For the first time, maybe in his entire life, Sherlock Holmes was truly and sincerely apologetic. It was unfamiliar for him, as he usually felt that nothing he did was really worth apologizing for, since he'd probably made the grating humdrum a little more bearable, at least for a few seconds. Not that normal people with their tiny, funny, little brains would truly be able to tell the difference, of course.
Except for John.
And that brings us back to Sherlock, and his sudden, shall we say fit, of apologetic feelings. The very reason Sherlock was trudging through the streets of London on a cold, January night was John Watson, and Sherlock's own need to say sorry.
Coat collar turned up against the wind and damp, per usual, Sherlock rounded the corner onto the street his army doctor apparently lived on now, according to the address Mycroft had given him. It felt so wrong not to be heading back to Baker Street, and John living anywhere else left Sherlock with an empty feeling in his stomach. Had John left their home so easily, without a backward glance? But of course, Sherlock thought, sentiment is useless. Still, it's unlike John to think such things are unimportant, entirely unlike him. Strangely, though, Sherlock found himself clinging to sentiment. He had missed John over the three years he'd been gone, another unfamiliar feeling, and Sherlock hoped that John had missed him too. He had a difficult time admitting to himself that he had...certain feelings for John Watson. Of what nature Sherlock wasn't quite sure. He had been planning on spending a quiet evening in Baker Street with John, and asking him all these questions about feelings, which baffled Sherlock, but he imagined that it would be just John's cup of tea.
And Mycroft had mentioned something about John's life, as if it had been proceeding in an eventful manner without Sherlock's presence. What had John been doing all this time to occupy himself and satisfy his adrenaline addiction? Certainly he'd not found himself another consulting detective? That was ridiculous, Sherlock knew he was the only human being on Earth to hold that title. He was one of a kind; the only one in the world.
Paying closer attention to the numbers on the buildings, Sherlock found the correct number and rung the doorbell. From inside he heard footsteps which were obviously not John's. They were lighter, more graceful, and the time between footfalls was shorter. Of course! Sherlock thought, John's gotten himself a girlfriend. They must be quite serious if they've moved in together, I recall that's a sign of being close to marriage. A wave of horror swept over him. His John. Marriage. Close to. Girlfriend. Oh, God.