A/N: Hi, everyone. :3 This is the first story I've written in years. I can't say it's hugely original or even really good, but I'm really proud of it. Please review!
The door to 221B was slightly ajar, light spilling out onto the landing. John was just visible from the door, standing in front of the window, with a familiar violin held limply at his side.
Highly illogical, Sherlock thought to himself, that the sight of John would elevate his pulse, send it thundering through his ears, and make it difficult to think.. This was, after all, why he was at Baker Street in the first place. To see John. To talk to John. To hold him, to beg his forgiveness. Of course, Sherlock had expected the army doctor to be asleep, had expected a bit more time to plan, maybe rehearse with his skull - the skull that, he noted with a frown, was no longer on the mantelpiece.
All this went through Sherlock's mind quite quickly as he stared at the silhouette by the darkened window. And then, without ever making the conscious decision to do so, he stepped into the room and spoke.
"John."
Sherlock watched the smaller man's entire body tense. The fingers wrapped loosely around the neck of the violin twitched. Slowly, John turned around and met Sherlock's eyes. A minute passed, and then another while they stared each other down. John looked unsure, a bit lost.
Sherlock approached hesitantly, until they were nearly touching. John was very still. When he leaned down and lightly pressed a kiss to the doctor's forehead, it was as if an electric shock had gone through him, and John staggered backwards. The violin, usually so carefully tended, hit the floor. His deadened, tired eyes brightened with confusion and hope and the faint beginnings of rage.
"You're... you're alive," John said weakly.
Sherlock looked him over, reading three years worth of grief and depression in the abundance of gray in once-blonde hair, in the more prominent lines of his face, and, most devastatingly, in his posture. He was leaning slightly towards the left to avoid putting weight on his injured left. Anguish swept through Sherlock like a tidal wave.
"John," Sherlock repeated. "I -" and then he faltered, struggling to retain his composure. He took a deep breath and started again.
"I am so sorry. I had no idea you would be so affected, John." His voice broke on the doctor's name. Any remnants of the defense he had been building in the back of his mind fled his brain, and he was left fumbling for words. " I didn't know... I am so sorr-"
Sherlock saw the dangerous glint in John's eye and the muscles in his jaw ripple , and so he had half a second of anticipation before John's fist connected hard with his face. His nose snapped and blood spurted out of it instantly, dripping down to his lips. The pain was immediately forgotten as John sagged against Sherlock's chest and began to cry.
Sherlock lowered them both gently to the floor and pulled John into his lap.
He cradled the doctor, rocking slightly. John clutched the collar of his coat and sobbed into his shoulder.
"You... absolute... bastard, Sherlock Holmes. Three years. I - I thought you were dead. You goddamn bastard..."
Sherlock just held him. "It's okay now," he whispered into gray-blonde hair. "It's okay. I'm here now, John. I'm here and I am never leaving you again."