A sleepy silence engulfed 221B in the early hours of a winter's Sunday morning. Frosted window panes clouded the view of the outside world and a year old newspaper lay spread misshapenly on the underside of a metal bin, bearing the headline "Suicide of Fake Genius". A human skull lay perched on top of a grand fireplace which had been without flames for some time now, and two arm chairs sat facing each other: a seemingly strange feature for those who do not know its meaning.
A man with dark brown hair stood in the centre of the room, clutching a deep mahogany coloured violin in pristine condition. His long charcoal grey coat perfectly tailored to his surprisingly strong build and his eyes were a mesmerising blend of vivid greens and shocking blue, that seemed to observe a persons every movement.
This was not how he had his envisioned his return. This was not what he had planned. Where was John?
John Watson sat alone in Regents Park. It was just before sunrise and the air was bitterly cold, frost shimmering around the edges of the bench as its crystals danced to the orangey glow of a street lamp across the road. John's hands were going numb, he should have brought gloves, so he shifted his weight and put them in his pockets. Then again, what difference would it make? Everything was numb to him now. He had tried moving on, tried to fill the gaping void in his world but nothing came. Only bleak emptiness. No rest, no relief from his loss. He was sleepwalking through his life, slipping in and out of reality as he picked at the edges of his former self, attempting and failing to get back to normality. But how could he when he was missing the best part?
With a heavy sigh he stood up, his legs tingling with the fist stages of frostbite and began walking, intending for his home-that-wasn't-really-a home and some tea.
Sherlock glanced around the room. His face was cloned in places, cuts outs of newspapers and reports, an autopsy document bearing Molly's handwriting, an old school photograph, all connected with colour coded string. His whole life lay spread out in front of him, stuck up around the flat in a chronology almost army like. But then again -it was.
John had been busy. This was going to be whole lot harder than he'd ever imagined. Sherlock stood perfectly still for some moments before even considering telling his legs to move, to leave. He couldn't do this, he couldn't face John knowing how much pain he had caused him, how much heartbreak. He bolted to the door in a manner which startled him as much as it defeated him and stopped almost as abruptly as he began, his hand on the door handle, his mind full of doubt. No. He had got this far. He had left John once, he couldn't leave him again.
Turning the corner of Baker Street, John was suddenly reminded of a night over a year and a half ago. The very day of the fall. That's when they came. Small armies of people yelling abuse and throwing whatever they could get their hands on. Disgusted with the fact they had been lied to, or at least thought they had. On approaching the door, he noticed the previously jet black paintwork had began to peel and the wood was scattered with frayed chips where people had thrown all kinds of things at it. John watched his breath rise up in front of him as he ran his fingers over 221B's once golden letters and on unlocking the door, he went in.
Nothing seemed out of place though if it were he wouldn't have noticed. It was messy, strewn about with things of Sherlock's -or things about him, as though he had tried to fill the place where the man himself could not. But these were just fragments of him, pieces of his life: the real Sherlock shattered on the pavement. John tugged off his coat, regretting it instantly because he flat was cold now and sank into his chair, staring at the one opposite. It was left untouched. He allowed no-one to sit in it, not even Mrs Hudson, who was deeply offended not to be to granted permission to sit down in her own flat. Still, she understood his motives oh too well.
He closed his eyes, replaying that devastating train wreck of a scene that fractured his life beyond repair. It had been over a year since "goodbye john", over a year since the fall, over a year since the person he cared most about slipped through his fingers. The last thing he had said to Sherlock face-to-face was that friends protect people, but he was wrong. He couldn't protect Sherlock now...
Without warning a shrill note sounded, slicing through the silence in a way which made it undoubtably that of a violin, hanging on the air. John's eyes snapped open. He knew that sound but it couldn't -it wouldn't be real.
"John." A deep voice said behind him, barley a whisper, the voice of a man the world had long forgotten. "I'm..." The voice broke, his sentence trailing away, the words unsaid hung on his lips.
John clenched his fingers, tensing instantly and curled them around the edges of the chair. He closed his eyes for a moment to register this fully in his mind and shakily stood up. If this really was a dream, then all he had to do was face the disappointment when he awoke. He could live with a little more of that. Taking a deep breath in, he opened his eyes and turned around...
Chapter two of this fanfic is currently in editing!