Wait.
I.
It's eleven o' clock already and Holmes isn't back yet. He has left no note, sent nobody to say where he was or what he was doing and, despite or because of the fact that Watson well knows that he must be at the Punchbowl again, he can't help but worry.
He has been writing all evening to busy himself, trying to think about something else, but now he can't put two correct sentences together. He lights a cigarette, the fourth one, and goes to the open window, both to spare the room from a too strong scent and to try to catch his friend's figure in the street.
He's not there, of course.
He stays there for a long time, at least much longer than what he's certainly supposed to, before he gives up. He's cold, now, and just about needing to light a fifth cigarette.
He closes the window and goes to bed, stupidly comforted when Gladstone comes to sleep at his feet. Another hour passes at least before he falls asleep.
II.
Watson says goodbye to his last patient and sighs in relief when he closes the door. The day is finally over. He loosens his collar and opens the drawer of his desk, smiling, to take two tickets in there. They're going to the Opera tonight and God knows he needs it. He leaves them on the desk and removes his waistcoast before he goes downstairs. Holmes isn't back yet, but he should be soon.
He informs Mrs Hudson that they won't be eating here and she nods. They share a brief chat about the piece Holmes and he are going to see, which is Watson's favourite, and Mrs Hudson wishes them a nice evening.
Watson comes back to his room and chooses another jacket, for he has some time to lose and wants to look good. He hesitates for a while to wear his old uniform but finally decides against it. It's not such a big occasion and Holmes would totally do a criticak remark about it. He arranges his hair three times before the glasse, though, and feels a little ridiculous but can't help himself.
The bell rings and he looks by the window, expecting to see his friend, but it's not him. He frowns as he recognizes one of the Irregulars and hurries to join him.
"Mr. Holmes won't be able to join you tonight," the boy says, "He says you should go with another friend of yours coz he has others things to do."
It shouldn't even suprise him. Holmes had looked very busy with something else in the morning. It doesn't make it more pleasant, though.
Mrs Hudson seems uncomfortable. "Would you eat here then, doctor?"
"No. But maybe you would care to go to the Opera with me, Mrs Hudson? One of my two tickets just appears to be free to use."
"I'm not sure..."
"I insist."
So they go together and of course this is the weirdest thing ever, but it's nicer than what he thought it would be. They complain together about Holmes, his mess and his crazy habits, and though they mean every word, the irritation in their voices leaves place for a fondness they can't help. It irritates them both to be incapable to be really angry against him, so they change the subject.
Mrs Hudson talks a little about Mr Hudson and Watson listens with an interest he doesn't need to fake. He's surprised to realize how little he knows about her while she knows so much about them. She smiles when he apologizes for it: her life isn't that interesting.
The Opera is as fabulous as Watson knew it would be and, strangely, they spend a very nice evening. Mrs Hudson is smiling when they come back to Baker Street and separate after a good night, and Watson feels good too.
It's night outside and he doesn't bother to check Holmes' room to go on his own. He's not angry but he wishes he was, and at this moment he just wants to sleep.
III.
The dinner is ready, the table is set and Mary checks for the third time that nothing is missing. She looks beautiful in her blue dress and with her new necklace. He smokes in silence, trying hard not to look to the clock every minute, and she comes to seat at his side when she can't find anything else to do.
"He's a little late," she says, and that's a polite euphemism.
He nods. "He must be on his way."
Or at least Watson hopes so, because he knows Holmes isn't working on anything these days and that nothing could explain such a delay. It's a pure whim for him to not come, but certainly even he can't be so rude.
They wait in silence and of course Mary says nothing bad about it. It's another hour later before she suggests that something might have kept him somewhere.
Watson nods and they both pretend that it might be what happened, but he's furious against him, truly furious, and he thinks about all the things he would say to him if they were together at this very moment. 'You're such an asshole" is what comes the more often.
He swears to himself that the very next time Holmes does that, he will punches him in the face.
IV.
Mary is gone to visit a friend of hers and, while the relationship between her and Holmes has gotten better with the years, Watson is pleased to think that they're going to have some times together, just the two of them. He's not sure Mary did it on purpose, but he's thankful anyway and in a good mood as he goes to Baker Street. Mrs Hudson lets him in and they talk cheerfully for a little while. Holmes is absent, she says, but he should be soon back.
Watson goes upstairs and, after a desperate sight at Holmes' usual mess, lets himself sit on a chair. Mrs Hudson brings him some tea and he takes the opportunity of this unexpected free time to read a little more of a book he hasn't end yet.
The story is interesting enough, so it's not before thirty minutes later that he realizes than Holmes isn't there yet. A constable enters at the very same moment and explains to him that Mr Holmes has destroyed a few but valuable things in the afternoon and is now at the police-station. His bill needs to be paid, but Watson has no money on him and he left his checkbook to Mary, which won't be back before the day after.
It's not that bad, he thinks, maybe this way Holmes will finally learn to be a little more careful with others' stuff.
V.
Watson comes back alone from Reichenbach. Mary waits for him at the station and, as soon as she sees him, she runs to him. Her face is pale and her eyes are red. A part of him feels guilty to worry her that much, a part of him wants to tell her that he's fine, it's all fine.
But it would be a lie, it would be the biggest lie he'd ever told. So he says nothing and lets her take him in her arms.
She cries then, and maybe she does it for him, because tears need to fall and he can't do it himself. It would be easier to be able to cry. Maybe then he would feel better, maybe his heart wouldn't feel like it's to explode. But he can't, God help him, he can't, even though he's dying inside from pain and guilt.
Mary cries, cries, she holds him close and apologizes a thousand times. He keeps her against him, and for once, he doesn't give a shit about all the people around them. Because he is too exhausted to care and Mary cries for him, just as if she was another part of him, just as if they shared the very same broken heart and yes, he needs the tears. He needs to see how Holmes' death is important, he needs it to realize that it truly happened.
He doesn't come back. He won't come back.
Days go on, life goes on, and it's almost obscene how nothing changes for the others. He tries, too, to live just as he used to do before. He tries to be happy, he tries to move on. But he can't, he can't, and Mary still cries from times to times, her tears as hurtful as the first day.
VI.
He's frozen. Holmes is before him, standing a few meters away, and they both stand so still that it's like time has stopped. Holmes takes a step forward and Watson's chest is full with something so strong he suddenly can't breathe.
"Watson-"
"No."
It's unreal. It just can't be.
Because, really, why now? Why has it to happen when he has stopped waiting? Why is it when he has finally given up, that he has begun to accept the idea of Holmes' death? Why, why, why, when he has been waiting all his fucking life, is it just now, now that he didn't except any damn thing from life any more, now that he's already half-dead inside, that it finally happens?
Holmes hasn't stopped walking and Watson tries his best to inhale, but he can't. Then Holmes hands are on his cheeks and they're face to face and Holmes looks terrible, but Watson can't breathe and it can't be, or yes it can, but then the only explanation is that he has been driven mad for good. He let a crazy, weak laugh out at the thought, and Holmes' hands almost hurt him, but he barely notices, because Holmes is there, and he looks horrible, and it just can't be.
"Watson"
"No."
Holmes grows insistent, but Watson doesn't care. He just shakes his head with an apologetic smile. He can't stand that. He has been waiting for years, hoping for his friend to be behind every door, looking for him in the crowd, perfectly aware of his own insanity, and now, and now, he just doesn't know how to stand that.
"I'm sorry," Holmes says, and he lies, he lies, he lies, "I'm so sorry Watson, please-"
"You're not," he cut him off, no louder than a whisper.
"I wanted to come back-"
"You didn't."
"I did! I couldn't, Watson, I swear, I wanted but I couldn't!"
Watson can't answer a thing, for his throat is too tight now. He wants to punch him and take him in his arms both, and so he does nothing. Holmes is the one to hug him, and that's a bit weird because they didn't use to do that, he's quite sure they never hugged before, but now they're holding each other for dear life and if Mary was still alive, he's not sure if she would be crying from joy or sadness. Certainly it would be from anger, yes, it certainly would be.
"I'm sorry, Watson, John, I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry."
"Do you even know how long I've been waiting for you?" he whispers, and his voice is trembling more than what he wants it to. "Do you fucking know how bad is it to wait for someone, to wait and then to stop waiting? Can you even imagine that?"
Holmes doesn't reply, just holds him even tighter, but Watson isn't done, he can't stop now that he has begun.
"Do you fucking know how it was? You had no right to do that to me, you had no fucking right! Who the hell do you think you are? What the hell were you thinking? What the hell are you excepting from me again? Didn't I give you enough? Wasn't it bloody enough to leave me waiting like that all these years? You can't come back just like this, it can't be happening-"
"Watson-"
"Because it would mean that- it would make you such an asshole! You did it on purpose, didn't you?"
"I had no choice!"
Watson doesn't reply. He's angry, he's more angry than he's ever felt against Holmes, but he can't release their grip, not yet. Slowly he starts to realize, slowly he begins to believe it, to believe that yes, Holmes is back, it's Holmes in his arms. And he will punch him, he will yell at him, he will tell him how awful it has been, what a jerk he is, but – just a bit latter.
'I missed you so much," it's just a whisper, a shy confession and he's not sure who told it, Holmes or him.
He will be angry later, he really will, but now, now they just hold each others like they have never done before, now their hearts are beating madly in their chests and it's a relief that they both pretend not to notice. Now he can feel Holmes' fingers clenched on his back, his trembling breath close to him, and that's all he has been missing, that's all he has been needing for years, maybe for all his life.
Holmes is back home, Holmes is back to him. He is finally back.