Doorbell
by LadyMac111
John was standing at the kitchen sink, mentally preparing himself to tackle the dirty dishes that had built up over the past week. How is it, he wondered, that the kitchen mess is the same for just me as it was for the two of us?
His chest tightened, and he took a deep breath. He wondered sometimes why he had decided to stay at the flat in Baker Street, where the memories we still so vivid, even after almost a year without him.
Even when he managed to think about his departed flatmate-colleague-friend, the Name stuck, refusing to be pushed to his tongue or even his internal monologue. The Yarders all referred to him (at least Donovan had abandoned the nickname immediately), Mrs Hudson sometimes mentioned him (mostly when she came in to Hoover), Sarah and Harry (who had gotten awfully close recently) would murmur about him when they thought John couldn't hear. The only one who broke the pattern was Mycroft, when he occasionally appeared with a rent cheque, making a comment about "my brother". For some reason, that hurt John even more than the Name.
Somehow, though, the Name was as obstinate and frustrating as its late owner. It was always there in the back of John's mind, just beyond his ability to grasp. It sneaked out when he wasn't paying attention, appearing in the doodles and scribbles in his notebook when he was bored bored bored while watching telly or listening to a long-winded patient with a diagnosis that was obvious (as soon as she had walked into the exam room with an odd sense of calm and an old coffee stain on the edge of the button placket of her blouse – suspects she's pregnant, trying to keep it secret, but breaking the caffeine addiction is harder than she thought it would be.) The boredom in his life seemed tied to the Name – the more bored he was, the more the Name simultaneously eluded him and tried to force its way out.
He tried to keep busy, he really did. He worked long shifts at the clinic, filling in when the other doctors were out, staying late to help get everything tidied up at the end of the day, making sure all the paperwork was perfect. Sometimes Greg would call, and John would fly off and try to have an adventure like he used to do. It wasn't the same, but it made the ache in his chest mean something. John couldn't do that thing he used to do, but he was learning to observe, to notice details. Sometimes he caught himself waiting for him to say something scathing that was meant as a compliment. They all did, he realized after the third or fourth time it happened. There would be a silence, and as they looked around at each other a sadness came over them one by one. Greg was always the one to clear his throat and move on. Sometimes John felt like he was drowning.
The dishes weren't getting any cleaner. John unbuttoned his cuffs and was about to roll up his sleeves when the doorbell rang. Two full seconds, much too long to be one of the cases that still came to him from time to time. Also wrong for Mrs Hudson (several quick, panicky buzzes on the unusual occasions when she was locked out) or Greg (a knock before trying the knob; failing in that, several long, impatient buzzes before calling John's mobile). Everyone else he knew always texted to make plans first.
Grabbing his cane from its spot leaning against the table, John went to the front window and peered down, but the visitor was standing too close for him to see. No car parked out front, so not Mycroft or a delivery. Someone who had arrived by cab, or perhaps by foot.
As he hobbled down the stairs, John tried to guess what sort of person it might be. A long ring was assertive; this person had business with him, but hadn't made contact in advance. Something sensitive? Something sudden? Or maybe someone who had been trying to work up the courage to come?
When he was halfway down the steps, the bell rang again, exactly the same as before. "I'm coming!" he called. "Can't take the stairs terribly quickly with a bad leg."
"Is it still?" The voice from the other side of the door was almost inaudible, but John's blood froze in his veins and he almost stumbled. It can't be. I'm hallucinating. It can't be.
Heart hammering, he turned the knob and jerked the door open.
"Hello, John."
Some part of John's brain was aware that his mouth was hanging open, and that he should probably step back or at least blink but he was just frozen, staring at him, at the man who had been his entire life, who had died in a puddle of blood on that awful pavement and left John an empty shell.
There was a sudden loud rush in his ears, and slim arms were around him and they both awkwardly stumbled back to sit on the narrow steps, forced together between the bannister and the wall with aches on their legs that would develop into large bruises.
But John didn't feel the pain. He felt familiar rough wool under his fingers; he smelled that shampoo that was still in the shower upstairs, unused, unopened since that day; he saw that pale, angular, achingly beautiful face, those bright eyes that stared into his. The rushing in his ears diminished and he could hear that familiar baritone, pronouncing the syllable that had haunted both dreams and waking hours.
"John?"
"Oh my god." It escaped his chest in a sob.
Their arms tangled, but somehow they found their foreheads pressed together as fat tears trickled down John's cheeks. "This is real?"
"Very real."
"I … you ..."
"Shh."
"You … bloody great …"
"I missed you, too."
"God, Sherlock." The Name released itself in a big gust of breath and John sagged. "How?"
"Not now," Sherlock murmured. "We have time." A cool hand came up and cupped John's cheek, brushing a tear away. "Let's go up. I think the best thing right now is a cup of tea."