Hello! This is my first Johnlock fanfiction. It's set after Mary's death in a world where Baby Watson doesn't exist, simply because I didn't feel like mulling over what could happen with the baby. I'll leave it to Gatiss and Moffat to figure that out :) I hope you'll like it!

Back Home

John is about to knock on the door when it suddenly opens to reveal Mrs Hudson, and they almost bump into each other, both startled by the unexpected encounter.

"Oh, hello, John." Mrs Hudson greets him with the same cheerful tone as always, though he can't help noticing a shade of uncertainty in her voice, as if she were treading lightly, not really sure how to interact with him. He can't blame her for her faltering, however; after all, there's not exactly a socially acceptable way to deal with a mourning widower who also happens to be his wife's killer.

John decides not to linger on that kind of thoughts for too long, so he hails back and asks, "Is Sherlock home?"

"Yes, indeed. He said he was expecting you."

"Oh." John can't mask his surprise.

Silence falls between them and they both stand awkwardly on the two sides of the doorstep, until Mrs Hudson glances at him eloquently and John realizes he's still in the way.

"Oh, sorry," he says with an embarrassed smirk, and she smiles back at him, and, damn it, is that compassion he sees in her eyes? Again, better not to think too much of it. Let it go, John, he tells himself, and he enters the silent house, feeling a little hesitant, a bit too much thrilled. He tries not to make any noise as he goes up the stairs, and he almost tiptoes into the flat, knowing far too well that Sherlock is going to notice his arrival no matter what.

He hopes to find him sitting in his usual chair next to the fireplace, and in fact there he is, sitting comfortably but also somehow tensely, as he had really been waiting for someone. Having known Sherlock for so many years, John has served his time being astonished by his friend's acute senses, yet he can't help still admiring his annoying brilliance, which Sherlock never misses a chance to show off every time they are together. And they happen to be together a lot, running around London, solving crimes, enjoying a good meal every now and then. However, they haven't seen much of each other lately. After Mary's death, John needed some time to grieve and to convince himself that he had had no other choice but to pull the trigger. Ultimately, it was either Mary or Sherlock, and it wasn't Sherlock the one who had betrayed him, not only once, but a second time around now. When John had seen her point her gun at Sherlock, he had decided that he wasn't going to let her shoot at his best friend, even if she had intended to miss. Sherlock had been too close to death too many times for John to be willing to let him take another chance. No. He wouldn't risk it. He didn't.

As soon as John steps into the flat, Sherlock raises his gaze and looks at him with his piercing blue eyes, his expression unrevealing of any thought, any emotion. His hands are under his chin — classic Sherlock pose — and for a moment John wonders whether he was waiting for him to join him in a case. But that isn't Sherlock's style: he usually just dives into the adventure, and all John has to do is follow him, at least physically, because it isn't always easy to keep up with Sherlock's train of thoughts and waterfall of words. Actually, it is hard, all the time. But fun, in a weird way, in a way John really enjoys, for some reason.

"Hello, John", Sherlock says, and maybe, if he were under torture, John would admit that he missed the sound of his voice.

"Mrs Hudson said you were waiting for me," he finds himself saying, stepping a little closer, eager to reclaim his place on the chair in front of Sherlock's.

"Didn't you say you'd come?"

"No, I didn't."

"Oh. It must have been your little voice speaking in my brain, then. You're so predictable."

John rolls his eyes and sinks into his chair. A smile escapes from his lips as he realizes that it is even more comfortable than he remember, but he quickly hides that involuntary smirk, not wanting Sherlock to read too much on his face. It's too late, though. Sherlock says nothing about it, but John could swear he noticed it — of course he noticed it — and he is already drawing conclusions from it. Deducing, as he would say. John wonders how far Sherlock has gone with his deductions about his presence there, but then he realizes that whatever the answer to this may be, it's always going to be too far.

"So… do you have a case?" he asks tentatively.

"Nope."

"Are you looking for one?"

Sherlock casts him a glance, as if to say "Please", in his typical know-all way.

"Do you want me to help you find one?"

"Why are you here, John?" Sherlock asks all of a sudden, completely ignoring John's own question. He doesn't sound annoyed, though, not at all. He rather sounds amused, as sly as a cat waiting to attack a rat. Which is irritating, in a way, like it always is with Sherlock, but also so unique, so him that it's almost irresistible. You know he's playing with you, John knows he's playing with him. But he can't help join the game. God, what a smart fox that man is.

"I'm bored."

"Hmm."

"And I…" John hesitates, just for a moment, but it's still too long for Sherlock's fast mind.

"Yes?"

"I was hoping…"

"You were hoping what?" Sherlock interrupts him again, and John sighs, exasperated.

"I was hoping you had a case we could solve together," he says in a rush, not leaving Sherlock the time to speak.

Sherlock suddenly stands up and marches to the door. He opens it. "Well, as you can see, I don't have one, so if that's what you came for, you can leave."

John's eyes widen. He doesn't move. Of course he's not there just for it. He never was. How can Sherlock not know that? Oh right, of course he know, of course. He knows. And he wants John to know that he knows, and he's now standing there at the door so that John's attachment to that chair and that flat will look even more blatantly desperate. God, he would hate him, if only he didn't enjoy being in his presence so much.

"That's not the only reason why I am here," he's forced to admit.

"Of course it's not." Sherlock shuts the door and goes back to sit in his chair. When he's once again facing John, he smiles. John realizes that the situation looks vaguely, and terrifyingly, similar to that of a shrink appointment. And of course, once again, he's the least smart in the room, and the one with less insight.

"I'd like to move back here," John says, a bit unsettled by his own honesty.

"I know," Sherlock replies simply, and oh, how much John would like to slap him right now.

"And I know you know, so now that we've both prided ourselves with our deductions, can we actually talk about this?"

"What is there to talk about it?" Sherlock asks simply.

"It's not a problem for you?"

"Your presence is hardly noticeable anyway, so it won't make much difference." Sherlock's words get on John's nerves at first, but then John reminds himself that what Sherlock said is so clearly false that he might as well read it in the complete opposite way: Sherlock really wants him back. Whether true or not, it's flattering to think that Sherlock Holmes, the second most unsociable person he's ever met, has chosen him as his solely acceptable companion. Flattering, but also somehow alarming. But, anyway, John has now been forced to accept the fact that, for some reason, he attracts and is attracted to people like Sherlock, like Mary, all people who fall in that not yet easily definable range between sociopaths and psychopaths. John is a doctor, but he still struggles to tell the difference, to be honest.

Anyway, Sherlock's fake indifference is so unbelievable it's funny, and John can't help but smile. "Good." He stands up. "Do you want some tea?"

"No."

"Okay." He walks into the kitchen, glancing at the usual mess on the table, and he feels warm inside, because somehow that mess feels like home. He finds himself smiling again, and he curses himself, realizing that he's going too far. If he doesn't stop soon with all this sentimentalism, he might discover that he even missed the decapitated heads and severed fingers in the fridge. But that's a line he doesn't want to cross.

He makes himself a tea, sips it as his gaze wanders around the room, sometimes lingering on Sherlock, who hasn't moved an inch. When he's finished, he walks back into the living room.

"So… I'm going to pick up some stuff from my flat and bring it here, in the next few days."

"Okay," Sherlock says simply, but then, as if spurred by an irresistible desire, he adds, "I have already emptied your room, by the way. I had put there all my stuff, but I figured that when you'd be back you wouldn't want to sleep among boxes."

"Thank you," John says, genuinely touched, and then he realizes the hidden meaning behind Sherlock's words, and once again he's annoyed, and astonished, and amused, and, God, how can he trigger so many reactions in him at the same time? But, above all, he's happy, because he can see that Sherlock wants him back just as much as he wants to be back, and he can't wait for things to settle back into a familiarity he has surely missed.

So he leaves with the awareness then he'll soon be there again, and just few hours later, when he's going up the stairs to reach his room, carrying the first one of a relatively limited number of boxes, he feels some sort of adrenaline rushing through his veins. And when he reaches his room and notices that it's too much in order for a place where Sherlock has supposedly set foot, he realizes that that idiot of his friend has never once left any of his things in John's room. Actually, as John looks around, he notices that nothing has really changed, as if Sherlock had always known he'd be back someday. But, come on, not even Sherlock could really see that far.

Or could he?