Doctor John Watson sat hunched over the bed at 221B Baker Street, rubbing his eyes dolefully with the backs of both wrists. It was 3:53 AM, exactly eight minutes since he had last been in this position. He hadn't realized just how difficult it would be to go from years of casework to absolute stagnancy. Moreover, he hadn't realized just how difficult it would be to go from years of companionship to absolute solitude.
Not that Mrs. Hudson didn't check in on him once in awhile. In fact, he imagined Mrs. Hudson must be just as lonely without all of the rambunctiousness to complain about.
He sighed and flung himself back onto the pillows, examining the stains on the ceiling and trying without real effort to deduce something from them. It had been over a year since he pat his friend's grave goodbye, and over a year since he had slept in his own bed.
His friend, Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. The stubborn detective. He forced himself to say the name, even though it made his insides contract.
John tried not to think about the fact that he was living on Sherlock's side of the flat. Cleaning Sherlock's violin, maintaining his experiments, resting his head on the other man's pillow. Was this a normal way to grieve? Sometimes he thought about the situation in reverse. Would Sherlock have chucked his things in a bin and moved on?
John Watson wasn't a genius, but he wasn't an idiot, either. He knew three things. One, that Sherlock Holmes was gone. Two, so was Jim Moriarty. Most importantly, he knew Sherlock was not a fake. It didn't take more than average intelligence to piece the puzzle together; Sherlock had exchanged his life for Moriarty's, or, for something more valuable. John's safety? Was Sherlock even capable of that?
At first he thought Sherlock was playing dead, long enough to ensure Moriarty was put down once and for all. He reached for that theory with every fiber of his being. With every passing day, each bringing a stronger image of Sherlock lying in a puddle of his own blood, doubt begin to grow like a weed over the fibers until they were completely covered. Eventually, he had begun to accept the fact that even if Sherlock Holmes wasn't dead, which was, in itself, unlikely- he was never coming back.
He rolled over onto his side and watched the shadows play across the window pane, letting the din of the rain and the howl of the wind drown out John's rendition of the "note" Sherlock had left.
He was so...so bored. Life after Sherlock wasn't much of a life, he decided. Sherlock had added another layer of texture- something so intangible that John simply couldn't mimic it no matter how hard he tried. He had gotten job after job, each more gruesome than the next, and nothing had even come close.
And yet, it wasn't just the work he missed. There was a sort of ache- not like the ache in his leg that sometimes returned, but a real, deeply rooted ache- right in the pit of his stomach. It was like a piece of his core had gone missing. He could forget about it from time to time, but it never went away.
John was not a weak man, though carrying on was becoming more difficult, not less. He had contemplated moving out more than once, but never followed through. Besides, he didn't want to leave Mrs. Hudson alone in the building.
Maybe all he needed was a cup of tea.
The flat was dark, except for a small sliver of moonlight by the mantel. John liked the darkness, because it reminded him of all the nights he had spent awake, reading by lamplight for a case. The absence of light never bothered him. He lived life in a stupor anyway, what with the lack of sleep. It turned out the excitement of a case made what little sleep he got count for a full night; having all eight hours to himself didn't suit him.
The tea water was almost boiling when John saw a shadow move across a row of test tubes on the kitchen counter. He tensed, turning slowly, knowing it could only be the movement of a branch outside. Yet, there was a tall, dark figure in the archway of the living room, shaking water out of a long dark cloak. The collar of the cloak was turn up against the wind.
John blinked. Once, twice.
The figure caught sight of him and froze.
"What the...?" John murmured, his fingers immediately finding the gun Sherlock kept in the breadbox for occasions such as these. "Who's there?"
The figure was still frozen, face hidden in the shadows. John's eyes were still adjusting to the dark.
"You better not try anything funny," John called, wondering how the man had broken in so quietly. "I've killed a man for less," he warned.
He would have maneuvered to overpower the man, and yet there was a nagging sensation in the pit of his stomach- the same place that had ached for months and months-
"I know," the figure said, not being able to resist revealing his apparent knowledge of the situation.
John came to a halt, the adrenaline freezing in his veins like ice. Sherlock Holmes stepped into the patch of moonlight by the fireplace.
John blinked again, setting the gun on the counter. "Am I...am I seeing things?"
Sherlock raised a hand, undoing the scarf around his neck as he spoke.
"John, I know this must be difficult for you to understand," he started. "I realize you may be confused by my sudden appearance-"
"Now, hang on a moment," John said, advancing on the man. He closed the distance between them in several easy, albeit unbalanced strides, and, pulling his right arm all the way back, decked the detective clear across the face.
Sherlock reeled into the fireplace, holding his nose. John looked shocked, as if this had happened in his dreams and he never expected the blow to connect with real flesh.
"I suppose I deserved that," Sherlock chuckled, leaning with one arm against the stone of the fireplace.
John's brow furrowed as he examined Sherlock's face for the first time. His cheekbones were more pronounced than usual- sunken, even. Hollow. His lips were pale, and the circles beneath his eyes were dark.
"I imagine you are curious as to how I escaped," Sherlock continued. "It was a real challenge, you would have loved-"
"Get out," John breathed.
Seldom ever was the detective shocked into silence, but he paused to take a closer look at John's features. Tight. Though the room was dark, his eyes were alight with emotion. His fists were clenched. Sherlock hardly ever payed attention to his own wardrobe, but judging by the size and general fit of the clothes, John was wearing Sherlock's pajamas. Sherlock read the emotion clearly. Anger.
"John, you should hear me out, it really is a fascinating story-"
"You died, Sherlock. I held your hand. When it happened. You had no pulse. For days, Sherlock, months even, I thought you might be fooling everyone. But you didn't come back. It's been a bloody year! You haven't written, you haven't called, haven't left any secret messages for me to decode. The bloody hell was I supposed to think? You were on vacation? I was the last person you talked to before you killed- before you committed- before you jumped, you used me as some bloody vehicle for your suicide note- you...you..."
John breathed in deeply, turned on his heel, and followed instinct to Sherlock's room, slamming the door behind him. With his back pressed against the door, he tried to make sense of what had just happened. Sherlock was alive. After a year of fantasizing that he would just waltz through the door one evening, John had told him to piss off.
What have I done? John thought. He heard the front door close with a sickening thud in the distance.
Sometimes the thought of not understanding Sherlock's motives had made him upset, but he had never expected an outburst of anger.
He crawled into bed and let the weight of the situation sink in. Perhaps Sherlock wouldn't come back this time.
Minutes- possibly hours- went by. John lay still, almost asleep now that all of the anger had left him. He didn't hear the slow whine of the door, and it wasn't until he felt the brush of Sherlock's foot against his leg that he realized the detective had come back after all. Beginning to come to, John realized he was in the wrong bed.
"Ehem, sorry, I'm in here-"
"I know," Sherlock said, swinging his other leg into bed.
A weight lowered on John's chest, and he could see the distinctive glint of plastic.
"What's this?" John asked, sitting up.
"Got you a meal from the pub round the corner," Sherlock said. "Wandered around for a bit, but this is the best I could do. For a peace offering."
"Oh. I...thanks," John finished, lamely, placing the bag on the night stand. There was so much he wanted to say. About his loneliness, his boredom, about the empty feeling in his core that wouldn't go away...
"There were some things I observed about myself while I was away from London," Sherlock said, filling the silence. "Peculiar feelings I hadn't felt before- didn't think I could feel, that is. I didn't quite know what to make of them."
"Oh," John said, not sure how to fill the pause. What was Sherlock getting at?
"Well, I would tell you, but like I said- they are entirely incomprehensible, and yet I have been observing them in myself for some time now. I would rather just demonstrate."
"Demonstrate how-"
Before John could finish his sentence, Sherlock had leaned over and, with no pretense, slid his lips over John's lips. He found precisely the right angle and pressed further, reaching up to brush his fingers against John's neck. John shivered involuntarily.
Sherlock pulled away, quickly examining the other man's eyes. He took his own wrist in his hand, feeling for a pulse.
"I thought so," he said,
"Whuh," John spluttered. "What...what the hell was that?"
"A kiss, John."
"I mean...I mean why did you do it?"
"To monitor my reaction, of course. Gathering data. It seems my pulse is rather elevated." He looked over at John, his eyes finding the small crevice where John's head met his neck. He ran his fingers over John's jaw line meticulously before resting on it. "Yours is too."
"Probably because I just found out you're alive, and you've just given me quite a shock," John started, defensively, "it doesn't mean anything, you know, you better not do that again-"
As if on cue, Sherlock moved with his whole body this time, pressing up against John's chest. His tongue was already out by the time he met John's lips, this time passionately examining every inch of the other man's mouth.
"Mfrgh-" John exclaimed, though he didn't feel the need to protest further than that. Again, Sherlock pulled back.
"I thought so," he said again.
"What now?" John breathed, flustered, his face burning underneath the dark cloak of night.
In response, Sherlock put a miraculously large hand over the bulge in John's pants. John nearly jumped out of his skin.
"Sherlock, what in God's name is going on here-"
"Shh," Sherlock said, removing his hand. "That's enough research for tonight."
Rolling over, he left John exactly where he had been moments before.
"I like sleeping with something against my back," Sherlock informed him, sticking his behind into John's hip. "Kindly oblige."
As if coming to his senses, John slowly shifted under the blankets, molding himself to the warm body beside him. He could feel the breath vibrating in Sherlock's back as he drifted off to sleep.
"Sherlock," he murmured.
"Hnn," Sherlock said.
"I missed you."
"I know," Sherlock said, in the matter of fact tone John missed most of all. "Now go to sleep. Tomorrow we start looking for a new case."
John grinned against his best friend's back. Things were looking up after all.