Ok, this was it. No turning back.
Sherlock Holmes awkwardly flitted from one foot to the other as his thumbs rapidly sped across the keys of his phone, occasionally glancing impatiently up at the heavily overweight teenager in the poor excuse for a lift beside him as if waiting for the answer to a question that neither of them had asked.
When a pair of sullen, deep set eyes met his, he returned his gaze to Lestrades text, mentally recording every detail of the boy beside him because, he thought, you never know who might be a killer these days; inflamed right thumb, obvious joystick-addict, but imprint on the digit shows console must be at least 3 years old and considering their location, low income family. Bulge in upper left pocket in jacket, faint rustling sound; crisp packet. Obvious. Phone. Basic Samsung, full battery, mint condition, but again model is old and an oversized fluorescent charm, attached to top right corner, forcing the owner to actually notice its presence. Clearly old but underused. Unpopular bloke, then. Not many points of contact. Shoes show traces of the snow outside, but only enough to get him to the run down newsagents on the corner. Magazine outline visible in bag, milk, cigarettes, bread, soap but judging from the repugnant stink of unwashed clothes and pubescent sweat, obviously not for him. Still living with parents. Scuff on tracksuit bottoms showing…DING!
With a horrific screech, the lift jolted suddenly, sending Sherlock tumbling into the metal wall beside him, but his companion merely looked on miserably as the doors in front of them ripped apart revealing the corridor outside.
The boy trudged out without a second glance, leaving him alone in the silent lift, still clinging onto the handrail for dear life. Standing up with a low groan, he stepped gratefully into the cooler but not quite fresher air of Floor 23, Corridor G of Preston House, East London
. Glancing distastefully at the damp heavy ceilings, hideous wallpaper and crusty carpet underfoot, he paused outside the lift doors for a second, furiously fighting the impulse to turn and run, before the screech returned, loudly informing him that his only escape route had vanished into the murky depths of the floors below him.
He took a cautious step forward. Then another. And another, before frowning and vigorously giving himself a mental shake and striding along the narrow corridor. Door after door loomed out at him, number 5, number 6, number 17…His neighbours.
He'd walked along this corridor, every morning, every night;
He'd touched the same buttons in the lift as Sherlock had, and
His sleeve had brushed the wall just as Sherlock's had.
He might know the boy in the lift, might've seen to him at the surgery,
He would've carried shopping bags and suitcases and packing boxes to this door. The door in front of him. Number 34. His hand forcing the key into the lock, grabbing at the handle.
These thoughts fought and danced around his head, fighting for dominance, threatening to spill onto his lips as he stared at the fake gold numbering on the door. Suddenly a loud and obnoxious voice broke into his thought process, starling him back to reality;
'What the hell are you doin?' Realising the voice was directed at him he glanced out of the corner of his eyes before revolving his body towards the sound. In front of him stood a heavily pregnant woman, cigarette in hand, in nothing but an incredibly short dressing gown and slippers, lip curled in disdain.
When he simply raised a thin eyebrow at her, she repeated the question slower this time; 'I said what you doing?'
Sighing irritably he replied 'knocking'.
'Doesn't look like knocking' He scowled at her once more before turning back towards the door in the vain hope that she'd get the message and leave.
She did not. 'Go on then. Knock.'
He didn't want to do it. Not in front of her. Not after all this time.
Inhaling a deep breath, he spoke, gritting his teeth in annoyance 'How can I help you?'
She shrugged, taking a drag on her cigarette, eyes never leaving the strange man in front of her. 'Not much. Just checking you're not a pervert or lunatic trying to kill 'im.'
'Why would I try and kill him?'
She looked at him coolly before saying 'Wouldn't be the first one to try. 'E's a nice man, 'im. Helps me with the shoppin' sometimes. Don't wan' you hurtin 'im'
Too late, Sherlock thought, forcing a pleasant smile onto this face and raising his hand to the door. A few short knocks. Knuckles against wood.
Heart thudding in his chest, he waited for the footsteps inside, for the door to open, for his face to appear.
But it didn't.
There was just…nothing. He wasn't in.
He closed his eyes painfully before turning to the woman beside him and saying 'There. He's not in. Can't kill him now, can I?'
She snorted at him but made her way back into her flat reluctantly. Sherlock straightened up, having only just realised that he'd slouched at the sight of the door, and made to stride down the hall when '…hello?'
That voice. His voice. Calling to him.
He stopped suddenly, unwilling to show his face to the man he'd abandoned for three years. The man he'd left to live in this disgusting estate. His friend.
Running a hand over his face nervously, he spun slowly on his heel, waiting for the storm, the recognition, the pain.
Hoarsely he said 'Hello John', cheap light illuminating his face, shoes squeaking slightly on the hard carpet.
There was silence. Drawn out and tense, too quiet in Sherlock's head. He needed John to talk, to hit him or kiss him, just anything. 'You bastard' John's voice was hoarse too, but firm. Not shaky or choked, strong. For a moment, they just stared at each other, absorbing each other with their eyes. The detective, the doctor.
Then they locked eyes. Ink met ice.
'I…um, I granted your miracle. I'm not dead.'
The inky eyes turned to coal, dark with anger, humiliation.
He began to walk. 'No. No. Don't you dare. Don't you even dare, Sherlock! You. Are. Dead. You died! I was there, remember? You stood me there, forced me to watch as you jumped off a roof, for god's sake! I…I had to tell Mrs Hudson and Lestrade! Molly, yeah, Molly had to do your post mortem! Can you even….'
He stopped suddenly, blinking rapidly at the angry tears shining in his eyes, running a hand through his greying hair. When he spoke again, his voice was distant and soft, locked in his own head.
'No. It's not real. You're not here. You're just a hallucination. Anti-depressants must be wearing off. Yeah, that's it' he turned, slowly plodding back to his door as Sherlock paused.
Suddenly 3 years of loss and loneliness swamped him, the ache in his chest expanding and consuming him, the longing for that light, that tiny light hovering right in front of his eyes, close enough to touch.
Suddenly Sherlock grabbed John roughly, grabbing at him furiously and pulled him into his arms. They must've looked strange. The tall, striking man burrowing his face into the neck of the shorter, plainer man, absorbing the very essence of him, drawing everything about him in case he pulled away, in case he closed himself off, in case he turned to smoke in his arms, in case he wasn't really there.
Sherlock whispered desperately 'I'm real. I'm real, I'm real, I'm real! You've got to trust me. I'm not dead. I'm not a hallucination. You, John Watson, are perfectly sane and I, Sherlock Holmes, am perfectly alive.'
The man had frozen in his arms. He hadn't returned the embrace, but he hadn't objected to it either. He just froze.
When Sherlock finally drew back, he bent down and stared into the man's eyes, gaze flickering between the two, inspecting them for any signs of recognition or pain or anything. 'John…John, say something.' He blinked, jerking back to reality, to the man in front of him and swallowed hard.
'Err…you…you're alive, then.'
'Correct'
'You didn't die.'
'No'
'You're here, in my flat'
Sherlock glanced around 'well not quite. You haven't actually invited me in yet.'