The day passes slowly, like the entire world has faltered with the reappearance of Sherlock Holmes. Everything stops for Sherlock. John doesn't leave the flat. He doesn't eat, doesn't contact anyone. He thinks. He sits in his small cold flat and thinks about his life, the way it's changed and the ways it will change again. He thinks about Sherlock.
It takes two hours for his hands to stop shaking. His leg still won't allow him much movement. He bought a new cane after Sherlock died. No, not died. Left. After Sherlock left. Willingly, despite what it would do to the people who cared about him. Despite what it would do to John.
John feels angry. He can barely contain the deep, red-hot rage that courses through him when he thinks of the things he's gone through in the last three years.
But he's also unbelievably, unfathomably happy. Because Sherlock is alive. And that is the only thing he's prayed for since Sherlock left. He can't count the number of times he pounded on the floor and screamed at the sky in desperate hopes for a miracle. The times he thought that if only Sherlock were back he would do anything in the world. He would give anything.
But now that Sherlock is back, John doesn't know what to do.
Mycroft has called his phone nine times in the hours since he saw Sherlock. John doesn't answer any of the calls. If there's one thing he's sure of, it's that he doesn't have anything to say to Mycroft Holmes.
He sits in his chair, confused and numb, until night falls. And then he sleeps. A dark restless sleep, filled with muddled dreams of Sherlock.
The next morning there is another soft knock on the door. John opens it slowly, bracing himself for the face he knows will be looking back at him.
Sherlock looks better today. He's wearing his old coat, collar up, and the blue scarf John has seen many times. Must be going for familiarization. In a way it works. John's legs hold him up today. He doesn't hit Sherlock. Doesn't yell at him. Instead, he opens the door and motions for the man to follow him inside. Sherlock does.
John leads Sherlock into the main room and takes a seat on the couch. Sherlock stands, his face expressionless.
"I don't quite know what to say," Sherlock says after an extended period of icy silence.
"That's a first," John says. The playful words spill out of him unconsciously. It's the first thing resembling a joke he's made in longer than he can remember. Sherlock's presence is easy to slip back into. Like riding a bike.
The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitches and his eyes meet John's. His expression darkens. "John. I am terribly sorry."
His voice is sincere, maybe more sincere than John's ever heard, but that doesn't stop the familiar anger from flooding back into him.
"Sherlock," he falters at the name that's slipped from his lips. "You have," he pauses, takes a deep breath. "You have no idea what you did to me… to everyone."
Sherlock's hands are in front of him, clenched in something resembling discomfort. "I may have underestimated the impact my death would have on you."
John runs a hand over his forehead, tracing the lines. "Yes. Well. Did you think I'd be happy you were gone, Sherlock? That I'd just go back to normal. Whatever normal was. Did you think I would work at the damn clinic? Go out on dates? Just go on like nothing had happened? What impact did you think this would have, Sherlock? Because I'm having a fucking difficult time figuring out just what the hell you were thinking." His voice shakes with anger that he hadn't planned on showing.
Sherlock takes the smallest of steps away from John, like the words physically push him away. He doesn't say anything.
"Come on," John says. "You love showing off, Sherlock. You always did. Go on, tell me what you thought would happen."
Sherlock looks at the ground for a moment before catching John's eyes. "I thought you would mourn appropriately." John huffs a breath of bitter laughter but Sherlock presses on. "I thought you would visit my grave, speak to a stone in the ground as if it were me. Tell me how amazing I was. How brilliant. How I made your life exciting. But it would have passed John. It would have been sentiment, nothing more. I was a flare in your lens. You would stay at Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson adores you. She would have helped with the rent. Your life would fall back into a routine. You would meet a nice woman. Of course you would. You were always going to. Fall in something dull and mundane that you would call love. Get married. Have two children. Statistically speaking they would be a boy and a girl. Common names. You'd consider naming the boy Sherlock. But that's sentiment. Silly, fleeting. And Sherlock is a ridiculous name so you would decide against it. Probably go with Thomas. Or perhaps Anthony. The girl would be Emily. Or Amanda. Boring. Terribly boring, but you would be happy." Sherlock stops and looks at the ground again. He doesn't seem as confident in his words like he used to be. "I thought you would be happy," he says.
"A flare in my lens?" John finds himself repeating.
"Sudden, bright, exciting, but gone without leaving much of a void," Sherlock explains.
John shakes his head. "That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard."
Sherlock doesn't respond.
"You're an idiot," John says quietly.
Sherlock says nothing.
"You're not," John pauses, runs a hand heavily over his mouth. Pinches the bridge of his nose. "You're not a goddamn lens flare in my life, Sherlock. You're… You. God, I don't know. Life without you didn't… It wasn't…" He trails off, still as unable to bare his soul to Sherlock as he was before he left.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock says again, his voice uncharacteristically small.
"Where were you?" John asks, his voice sharper than intended.
"I was destroying Moriarty's web. He was the center, yes, but no one was safe until his operatives were gone. Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's right hand man and lover - if I'm correct, which I am - threatened to take advantage of the resources Moriarty left behind. He had to be tracked down and dealt with."
"You killed him?"
"Yes."
"Is it done then? The web is gone?"
"Yes."
"Good." John doesn't know what else to say. Things with Sherlock were never very awkward but this, this is undeniably awkward.
"This flat is beneath you, John," Sherlock says with disdain, looking around the room. "Tiny. Lifeless. Repulsive. How could you leave 221B?"
"How could I stay?" John counters, his voice quivering slightly.
Sherlock closes his mouth and gives a miniscule nod. "It's still available, you know. Baker Street. Our flat."
John's stomach twists. "Sherlock."
"I know you don't want to live with me. No. Wouldn't expect you to. But perhaps you could allow me to pay my share for a better flat."
"No, I'd never..."
"Just half," Sherlock interrupts. "I'll pay half. Like before. That way you can afford the flat again."
"Sherlock,"
"Just think about it. John, I see the things that I've done. Caused. You're walking with a cane again. Pity. You know that injury isn't legitimate. The tremor in your hand has flared up as well. Makes taking surgeries difficult. You're a shell at the clinic, John. They would've fired you long ago if Sarah hadn't once harbored romantic feelings for you. Though now, they're only feelings of pity, aren't they? You drink far too much, too often. Alcoholism runs in your family, John. You know better. Your uncle, your father, for a bit, and your sister, obviously. You don't own a telly. Odd. You always loved those insufferably predictable sci fi programs. There isn't much in the kitchen. You're not eating properly. Had nothing at all today. Tea? No, not even tea. You've met with Lestrade… once? No, twice. Neither time went well. He's lost his position, I imagine. Lowered considerably in rank. You've met with Molly once. Worse than the meeting with Lestrade. She cried. Course she cried. Always does. She pitied you, too. But you didn't pity yourself, did you? No… No, you blamed yourself. Oh…" Sherlock pauses and seems to realize that he's lost track of his original point. "You blamed yourself… I do see what I've done, John. Think about letting me pay half. You shouldn't live this way. And Mrs. Hudson would love for you to return." His eyes close briefly as he mentions Mrs. Hudson. John doesn't mention it.
"I can't," John says, his voice low. "Sherlock, I can't."
"Think about it," Sherlock says as he turns for the door.
John thinks about stopping him, about asking where it is that he goes and why he goes there, but he doesn't. He doesn't say anything. He watches Sherlock leave, and tries to ignore the throbbing in his head.
He doesn't know what he's going to do.
Author's Note: Please let me know what you think! I really like this story, for reasons I can't quite explain. I enjoy writing it. I know it's bleak right now, but don't worry; things will get brighter.
