John Watson stepped out of the cab and looked up at the window of 221 B Baker Street. He hadn't been here for weeks, not because he was busy being a father, but because oddly enough, Sherlock hadn't so much as sent him a text. No phone calls, no e-mails, no visits, absolutely zero communication. He'd like to think that there was a dearth of cases, but when Mycroft texted him to check on his younger brother for the same odd behavior, John was immediately on the next cab to the flat.
John entered the apartment and was instantly greeted by Mrs. Hudson's smiling face.
"John, always happy to see you." Mrs. Hudson gave him a tight hug. "How's Mary?"
"Oh, she's doing fine. Splendid. She's uh…"
"You two haven't been sleeping well have you?"
"Not a wink," John sighed and gave Mrs. Hudson a resigned smile. "The little one's pretty much ruled over every aspect of our lives now. Thankfully we've had a lot of practice with Sherlock. Which begs the question, what exactly has he been up to?"
"He's doing one case or another, or so he says." Mrs. Hudson shook her head. "Strange though because he's rarely out these days. I haven't seen him as often either."
John felt a trickle of cold run down his back. "And when…did this start happening?"
"Shortly after little Alice was born."
John swallowed hard as his mind went back to the last time he saw Sherlock, which was when Mary gave birth to their daughter, Alice, at St. Bart's. Sherlock had been as still as a statue when he leaned over to stare at the baby, and John imagined he was probably trying to deduce any pertinent information about the newborn.
But what if there was more to it than that? What if Sherlock had seen the baby as the final proof of their parting ways? Of John moving on with his life while Sherlock remained in the two bedroom apartment, miserable and alone? What if what he saw in the baby was everything he couldn't have?
Worse, what if he was falling into depression and spiraling into one of his dark phases?
Strange noises broke John from his reverie, his head snapping to the direction of the stairs. "What the bloody hell was that?"
"Sherlock. Laughing," Mrs. Hudson said nonchalantly. "He's been doing that a lot lately."
John was stunned into silence, "Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock does not laugh. At least not like that. Unless…" His eyes widened, and after a moment, so did Mrs. Hudson's.
"Mrs. Hudson, stay by phone. We may need to call an ambulance in case he's OD'd." John bolted up the stairs, ran past the living room and to the corridor leading up to the bedrooms. He grabbed the door knob to Sherlock's room and swung it open.
"Sherl–"
John felt as though the floor opened up beneath him and swallowed him whole. He had imagined a vast array of scenarios, of Sherlock in the throes of a drugged euphoria, but never this.
Never the sight of a buck naked Sherlock Holmes, with a woman's shapely legs wrapped tightly around his waist as he rammed into her.
"Oh, good God, Sherlock!" John put a hand in front of his face but it was too late. All he could do now was keep himself from throwing up a good breakfast.
"John!" Sherlock yelled, fumbling for the sheet. "Has anyone ever taught you to knock first?!"
"I'm sorry, I thought you were–"
"Hello, Dr. Watson."
John froze. He'd recognize that voice anywhere.
Even if it had been five years.
He turned and sure enough, saw The Woman, Ms. Irene Adler, breathless and sweaty beneath Sherlock Holmes. " It's been ages hasn't it?"
It took a long while before John found his voice again.
"Doesn't anybody ever stay bloody dead anymore?!"
—end? —-