Sound

He never meant to do it.

He was supposed to be lying low, not attracting attention, blending in, and definitely was not supposed to be contacting anyone besides Mycroft.

Today marked one year since Sherlock had faked his death, and strangely enough, he was back in London. Not to stay, he was here to uncover part of Moriarty's network, then he would be on the next plane out.

As he walked down the streets of London, it was so familiar and at the same time, so foreign-he was literally watching London go on about their lives believing Sherlock Holmes no longer existed. That was odd enough to think about in itself-but what was so much worse was knowing that there was one important person in this very city who thought Sherlock was gone, and that was what mattered to him.

Sherlock couldn't pretend he completely understood sentiment-but he did have a better idea now than he did a year ago. He found himself silently pointing out places he used to so frequently visit, and with each place prompted memories he hadn't properly allowed himself to think about for months.

John's voice.

Why was it so hard to remember his voice? Sherlock could picture him so easily, but his voice was becoming harder and harder to hold on to. This frustrated him beyond belief, the one thing he wanted never deleted from his mind palace was slipping away, and he hated it.

Was that Angelo's? The building looked run down, the letters that once so brightly adorned the restaurant window were faded. The restaurant was still open-Sherlock could see a few people inside.

Without thinking, he strode up to the door and went inside, looking around cautiously. Angelo's, which had always been a busy, bustling restaurant before Sherlock's "death", was now practically empty, except for a meager few people sitting at two tables. Most of the other tables had been cleared out.

"May I help you, sir?"

Sherlock startled at the sound of the voice, looking up to see Angelo himself.

He froze, staring back at Angelo. The restaurant owner looked tired, but beside that he looked exactly as he did a year ago. He was staring at Sherlock curiously, and the detective forced himself to look calm, collected. There was no way Angelo would recognize him-for his time in London, he had pulled out all the stops for his disguise- dyed hair, colored contacts, a bland colored t-shirt and jeans, all to completely blend in. But despite that, he couldn't help but feel uncomfortable under Angelo's gaze.

"I said, may I help you?" Angelo said again, still looking at him curiously. His voice sounded exactly like Sherlock remembered, deep, heavily accented and good natured, and now with a tinge of exhaustion, he could tell the past year had not been kind to Angelo.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "No, thank you. I'll, ah, just be going." He turned to leave.

"Wait," Angelo's voice came from behind him. "Do I know you?"

"Of course not," Sherlock said without turning around. "I've never seen you before."

"Oh," said Angelo. "I apologize, you just remind me of someone."

"Coincidence," said Sherlock shortly. "Goodbye."

He walked out without looking back, cursing himself for his stupidity. What if Angelo had recognized him? It would have been all over, he would have been exposed and his chance to finish off Moriarty's London network would be finished. He had to be more careful...

But yet...seeing and hearing Angelo again had been so good, he wanted to ask all the questions that had been on his mind since he left London-how was John? Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade...

Hearing Angelo reminded Sherlock again of how much he missed just the sound of John's voice- ridiculous, sentimental, he knew, but he still did all the same. He'd give anything even just to hear John yelling at him to get the milk for once- was it stupid that he missed that too? He wondered where John was now- was he still at 221B Baker Street? The idea was dismissed before he even allowed himself to think of it, there was no way he could go to Baker Street now...it just wasn't time, even though that was the only thing he had wanted since the day he left.

He had known from the moment he discovered he had to fake his death that leaving John would be the hardest part-but then he hadn't even realized how difficult leaving his best friend would be until he jumped from the roof of St. Bart's, and heard John scream his name, heard John push through the crowd, pleading with the people to let him see, pleading for Sherlock to come back...

Please, let me through, he's my friend...

I was so alone...and I owe you so much.

John would never know how difficult it was for Sherlock to stand by and just listen, to listen to Mrs. Hudson cry, to listen to John begging a dead man to defy all odds and not be dead. It had actually taken all his willpower not to run to John that day and tell him that it was alright, John could stop being upset because Sherlock wasn't dead, he was still alive and still there.

Somehow, though, he had kept his head and stayed still, and had watched John walk away from his grave, and heard John cry for the first time.

One year had passed, and his wounds had yet to heal.

He passed some more familiar buildings, but he resisted now the temptation to go inside, it was far too risky and he couldn't do it again, but he stopped dead at a street corner when he saw a telephone booth.

Normally, he would have passed right on by-it was just an old, average telephone booth-but today was different, and the idea took root in his mind before he could stop it. He walked in and shut the door, much harder than he had intended, his breath becoming quick and heavy. Did he dare?

He hesitated, hand hovering over the phone. There were an unbelievable amount of risks, he knew, but at that moment he just couldn't get himself to care. He put in the appropriate amount of change and dialed before he could change his mind.

The phone began to ring in his ear, and he felt himself shaking just a bit from anticipation, heart pounding wildly in his chest. It rang once, then twice.

"Hello?"

Sherlock's heart nearly stopped at the sound, and something strange rushed through him. He found himself suddenly unable to speak. It was his John, his voice, and it was still the same one he knew from a year ago, reverberating through his mind, with that single word: "Hello." Just hearing that one word was making the detective happier than he cared to admit, especially since before he hadn't known when he would hear that voice again.

"Hello, is anyone there?"

Sherlock blinked a couple times. Speak, you idiot! He commanded himself.

On the other end, John Watson exhaled slowly, sounding frustrated. Sherlock almost laughed aloud-the sound of the sigh John reserved almost always for the detective was so ridiculously endearing he was almost bursting with excitement.

John was about to hang up, Sherlock had to say or do something-

"Hello," Sherlock said at last. "I was just-" He hesitated, suddenly unable to come up with any kind of alibi.

"Yes?" John said after a short silence.

Some part of Sherlock had almost been hoping John would immediately recognize Sherlock's voice-but the other part, the more practical part of him knew that he shouldn't and he wouldn't, the man thought Sherlock was dead and was not going to be think a phone call from a random number would be from his deceased friend. And if he recognized that it was Sherlock, it would be disastrous in so many ways, and not just to Sherlock's mission to end the London network.

"Wrong number," Sherlock said finally, dejected.

"Oh, alright then. Goodbye." John hung up. The sound of the phone disconnecting was almost like a knife to Sherlock's chest, and he dropped the phone, pressing his hands over his eyes.

He hadn't wanted to say goodbye again, the thought hadn't even crossed his mind before he had entered the booth. John would probably forget the phone call in moments, but Sherlock would hold on to it until he was able to come home, it was all he had left of John now.

Sherlock had been able to get through saying goodbye to John- now he had to get through John saying goodbye to him.

Sherlock hadn't meant to do it, and yes, maybe he shouldn't have done it, but as he walked out of the booth, John's voice once again vibrant and strong in his memory, he was glad he did, because as silly as it was, just the sound of his best friend's voice would keep him going.

Until he could return to London for good, it would be enough.

Just one thing, John, just one more miracle, for me...don't forget me. Because for once, I'm going to do what you ask. I'm coming back. And you better be here when I do.