Author's Note:
I hope you enjoy and please review!
Sherlock Holmes slowly approached the black, varnished door of 221B Baker Street. It had been three and a half years since he saw that door and it almost hadn't changed a bit. The golden lettering still shined beneath the dust. The door still looked newly painted, sleek, just like it always had been. The London air and the chugging car engines brought so many memories flooding back into his brain. He was transported back to a time when he was with John, chasing down murderers and calling cabs left, right and centre. That was before the complications crept in, before Moriarty's lies. Before the fall. Sherlock didn't know whether John was still at 221B, he could only pray he wasn't too far. He wasn't even sure where Mrs Hudson was. He took a few steps back from the door. He looked up at his flat, the curtains were open. He looked back down at the door. He doubted that anyone was living at 221B Baker Street anymore. He took a deep breath. He had to go back to 221B, however scared he was.
He was terrified. His hands were shaking and his breath was short and shallow. He didn't want to go inside. He didn't want to face the inevitable. What if John wasn't in there? He'd be lost. Stuck. He wouldn't know what to do or where to go. He wouldn't know whether he was still in London or in Edinburgh, or ever further still. He didn't want to face the truth. He didn't want to go to Lestrade either, or Anderson or Donovan, he was scared of their reaction. He hated to admit he was scared of Anderson and Donovan. Would they run or just not believe him? He couldn't imagine anyone believing him. He was dead. Sherlock Holmes was dead. Sherlock Holmes had been dead for 3 and a half years. He didn't quite know what his plan was. He didn't want to think about the future. He was more scared of it than anything. If the worst did happen, he knew he'd never be Sherlock Holmes again.
He had to do this though.
Everyone had been waiting too long.
He reached upwards and knocked firmly on the door. Nothing happened. He knocked again. Nothing. Suddenly, the fear of John not being at 221B anymore was becoming more and more daunting. He wondered if it was open. He reached for the doorknob, trying to control his shaking hands with no success. He finally gripped it and was suddenly aware of his sweating palms slipping on the metal. He took as long and deep a breath as he could manage to try and calm his nerves before twisting the doorknob and pushing. Nothing happened. He paused for a second, doubting his strength. He took a step back from the door. He deduced that his nerves were the reason he was not strong enough to push the door open. He cleared his throat and took a final deep breath before twisting the doorknob and pushing once more. Again, nothing happened. He pushed harder, digging his feet into the ground. Still nothing. Then, Sherlock came to a conclusion which he feared. It was locked.
There was only one option. He was going to kick the door down. He hated the idea, drawing attention to himself was not something he wanted to do right now. However, he couldn't walk away now. He'd got this far. He took a few steps back leant back slightly. He looked around for any interested passers-by, luckily there were none, before thrusting his foot into the door. The door swung inwards, crashing into the wall next to it. Sherlock stumbled forwards but quickly regained his composure. The door was still mostly intact, it was still on its hinges, there was just a scratch on the door. A familiar smell wafted out and consumed him. It smelt exactly the same. It smelt like Mrs Hudson's floral air freshener. Although the smell was layered with the smell of dust which wafted out afterwards. He was beginning to become sure that nobody was living here anymore. He stepped in and pushed the door behind him, the lock had broken so it didn't shut completely. He looked around. Nothing had changed except for the severe lack of noise which made Sherlock tense. He looked around for a sign of anyone, anything. There was nothing to say where John was. He began to head up the stairs, caressing the dark brown banisters as he ascended. It still felt smooth and unscathed. He soon reached his flat.
The first thing he noticed was the ugly light seeping in through the windows. He hardly ever had natural light in this room. The pale light made him feel slightly disorientated. It was a strange experience. He looked around his flat. The chairs were rearranged, the place was tidier, his papers had been cleared from the draws and desks. Every sign of Sherlock Holmes had been wiped out. He really was a dead man. He saw that the skulls and his slippers and his dressing gown and his patches and his shirts and his laptop had all been taken away. Even the smiley face on the wall had been painted over and the gun holes filled in. He was unsure whether this was the work of John or Mrs Hudson but he was sure it was one of them. If they'd left (which seemed very likely), they'd want to be able to sell the place. Sherlock was surprised it hadn't already been sold. Maybe they hadn't been selling it in the first place. That seemed more logical.
"John?" he called out helplessly, his voice wavering like a candle. The thing he feared the most was now becoming very, very real. "John?" By this time he knew it was pointless. John had gone, he knew not where.
He sat down on the chair, perched on the edge as if ready to spring up if necessary. He felt his throat tighten and ache. He didn't know what to do anymore. He felt hot tears sting his eyes. He felt a single tear roll from his eyes and down his cheek. He quickly wiped it away, refusing to acknowledge he was upset, and swallowed his sobs back down. He buried his head in his hands and noticed his face was wetter than he thought. He kept saying to himself that the pain he was going through now was nothing like that which John had gone through. He had to find him. Even if he had to see Lestrade or Mycroft or Anderson or Donovan first. He'd been waiting three and a half years for him. That was long enough.
Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a small slip of white paper of the mantlepiece. He stood up and walked over to it. He picked it up and rather uncomfortable flipped it over and over in his hands. It was folded in half. He slowly opened it.
He recognised that handwriting. His heart raced as he realised who owned it. John. He began to read it.
'Sherlock,
Hi. If you ever come back here, this is for you. I had to leave 221B Baker Street, I went through a lot of stress after your fall so I couldn't stay here. I've moved to Greenwich. By the way, everyone believes I am writing to a dead man but, honestly, I have never given up hope that you will return. Okay, bye. I suppose.'
Sherlock had to reread the note several times before he'd soaked soaked it in. A smiled peeped through his pale, tired face. He could find him. Sherlock could find John.
It was the greatest feeling in the world.