I don't own Sherlock.
please R and R
(three years after the fall)
The two hundred block of Baker Street gleamed with reflected traffic signals, puddles in the gutters and beaded droplets on the windshields of the parked cars were the only testament to the passing summer storm. It was late but the moon had yet to rise and the only illumination came from a fading florescent street light, a flickering, mournful green.
Only one window in the whole bank of neat, upper class row homes showed any sign of life. Far away in the darkness beyond the reach of the lamp, the yellow rectangle was interrupted by a mournful silhouette, thin arms leaned on the window in thought, peering, thinking, studying the stars, and waiting for John Watson to return home.
The nocturnal peace was disturbed for a long time by nothing but a cackling bird. The fresh smell of night and summer and ozone clung in the cool air, the figure at the window did not move.
When the silence was finally broken it was not in violence. Like an actor who silently parts the curtain, looks into the spotlight and begins the play, a man appears from the shadows.
First came his footsteps crunching in bits of gravel on the sidewalk, then a steadying hand landing on the hood of a stranger's car, then labored breathing. He staggers into the circle of effulgent green.
He half fell against the cement base of the streetlight, sucking in breath through his nostrils, cradling his left arm, and pushing his right hand under his jacket. He leaned his head back against the metal pole, breathing evenly and deliberately and quite obviously in pain. His hair had been bleached at some point and was now showing two inches of chestnut roots, his skin looked gaunt under the sickly spread of florescence and he was a bit more underweight than usual. A black bruise was rising above his left cheekbone; the blow responsible for it had popped a blood vessel in his eye, staining the cornea a violent red.
He breathed and took stock of his injuries.
His wrist was broken, not too badly, radial fracture, made his left hand useless, John could set it, but alone he couldn't seem to manage that level of dexterity through the blinding pain.
A bloom of warm, sticky, red flowing from his side where a three inch pocket knife had jutted out and stuck between his ribs. The gash was not deep enough to penetrate his intercostals, but it HURT, causing the left side of his body to spasm with pain every time he breathed.
One hundred more feet, he thought, looking up at the window of 221b. A shaded figure leaned in vague silhouette, behind the window. About five foot six, but too stiff and too thin. John?
He needed more data; Sherlock grunted as he stood again and began that final journey back to his old front door.
Sherlock patiently rehearsed his practiced greeting, hi, John, believe it or not, I'm alive, and I'm sorry for faking my own death but I really had no choice in the matter. He would offer his most convincing smile and in return John Watson would offer emergency medical care, he would set his arm, make tea and be delighted at his friend's return to full health.
That was how people worked right? It seemed a logical emotional reaction. Sherlock blinked furiously in a vain attempt to conjure up tears.
The figure had disappeared by the time Sherlock pulled his trembling body up to the old familiar door. The row of softly glowing buttons for apartments A through D clicked softly as he squinted to read in the darkness.
WATSON said a brand new tag beside apartment B in bright, militant capitols, handwriting unmistakable as sighed and leaned on the door. He had left his old keying with his coat and his cell phone on a cadaver in Saint Bart's. He fumbled in his coat pocket for a bobby pin and a paperclip which he bent straight in his teeth. Leaning against the door he carefully inserted his makeshift lock pick set and listening, concentrating, tried to force the lock. But his one operational hand was clumsy and slick with blood and he cursed under his breath the third time he dropped the bobby pin.
Which was exactly when the door opened.
Sherlock fell forward with a grunt of pain, palms flat on the familiar hall rug. He heard the unmistakable sound of a gun cocking behind his head.
"Who the Fuck are you?"