away from John's.
"Nope," John looked pointedly at Sherlock. "You're not allowed to let go; doctor's orders."
"John, I'm fine," Sherlock stated, though he quietly said to himself, "I've gone much longer without food."
Mrs. Hudson tut-tutted them and pushed them both to the dinner table. John made a fool of himself by insisting on eating with his left hand so he could continue to grasp Sherlock's injured one. The soup was a disaster and he ended up only eating toast. Thank goodness Mrs. Hudson had made enough to feed a micro country.
Sherlock ate very little (and the little he did eat, he had trouble keeping down. As previously stated, it had been a very long time since he had last ate.) and continued holding John's hand.
"Alright! That's enough of that!" Mrs. Hudson stood up briskly and began putting things away. She went as far as to snatch a half-eaten piece of bread from John's mouth when clearing away the dishes.
"What are you...?" John sputtered in disbelief.
"Oh shush," Mrs. Hudson tapped him on the nose with a cinnamon-scented fingertip. "I'll be out of your hair soon enough."
Sherlock blinked in surprise. Why did she want to leave so suddenly?
"You really don't have to-" John tried in vain to slow her down.
"Oh, stop it," Mrs. Hudson waved him away. "I'm already done. Farewell!" She winked, gathered the basket of dishes, and showed herself out.
Sherlock watched Mrs. Hudson leave with a tired eye. He turned to John, who was still holding his hand.
John was just as befuddled as Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson could be a really oddity sometimes. He turned to Sherlock.
"I suppose you're exhausted," John said. "I'll go put some sheets on your bed."
Sherlock tightened his grip on John's hand momentarily before he reluctantly released him.
That's right, being a housewife required both hands.
Time passed quickly, though Sherlock did not sleep. By 2 in the morning, he could no longer lie in his bed and came out into the living room.
John was staring glumly his laptop, the bags under his eyes amplified by the iridescent screen. He had spent the night writing an entry announcing Sherlock's return and the morning up till then agonizing on if he should post it.
Mind slow from the days without sleep, Sherlock tripped over the coffee table and landed on his back with a thud.
"Oh my god, Sherlock!" John's shout was partially out of concern from his friend and partially from the surprise of said friend sneaking up on him. He rushed over and nearly tripped on the rug himself.
"'m fine, John," said a winded Sherlock. He winced. "I think," he murmured.
John reached out a hand to help him up. Sherlock pursed his lips and accepted his hand standing up and staggering into John.
He chuckled, catching Sherlock as best he could.
Clearing his throat, Sherlock tried to move away from John.
John yawned and gripped the front of Sherlock's shirt tighter. He amazed himself at how tired he had let himself become. He leaned closer to the detective instinctively.
Sherlock started, surprised and wary. "John, what are you doing?"
"Hmm, what?" John said sleepily. His eye lids were oh so heavy...
"John?"
It was too late, John was asleep.