His Return
The sun flits through the window, casting murky patterns along the bed, where John resides, tucked comfortably beneath the blankets, his nose buried into the pillow. John stretched, rolling onto his back and blearily opening his eyes to stare at the ceiling. Another quiet day at 221B Baker Street. John breathed a soft yawn, and sat up, his eyes looking around the room. Still the same; nothing had been moved or changed; It is Sherlock's room- well, was. John sighed at that thought, and moved to sit at the edge of the bed, rubbing his shoulder, before he reached for his cane. The limp had returned. Almost immediately, in fact, after Sherlock's death. John had continued to work at the hospital, but he found it increasingly hard to concentrate, and had eventually left the job. John stood, bracing himself against the cane, before pulling on his bathrobe, and moving from the room into the kitchen, passing the sitting room on his way.
John set the filled kettle on the stove, and moved to make some toast, when a sound reached his ears. Shuffling. John hesitantly moved towards the sitting room, peeking around the edge of the couch. John held a teacup in his hand, which instantly dropped to the floor and shattered the moment his eyes met a blue scarf and a mop of dark hair. The figure on his sofa hadn't flinched at the sound, and John stared. Sherlock Holmes was asleep on his couch. His eyes closed, curled up on his side, still in his coat and scarf, Sherlock was home. Sherlock was alive. John was suddenly overwhelmed with anger and frustration, as well as awe, and hurt, betrayal even. Jumping as the kettle began to whistle, John moved away from the sleeping man on his couch to pull the kettle off the heat and pour a new tea cup. Pausing, John made a second cup, making it the way Sherlock always used to have it, feeling proud of himself for remembering. Three years, had Sherlock been 'dead'. Three years had John stayed alone in the flat, with only Mrs. Hudson to check up on him and make sure he was eating. John cleaned up the broken cup, and set Sherlock's cup near him on the side table, while he settled into the chair beside the couch, his cane beside him. John watched Sherlock over his cup as he sipped it, willing his hands to stop shaking. He couldn't decide whether he wanted to hit Sherlock, or yell or maybe even hug him, and just cry. No. He wouldn't cry. He hadn't cried since the funeral. Which apparently was faked? Oh, he would certainly give Sherlock a piece of his mind on that one. John finished his tea, all the while having an internal battle with how he's supposed to face Sherlock when he wakes. Slowly, John got up, and took care of his tea cup, and put Sherlock's on the warmer, to keep it warm, before going to his own room to get dressed. John left Sherlock a note about his tea being on the kitchen staying warm, before he grabbed his coat and left the flat. He simply couldn't stay around while Sherlock slept, not while he was still fighting with himself. How would he explain to Sherlock why he quit, and why he was sleeping in Sherlock's room, and sometimes wearing his shirts, or one of Sherlock's scarves was around his neck at this moment. He couldn't tell him the truth, oh no. Sherlock doesn't do emotions, or sentiment.
John found himself taking a long walk in the park, before returning to the flat, pausing in front of the door, before pushing it open slowly, finding Sherlock not on the couch. John's heart rate instantly skyrocketed, and his mind raced. John hung up his coat, trying to keep his hands steady as he turned, to find Sherlock standing in the doorway of the kitchen, his teacup in his hand, and his jacket folded with his scarf over the couch. John's eyes met Sherlock's and there they remained for several long moments.
"John." Sherlock stated, his smooth baritone ringing in John's ears.
John crossed the room in just three strides, suddenly overcome with anger, his eyes burning into Sherlock's just before his balled up fist connected with Sherlock's nose, sending Sherlock stumbling back, his hand covering his face. John panted softly, his face flushed with anger.
"You stupid, impossible git!" John shouted, his voice trembling, "Three years, Sherlock! Do you know how it effected me?! I watched you fall! I- I checked your pulse, saw the light fade in your eyes! I-" John began choking up, "I fell apart! I thought you died! I left my job, I couldn't concentrate, I couldn't live normally anymore!" John spat, glaring at the floor and ignoring the eyes that were on him, and the stinging in his knuckles.
John was so busy trying to calm himself, he hadn't noticed the footsteps coming closer, until arms slipped around him awkwardly and held him close.
"I'm sorry, John." Sherlock breathed, his tone quiet and sincere.
John stiffened, before leaning into Sherlock, his forehead dropping onto Sherlock's shoulder, closing his eyes and shuddering as he fought to stop the tears that had begun to fall onto Sherlock's shoulder. He didn't sob, but the tears still dripped from his eyes and onto his shoulder. Not out of sadness, but out of happiness, happy that Sherlock was back. John suddenly pulled back, keeping his face tipped down.
"How?" John asked.
"It wasn't me on the ground. Molly helped. I jumped into a clothes bin when the bus passed. John, I had to. I had to have you believe I was dead. Moriarty had snipers trained on you. They had to see me dead, before they would let up. I couldn't risk you being shot." Sherlock said, his hands dropping to his sides.
"Three years." John stated, still looking at the floor.
"I had to take out Moriarty's entire underground criminal base to ensure your safety." Sherlock said simply.
"I cried. I didn't even cry when I lost friends in Afghanistan." John said, still refusing to meet Sherlock's eyes.
"You have affections." Sherlock said.
At this, John looked up, his eyes meeting Sherlock's face instantly. John's brows furrowed, and his face flushed, having Sherlock so close, their faces just barely inches apart.
"How did you know?" John asked, his voice quiet, as his eyes studied Sherlock's.
"I've known since that night at the restaurant. All the signs of attraction; Pulse quickening, pupils dilate, breath picks up." Sherlock said softly, one hand slipping to John's wrist, pressing on his pulse as he spoke.
John's heart rate had sped up, and his breath picked up considerably at the touch alone.
"You don't feel Sherlock." John stated shakily.
"Wrong. I didn't feel." Sherlock corrected. "Not until you." Sherlock stated softly.
"When?" John asked.
"That day at the pool. You held onto Moriarty with bombs strapped to you, so I could get away." Sherlock responded. "I never thought I could- feel, John. It scares me." Sherlock admitted, his eyes searching John's, while his hand held gently to John's wrist.
John simply could not take the small words and twenty questions game they seemed to be playing and he closed the gap, sealing their lips. Sherlock stiffened briefly, before he pressed back, albeit awkwardly, his free hand holding to John's hip, before they split. Sherlock's forehead pressed to John's and he kept his eyes closed.
"I missed you." John breathed.
"And I you." Sherlock responded, after a moment.
"John. I've never felt like this before. I feel sick to my stomach, and excited at the same time. I feel happy and angry with myself all at once. How- How do you cope with this?" Sherlock asked hesitantly.
"You cope with someone else." John responded softly, smiling slightly.
"John." Sherlock said.
"Yes, Sherlock?" John asked.
"I'm sorry." He said once more.
"I'd say it's okay, but I can't. You infuriating, and impossible, and a git, and it's not okay, but it will be, eventually. You just can't leave like that again. You have to promise you won't pull a stunt like that again." John said, his voice firm.
"I promise, John. I'll always tell you." Sherlock promised, and John broke into a wide smile.
John couldn't help but pull him down again and reconnect their lips firmly before pulling away. He knew Sherlock hadn't been in a relationship before, he knew how Sherlock felt about kissing and hugging and sentiment, and so John would be patient. He work with Sherlock, show him that it's not useless, show him what it was like to truly feel. John smiled again, and moved to wrap his arms tightly around Sherlock's shoulder in a tight hug. John would never let go again.