It had been exactly seven years, five months, and twenty two days since John last saw Sherlock Holmes.
It had been six years, eleven months, and thirteen days since their last phone call. Five years, three months, and six days since their last letter. Four years, eight months, and eighteen days since John started having trouble recalling Sherlock's voice.
And it had been one year, one month, and three days since John last thought of him.
But John wasn't counting.
•
It had been exactly seven years, five months, and twenty two days since Sherlock last saw John Watson.
It had been six years, eleven months, and thirteen days since their last phone call. Five years, three months, and six days since their last letter. Three years, nine months, and two days since Sherlock realized John had probably forgotten what his voice sounded like by now.
And it had been three days, two hours, and twenty four seconds since Sherlock last thought of him.
But Sherlock wasn't counting, either.
•
On the subject of waiting, and time passing – which time was always doing, that nasty little bugger – it had been a full year since John moved back to London, today on this particular date. He thought, quite logically, that the best way to spend the day might be to finally seek out that flatshare he'd been pondering. His chances of actually getting a flatmate were slim (seriously, who'd want to live with a limping ex-soldier who can't land a decent job and may or may not have PTSD? Christ…), made even slimmer by his decidedly sour disposition and low temper. Still. Everything's worth a shot, isn't it?
"Until that shot ends up in your shoulder," he muttered, and limped out the door and down the stairs.
•
Sherlock liked to think that he was entirely clean, but there were certain things that he did that probably still counted as drugs. The cigarettes and nicotine patches, obviously. But also the coffee, the DayQuil, the occasional drink (Sherlock wasn't really a fan of that last one, given how much worse it made you feel only hours after the pleasant buzz faded) – all were drugs in one way or another. Even after rehab, Sherlock was ever the addict.
He dealt with this by becoming addicted to other things. Anyone around him could see this. He threw himself into crime solving with enthusiasm verging on obsession; he created experiments even when there was nothing to experiment on. He would repeat the same experiments year after year, sometimes, changing tiny variables each time even though he knew he would reach the same conclusion.
This is what he decided to do today.
Mrs. Hudson was glad for it. Even though he only moved into her flat a week ago, she had picked up on a few key things about his personality. One of them was his addiction to addictions. She understood that he needed certain things to distract him from his overactive brain, and as long as he chose the harmless ones, like pointless experiments, she was happy.
So with a few words exchanged, he made his way out the door and over to St. Bart's, where he knew Molly had some labs and fresh cadavers awaiting him. By the time he reached the hospital, some of his numbers had changed. It had now been exactly twelve minutes and thirty eight seconds since he last thought of John Watson. And, although he didn't know it, and didn't at all suspect it, it would be forty six minutes, and fifty seconds, until he saw John Watson again.
•
John didn't know how long it had been since he last saw Mike Stamford (five years, seven months, nine days) but he knew that it had been a while, long enough for the walk over to St. Bart's from the park in which they'd met to be chock full of awkward silences. He was so preoccupied with thinking up rubbish to say to this old acquaintance that he completely forgot to ask what the name of this "old mate of mine who's looking for a flatshare" was. It was a bit of an oversight on his part, which led to John walking through the open lab door and seeing a man he didn't recognize (tall, slim, angular, white with black hair, attractive) bent over a lab table, wondering why this stranger seemed so familiar, like grasping at straws without really realizing he was grasping in the first place. The man's face was down. He was holding a pipette.
"Is that you, Molly?" he asked. And John knew the voice.
Not entirely, however. He didn't recognize it. He was sure he'd never heard this particular voice before. But it reminded him, perhaps, of another voice he'd heard once. He wasn't sure.
"Nah, just me," Mike answered. "I brought someone here to see you, though."
"I'm busy."
"Well, I can see that. But this bloke wants to talk to you."
The man sighed. He put down his pipette. His eyes started at John's shoes and slowly swept up his body, eventually making their way to his face. When they did, they stopped there, and John's eyes stopped too, and maybe his heart, just a little bit, because he was staring at a face he had not seen for exactly seven years, five months, and twenty-two days.
The silence was words enough, until Mike coughed and Sherlock blinked and everyone thought that something really ought to be said at some point.
"Sh…" John seemed unwilling to finish the name, in case he was wrong, in case this wasn't Sherlock, just a man who looked very much like him, but he steeled himself and finished: "Sherlock?"
"John." The response came almost immediately. Sherlock's eyes were wide, disbelieving. John knew his face probably looked similar.
They stared for what seemed like an eternity. John's thought process was rocketing through several different areas of shock, including my-god-I'd-forgotten-about-him, how-could-I-have-forgotten-about-him?, I-can't-believe-I've-run-into-him-again, oh-god-he-looks-so-different, I-can't-believe-this-is-the-same-Sherlock-I-knew, and several others. Sherlock's mind was also racing, but only down one particular path: the one prominently labelled I-can't-believe-I'm-really-seeing-him-again.
The space in between them became a thing just then: solid, fluid, gas, whichever, but tangible and real. It smelled of age and freshly opened wine. Both of them felt it, and stared through it at one another, and finally felt the sevenyears/fivemonths/twentytwodays as they really were: just waiting, for this, for now, for this meeting that neither had thought would ever really happen. But it had. And here they were.
The seconds creaked on with an awkward ache. There was so much to think and comprehend here, as they stared and breathed the same room of air. Finally, finally, John cracked into a grin. It was like breaking down a wall, cracking ice, cutting tightly bound cord. Sherlock could hardly contain himself.
"Oh my god," John laughed, stepping over to properly look the man in the eyes.
"Indeed," Sherlock said, as he returned the eye contact awkwardly and didn't move besides, except to widen his smile. "It really is you, John Watson."
"I haven't seen you in… god, it must be seven years?" John was beaming at him, amazed, yet still shrouded in awkwardness. It had been a long time. They had both had long, complicated lives without each other. They'd hardly been past boyhood when they last parted. Now each could see the other's weariness scrawled across his skin.
"Seven years," Sherlock repeated. "I… didn't expect I would ever see you again."
From the corner of the room, Stamford coughed. "I take it you two know each other?"
"Yes," Sherlock answered, while John laughed: "Know each other? We were best mates at University. Absolutely inseparable."
"Quite," Sherlock agreed. "We definitely were."
Stamford knew that there was far more to it than that, for how else could he have explained the tangible thing between them that even now still lingered in the air?
He didn't ask about it. It wasn't his business to inquire into other people's pasts. What's theirs is theirs. He decided to make his leave.
"Well, I've got a seminar to teach," he said, wandering towards the door. "And I guess I don't have to give an introductions, do I?"
"See you round," John said awkwardly, because what else can he say? Thank you for bringing me to someone I didn't even realize I missed? Please don't leave me alone with him now because I don't know what to do now?
The door closed, and Sherlock Holmes found himself alone with John Watson, who, in turn, found himself alone with Sherlock Holmes.
There was another longish pause, during which they sort of half laughed; remembering how comfortable they used to be with one another, but still recognizing that they no longer knew each other at all.
"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock asked suddenly.
John looked up, shocked at the question. "Er. What?"
"Which one was it?" Sherlock shuffled his feet discreetly, clearing his throat. "You were going into one of them. Where did you end up being deployed?"
"Oh – Afghanistan." John was nearly relieved at the question. It gave them something to talk about. "It was Afghanistan."
"How was it?"
"It was… well, rubbish, quite frankly," John answered, and Sherlock chuckled hesitantly. John could tell the man's not quite used to this sort of talk. Honestly, John wasn't, either.
"And your service ended?"
"Prematurely," John said. Quickly adding, "Invalided home."
Another silence. "Ah." Silence again.
It's too late to keep it in anymore. John had to state the obvious. "You look…" He glanced up and down Sherlock's body, who watched him with interest. John laughed, finally. "...different," he finished.
To his relief, and to Sherlock's, Sherlock smiled. "Yes," he said. He had expected far worse adjectives. And in any case, "different" was an apt word to use.
"No, I mean–" John laughed again, this time harder. "I mean, you look great. Really, really great."
Sherlock felt a jolt in the pit of his stomach. "I do?"
"Yes, of course you bloody do. You look very handsome."
Despite himself, Sherlock couldn't contain his nervous smile. "But also different," he said.
"Yes. Also that." John stood back, shaking his head and grinning. "I mean, I knew you would look like this by now, but I guess I couldn't really conjure a picture of it in my mind. You look… you look like…"
"You can say it, John."
"Oh, god, alright." John shook his head again, as if he couldn't believe he was saying this, which he almost couldn't. "You look like a… a man."
"Thank you." Sherlock was far more pleased than he thought he'd be at hearing this. Who knew he'd been waiting to hear this sort of validation? It almost peeved him, the thought that hearing John Watson (seven year absent John Watson, friend of the past, never to be seen again John Watson) confirm something that was obvious, something that he already knew because anyone could see it, would make him feel so content.
John smiled a sheepish smile and quickly looked away. "You're welcome," he said. "Mate."
Sherlock scoffed, and another silence followed. Sherlock didn't expect this to be this awkward (although technically he never expected this reunion to actually happen) although he supposed it made sense. Once, they had been so close they could tell what the other was thinking without hearing them speak. Now they had lived seven years without each other and each had each resigned himself to never seeing the other again, yet here they were in a room together.
It's a sad case, John reflected momentarily, when two mates who think they'll never be parted are then parted, and by the time they get back together again they're not the same men they once were.
Finally, Sherlock spoke.
"So…" he said slowly. "You're here to share a flat with me."
"How did you–" John stopped and his face cracked into a huge grin. "Still the super genius, I see."
"Of course," Sherlock scoffed indignantly. "What, did you think I'd suddenly become unintelligent without your constant presence?"
"No, I'm just pleasantly surprised," John said. "Anyway. Yes, I did come for a flatshare - however the hell you knew that. So… what did you have in mind?"
Sherlock smiled a small smile, like the hesitant beginnings of a larger one. "I've got my eye on a lovely little spot on Baker Street. I did the landlady a favor some years back, so she gave me a deal on the place. Would you like to come look at it with me?"
"Well…" John turned his cane around in his hand, feeling the sweat of his palm on the handle. "I was about to go do the shopping when I ran into Mike. Can I meet you there instead?"
"Of course." Sherlock put on his coat and started making his long strides towards the door. He could feel John's eyes watching him, glancing at his body; so vastly different from when John had seen him last, and yet still the same body. The very same John had known all those years ago.
Sherlock walked out the door in his haste, paused, and came back through the doorframe. "The address is 221B Baker Street," he said, and winked. Then, he left. John was alone.
•
It would be one hour, twelve minutes, and thirty seven seconds before they saw one another again; John arriving to meet Sherlock in the front of this new flat, after doing the shopping and various other things that had to get done. Neither took his mind off the other for even one of those seconds. Neither of them could have if he wanted to. And neither wanted to.