So... Umm... Hi! This is my first new fic in a long time, and hopefully I'll be able to get more up as well soon!
I saw a post on tumblr that made me sad, so of course I wrote a fic about it...
Reviews are always loved!
You Can See Him Too?!
When Sherlock walked into 221B Baker Street for the first time in three years, he wasn't sure what to expect. He had come up with numerous different scenarios in the time he was away, which was expected.
John would be angry, of course. Sherlock had, after all, faked his own death, and then hid for three years. Of course he would be furious.
Sherlock felt sure that John would punch him. John was a very tactile person, always had been, it was how he showed emotions. Sherlock could only hope that John avoided his face. He knew that he deserved to be hit, but he really didn't want a broken nose.
And would John shout at him as well? He would be enraged beyond measure- he would probably go that odd reddish colour. He might yell, mused Sherlock, or he might talk in the deceptively calm voice he only used in extreme cases. This probably constituted an extreme case.
Or maybe the tight, pursed smile. Sherlock had only seen John make that face once or twice, and he had genuinely feared for his health, never mind the health of those poor people whom the anger was directed towards.
But even as Sherlock pondered over John's various possible reactions, he felt an overwhelming sadness. He should have been there. He should know how John would react. He shouldn't have to guess, to work over theories like John was just one of his cases.
He had also wondered how he should approach John, before deciding on the direct approach. He had spies, obviously, just keeping an eye on his friend, so he had simply picked a time when he knew John would be in the flat alone, and strode right in, braced for the inevitable fallout.
All these scenarios, roiling about in his brain- and what happened took him completely by surprise.
John was sitting in his chair reading a book (and Sherlock noticed that although most of the other surfaces in the flat were messy and covered with books and papers and mugs and plates, his old chair was bare, as if waiting for him).
He looked up quizzically when the door opened. Sherlock stood there, uncharacteristically uncertain. But John simply nodded at him, muttered a quiet 'hey', then returned to his book.
Sherlock stayed standing, stock still, mind racing, barely forming coherent thoughts. Hey? That was it? He breathed out, and stepped tentatively closer to John. The man never even glanced up. Sherlock walked carefully over to his untouched chair, and gingerly sat down with an exhale of relief. He had missed this chair.
John's gaze flickered up, and a barely noticeable ripple of pain and grief flickered across his face- probably only visible to exceptionally perceptive people like Sherlock. But before Sherlock could comment on it, or try to analyze it, John had looked back down at his book. Sherlock frowned. Peculiar... But he dismissed the thoughts piling up. He was tired, it was late... So he leaned back in the familiar armchair and slept. He could work out the complexities of John's supposedly simpler mind tomorrow.
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Tomorrow was the same, and Sherlock still couldn't work it out. John made two cups of tea and drank his, leaving for work without more than a few glances at Sherlock. He didn't seem angry, or hurt, or grateful... The only thing Sherlock could deduce was an overwhelming sadness and he didn't understand. Why wasn't John reacting?
The next few days were the same. Sherlock started up a few experiments that he'd abandoned when he left. He sorted his room, noticing but not commenting on the rumpled sheets and lived in feeling of a room which should have been empty. He checked on his homeless network, caught up on the news, reacquainted himself with London...
And John ignored him. John went to work. Met up with his friends. Went to the shops. Made food. Ordered take-away. Ate. Drank. Showered. Slept. And never once spoke to Sherlock. He fell asleep on the couch more often than not. Sherlock had poked his head into John's room, and sure enough, there was no sign that someone had been sleeping there.
Sherlock didn't sleep, and John ignored him, and they remained in a strange stasis that Sherlock couldn't work out.
And the two of them would probably have remained in this strange stasis for an indefinite amount of time... But then Mrs Hudson returned from her holiday.
John was watching TV, Sherlock was reading-but-not-reading a book, and Mrs Hudson bustled in, with bags of groceries and a smile.
"Hello John!" she trilled, going straight to the kitchen and starting to put away the shopping. "How have you been? I brought you back those biscuits you like-" she wandered back into the living room, a packet of biscuits in hand... And then screamed, biscuits falling unheeded to the floor.
John leapt to his feet. "What's wrong?" he said urgently.
Mrs Hudson pointed at where Sherlock was sitting, stock-still in his seat. "Sherlock!"
John froze, a terrible heart-broken but somehow hopeful expression on his face. "What?" he whispered.
Mrs Hudson squealed, covering her mouth with her hands, practically shaking. John turned to face Sherlock, his voice trembling and broken and tiny. "You... you can see him too?"
Mrs Hudson suddenly burst into action, lunging for Sherlock and pulling him into a tight hug, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Oh Sherlock," she sobbed, then pulled back, turning to John. "Why didn't you call me?!"
John breathed in sharply. "I thought... I thought I was imagining him," he said quietly, the same broken tone in his voice. Mrs Hudson made a distressed sound, then fled the room.
Sherlock stared at John. Imagined him? And by the sound of it, not for the first time. He felt a lump in his throat, uncharacteristic tears welling up in his eyes. "I'm so sorry," he whispered.
John took a deep breath, and then his arms were around Sherlock as he cried, clutching tightly as his body shook, garbled fragments of sentences escaping him. "Fuck you... Thought you were dead... so long... I fucking grieved... had to bury you... never again..."
Sherlock tentatively put his arms around John, holding the smaller man like a lifeline, breathing in the familiar scent. "I'm so so sorry," he said again, tears falling unheeded down his cheeks.
And then John pulled back, and Sherlock braced himself for a punch. But John stared up at him, eyes red-rimmed but clear. "I regretted not doing this for three years," he whispered... and then pressed his lips to Sherlock's.
Sherlock closed his eyes, drowning in the desperate kiss, trying to say everything he could never say out loud. And although this was their first kiss, for the first time since he'd come back to Baker Street, he felt as if he was home.