Prologue
The morning of the particular morning these words hope to describe began as any other. That is to say, the sun rose to warm the chilly concrete. People began rolling away from their spouses and empty sheets upon the command of a chirping alarm. Flowers craned towards the sky, shop doors opened, and the streets slowly bustled to life just as the everyday rushing would insist they do. To reiterate, the morning was unquestionably normal and average. If there was a tightness of air, a subtle fluttering in the stomach, maybe even the whisper of hair standing up on the back of one's neck, it was entirely unnoticed. The typical premonition of the eventually extraordinary was unsung and wistlessly ignored.
As a tribute to the boringly normal morning, Sherlock Holmes stood himself by the countertop in the kitchen doing things that anyone else would, without a second thought, consider wholy abnormal. Tweezers grazed the bony and decaying features of a decapitated skull. Under the ragged flesh of the throat and neck, Sherlock had mindfully placed a large, decorative plate. Despite his attempt at containing the mess of experimentation, one could very seriously introduce a bomb to the flat and change little to nothing. Papers strewn over tables and carpet, blankets draped haphazardly over the chairs in the front room. Nothing that had a place currently resided within that area. Sherlock paid no mind, as he hadn't spend much time within the flat as of late. As always, a case piqued his interest and dragged him away for quite some time. He'd been solving more online cases over the phone as well, and seldom sought out an in-person visit.
When Sherlock was finally satisfied with his inexplicable experiment, the faucet in the sink was flipped on and the man ran his tools underneath the chilly water for a moment or two. After being rinsed, he dropped them into the dish drainer and wiped his hands dry on a towel hanging off the oven's handle. Just as he'd intended, it was twenty-three minutes to ten, just perfect to get himself dressed out of pajamas and get to the station as he'd told Lestrade. Set in his mind, the slender man swept his dressing gown up and turned out of the kitchen towards his bedroom to properly get ready.
Over the two years, the flat had gone somewhat quiet. Not to say that noise was exceptionally loud previously, but the quiet from before had been… different. Some touch of warmth carried the air, just knowing that there was, in fact, someone else in the flat. Even when Sherlock wasn't too mindful of the fact that John puttered around picking up or cooking, he was still very much aware of his presence. Now, there was no quiet clicking of porcelain bowls as John washed, dried, and put away dinner things. No distant chuckle when he saw something he found amusing online. No tapping of computer keys to the beat of his thoughts, printing out each letter with such a slowness that Sherlock wondered how he managed to finish any blog article.
For some time, Sherlock had realized these listless sounds were gone for an entirely different reason, as he had gone away for a month to a new area. He worked on a case while detoxing, as John insisted that if he didn't do some form of rehabilitation, he would not be graced with his visits any longer. The day following that demand, Sherlock was fanning through distant files and found a facility to room under while he was gone. He found the killer, and cursed himself for accompanying the case with a detox because it was incredibly easy in the end, he just needed a clear mindset.
Now clean, John did visit Sherlock. It was only for a short time if he brought Rosy, and even shorter if they went for dinner or the pub. John still struggled to look at him and, as ignorant as Sherlock could be, each dropped gaze was felt with every piece of his being. He wouldn't argue the quick departures. He had done something he was unable to take back. John needed time to process Mary, care for the baby, exist for a while without the chaos that Sherlock brought. Sherlock was impatient, but his frustration had not yet bothered either of them.
His work, however, had suffered somewhat after the puzzling time with his sister, John, and Mycroft. The call to Molly was not well received, to say the least. Molly avoided him if she could, and if not, she was cold and shunning towards her former love interest. Sherlock didn't press, and kept his head down. It seemed these days he had more than a few people who were not pleased with his company. Nevertheless, he continued to pursue cases for Lestrade and try to do what was asked of him and avoid fighting with John. In short, Nothing incredibly interesting happened in the last two years. Something like a record for the Holmes man, but he did not enjoy this fact in the least.
While he didn't like the flat so quiet, so empty, Sherlock continued to go on. He had given up his hope for having John move in again. He took what communication he could get and didn't press for more, fearing the consequences if he dared step a toe over some unspoken boundaries. He left himself at John's mercy, so to speak, to continue the relationship. And considering he hadn't heard from John in over six months, he could only assume his choice.
These recollections of the past many months crossed over Sherlock's mind while he buttoned the cuffs of his shirt and strolled out to the kitchen, jaw clenched. His shoes resounded against the tile floor as a quick, purposeful pace as he made his way to the door and lifted his coat from the hook on the back of the door.
It was that moment, the last two seconds before opening the door, that Sherlock brushed away the strange air that had suddenly overcome the room. Fingers grasping the doorknob, Holmes turned the handle and pulled the door inwards. Rather than taking a step forward into the hall and down the stairs, The detective was met with an unexpected sight.
John's eyes stood out against darkened, puffy circles. His expression opened into surprise, as he couldn't have expected Sherlock to be leaving at that very same time. In his arms was little Rosamund, cozied up with mittens and a puffy red coat. Her eyes were closed, breath steady and slow. What little hair she had was pulled into two pigtails, fastened with a purple and blue band. John's muted green coat and brown boots not only contrasted with his colorful daughter, but emphasized the severe lack of energy that emanated from the poor man.
The doctor's lips parted, and closed again. He had something to say, but rethought it. For the second time, he opened his mouth. Before he spoke, a small breath of air released, a sound that made John look all the more disbelieving. His expression steeled, mouth closing again. While Sherlock studied him, watching him struggle to speak, John's eyes finally lifted to meet the detectives gaze. This did made Sherlock tilt his head in the slightest, just waiting to be blamed or argued with about something.
Finally,"...Sherlock," His voice was low and hoarse,"I need help,"
