It was a dreary day in London. Then again, everyday was a dreary day in London now. Without the bright light of Sherlock Holmes to lead his way, John was trapped in an endless streak of dark, dreary days.
The fair haired doctor looked out the window listlessly, watching as tiny drops of crystalline rain dribbled down the pane. In the two months since his best friend had... died, it had rained every day. Despite all the rain, there was still a dark stain on the sidewalk outside of Bart's. John turned away from the window as much as he turned away from the thoughts.
He was curled up in the flat, it was the first day he'd been back. Well, the first day he'd been back inside. Over the last month he'd come back to the flat in degrees.
First, he'd stood outside on the stoop for two hours trying to convince himself that he was being ridiculous and he just needed to turn the knob and go inside. He'd turned and walked away when the burn of tears filled his eyes.
The second time he tried, he didn't think about it when he stepped up to the door and turned the knob. He stepped inside to stand on the welcome mat and stare at the steps in front of him. Ms. Hudson had heard him come in and welcome him with a sympathetic smile and a pat on the shoulder. Her eyes were still rimmed red.
"Take as long as you need, dear. I'll get you a cup of tea while you wait."
John had disappeared before she got back.
After that, he came back intermittently to slowly ascend the steps toward the flat. It took him three trips, the last of which ended with him sitting on the squeaky step sobbing until Ms. Hudson got so worried that she phoned Lestrade. The detective inspector had sighed and clapped him on the shoulder. Come on now, John, time to go, he'd muttered comfortingly. John had let himself be coerced into standing up and being lead from the flat.
This last trip, the sixth one in total, had culminated in him standing outside the door at the top of the steps for ten minutes before he put his hand on the door and slowly pushed the door open. He peered inside for a moment before taking the first step inside.
There was a light layer of dust over everything, not entirely surprising after being vacant for two months. The air was stale and cold, it tasted bitter. It tasted like loss. John gulped around the lump in his throat before closing the door.
Over the next hour, he shuffled around the flat and just looked. He looked at the little reminders of Sherlock scattered all over the place- the human remains, the chemistry set, his laptop, the skull, the oh god oh god- until he was forced, due to his inability to breath, to sink into his chair.
And he stayed there, curled up in a ball in his chair. He ducked his head against the memories, against the glimpses of Sherlock, against the image of his head bleeding and his eyes glossy and-
John shut his eyes and he willed himself to sleep, because this had to be a nightmare and he needed to wake up.
One month later
"You need to tell him."
"Not yet, it's not time ye-"
"Then what are you waiting for? Until he's full-on-suicidal?" Greg Lestrade slammed his hand down on his desk as he spoke. A few papers fluttered to the ground from the impart.
Sherlock watched them, bored.
"I'm telling you, Sherlock, that's the road he's heading down. He hardly lives what you could call a life anymore. He works, he eats, and he sleeps. That's it. He hasn't a casual conversation with another human being that lasted more than ten minutes in months."
There was a pregnant silence before Lestrade cleared his throat uncomfortably. His voice was a mutter now. "His limp is back. The tremor in his hand is so bad that Molly said she heard people talking at Bart's about whether he should still be doing surgery. He's losing himself, Sherlock!"
"And what do you expect me to do? Waltz into the flat and say "Hello, mate, sorry I was gone, popped out for tea? No! It needs to be the right time." Sherlock had to force the words through gritted teeth. Really, was Lestrade so stupid? Moriarty had left insurance after his death, in case Sherlock had miraculously survived the fall. Three assassins, three guns, all trained at their heads. He'd taken care of Lestrade and Ms. Hudson, which was the only reason he was sitting in this office right now.
John's, though, was elusive. He was proving tricky to catch and Sherlock refused to risk John's life by making contact too soon.
Yes, what Lestrade was explaining to him scared him. John was a bright spot of sunlight in the dark world he lived in. Imagining such a man reduced to the state he was being describe as frightened Sherlock to his core. But he couldn't see John yet and until he could, he needed to hope that John could hold out. He knew he could. His doctor was strong.
Lestrade's quiet voice interrupted his train of thought. "You better figure this all out soon, Sherlock, or you might lose him." Sherlock swept out of the office without another word.
Two weeks later
He wanted to pull his hair out and scream. His damn leg was shaking too hard to stand on, even with the aid of his cane because now both his hands were seizing so violently that he doubted he could even keep them clenched into a fists right now.
He was getting worse and worse. In the three and a half months since Sherlock had... died- it was still so hard to even think about it without a lump growing in his throat and tears burning his eyes- he'd progressively lost the ability to walk in a straight line and hold anything with his right hand. He was starting to miss work because he was afraid to go into surgery with his hand shaking like this.
In a fit of anger, he threw his cane against the fireplace across from the couch and shouted. He was exhausted, angry, confused, hurt, lonely, and he couldn't do this anymore. He couldn't go on and continue to be okay, continue to act like his world hadn't caved in around him. He didn't want to be around other people because other people weren't him.
He wanted Sherlock back and if he couldn't have that, then it wasn't worth it. Nothing was worth it.
He threw an arm over his eyes and let out the breath he didn't know he was holding.
It was still raining outside.
Two weeks later
He received the text at the same time that he sent one. He'd sent a terse, two word text to Lestrade.
It's time. -SH
In that same moment, his phone beeped insistently that he had a text.
He lost his job at Bart's. He hasn't left the flat in two weeks. It's now, or I go over and tell him for you. -GL
Sherlock didn't bother to reply, knowing that his previous text would suffice. Shoving his phone in his pocket, the dark haired detective swept from his tiny, temporary flat and onto the street. People glanced at him as he went, but most averted their eyes if he turned his head toward him. It was amazing what a haircut and a change of clothes could do. People vaguely recognized him, but a majority of them either didn't care or convinced themselves that he was dead. Sherlock grinned. Such stupid, simple minds.
In reality, he hadn't been that far from John at all. A mere three blocks from 221B Baker Street the entire four months that he was supposedly dead. It had been hard to resist the urge to see John, just once for a few minutes, but he'd waited and he'd won. It was just a matter of waiting for a mistake.
He entered the building without ringing, but stopped to say a polite hello to Ms. Hudson before he ascended the stairs. She kissed his cheek and patted his shoulder.
"Thank goodness, I was beginning to think we were going to lose him."
Sherlock tried to grin around the ball of dread and worry pooled in his stomach. "Worry not, Ms. Hudson, it's over now."
She just smiled softly and nodded before shuffling back into her living room. Sherlock promptly walked up the stairs, careful to avoid the one that would give him away. It was silent above him. Strange for John because he'd always had an aversion to silence. When asked about it once, he said that during the war there was constantly noise, so silence made him uneasy. It made him feel like something was coming.
The worry and dread intensified in Sherlock's stomach and he took the steps more quickly. He didn't pause, didn't hesitate, when the door was right in front of him. He put a hand immediately on the handle and it was halfway turned to open when a voice startled him.
"Go away, Lestrade." John's voice filtered toward him, muffled by the door. It was unmistakably tired, worn, frayed around the edges like fabric that had been stretched too thin, too tightly. It made Sherlock's heart squeeze painfully tight. He withdrew his hand from the door slowly. He stared at the faded paint and thought of the man on the other side of the door. The man that was tired, the man that was suffering, the man that need him.
He knocked before he could convince himself not to. It was quiet on the other side of the wood before Sherlock picked up the faint sound of grunting and cursing, then the tell-tale shuffle of socked feet on the floor. Sherlock felt a grin play on his lips.
"What do you want, Lestra-"
The name died on his lips because when John wretched the door open, he wasn't looking at the salt and pepper hair cut of Greg Lestrade. He was looking at the tall, dark haired man that had died four months ago and plunged his world into darkness.
He was standing on the floor mate; he was real, solid, whole, alive, here! Feelings crashed down around John so fast that he forgot how to breathe and didn't realize what was happening until a strong arm wrapped around his torso and held him.
"John? John! Breathe, breathe! Is it your leg, do you need to lie down, do you-"
Slap.
The sound of flesh hitting flesh resounded through the apartment and effectively cut off Sherlock's sentence. He consulting detective blinked owlishly at the smaller man in his arms for a moment before a grin split his lips.
John glared and attempted to wiggle his way out of Sherlock's arms. The detective, as soon as he was sure Watson was steady on his feet, let him go.
"Don't grin like that. Don't grin like this is okay. Don't grin like you can just walk back in here like nothing happened," John warned in a low voice. His whole body was shaking now. He was overwhelmed by the warring emotions of relief, joy, happiness, love and anger, shock, fury. It was making him shake and he could feel tears in his eyes. He scrubbed them away in annoyance and half turned from Sherlock.
It broke the man's heart to see John so upset, but he knew that if he approached John right now, he risked being struck again. He stayed where he was.
"You, you just disappear from my life. You turn into this blank, fucking grave stone. And the entire time, the entire bloody time, you were here. And you never bothered to… to…" The sentence trailed away into tears that dripped down John's cheeks. Sherlock stepped toward John slowly. When the doctor didn't flinch or move away, he continued until he was wrapping his long, lean arms around John.
Immediately, John's arms were vice grips around Sherlock's waist. He buried his head in the detective's chest and clung to him, desperately. Sherlock rested his chin on John's head and held him.
"You were gone and I was so lost without you." John's voice was muffled and mumbled from below his chin. Sherlock squeezed him gently, reassuringly. John soaked up the feeling of his body, the feeling of flesh and blood and life. He needed this token, the sign to show him that his Sherlock was here. Sherlock allowed him this moment before he spoke in a soft voice.
"It wasn't safe yet. I got here as quickly as I could." John nodded against his chest and let out a shuddering breath that vibrated through both of them.
And in that moment, it didn't matter that his hands shook, it didn't matter that he was up for review at Bart's, it didn't matter that his leg was aching. All that mattered was that his consulting detective was here.
"Welcome home."