That was unexpected.
Sherlock Holmes watched his friend go away, leaving the graveyard without one glance back. During the past year he hadn't spent much time thinking about this moment, this reunion with John, but in the rare times he had he certainly hadn't imagined being left alone. He had imagined a variety of scenarios – all eqally probable – since from their first meeting the doctor had the ability to surprise him. It was often irritating that John seemed so predictable most of the times and then did something astonishing, but than the detective had never been able to complete understand the actions of his friend. It was one of the reasons the detective was so fond of the other man. And being called off to duty was such a John thing to do.
With one last glance on his own grave – Mycroft really had a nice taste in these things – he decided to leave the graveyard as well. He had spent the whole day here waiting for John. And since he had to wait a while longer for his friend he could as well wait comfortably. At Baker Street. A cab ride would bring him there in twenty minutes, but Sherlock decided to walk. He had stood still too long for today and he wanted to feel London, breath London, see the changes. It had been a while since he had allowed himself to walk openly through a town and he caught himself more times that he would admit checking for tails. Meanwhile he registered new traffic lights – he waited each time ten minutes to check the circle carefully leaning with the back at a nearby wall –, a new Chinese restaurant – the bottom third of the door handle looked promising –, several diversions due to construction work. He noticed the change in shops and of course he saw the new painting on the building at the corner of Baker Street where once Moriarty had left his threat.
Finally he stood at the door to 221B. He wondered briefly if he should ring, but decided against it. If John almost broke down on seeing him, Mrs Hudson certainly would. And Sherlock felt much too tetchy standing so exposed with the back to potential snipers in front of the door. He knew that he was as safe as he could be at the moment, but one year watching his back made him uncomfortably nervous. Sherlock picked the lock, entered the building and almost sighed with relief. Although he immediately knew that Mrs Hudson wasn't at home, he rang at her doorbell. As expected nobody answered. So he finally stepped on those 17 stairs and stood in front of his door. He had to gather all of his courage to open it, a feeling he filed for later examination.
In a way Baker Street 221B looked exactly the same as he had left it, only much tidier. Mycroft had told him that he and John were still paying the rent although the army doctor didn't live here anymore. There was little evidence of John's absence – his laptop, some of his more interesting (medical) books, but the living room had always been cluttered with Sherlock's mess that John's few things would hardly be missed. Only if you knew where to look. The Union Jack pillow still sat on John's armchair. The Detective wondered what the meant. When he went into the kitchen he registered his lab equipment on the kitchen table – washed up, had been packed away and packed out again. He felt a vague stab of regret for his destroyed experiments, but he could repeat them anytime. If he remembered right, there had been nothing crucial.
The walk through the rest of rooms revealed no surprises. Everything was the same as he had left; only John's room was virtually empty. Returning to the living room, Sherlock glanced around one more time. It was remarkably how little had changed, but how different the flat felt. He blamed the unusual orderliness, but knew it was wrong. He had changed during the past year. Living in hiding, sleeping in dark, filthy places – cellars, shacks, quite literally under a bridge. Sometimes he had treated himself with a cheap motel. In contrast the flat felt almost luxurious. There was only one thing missing. John.
His eyes settled on his violin. And suddenly the urge to play was unbearable. Despite the longing in his fingers to caress the strings immediately with his bow, he took his time to hold it, let his muscle memory take over to tune it, before he settled the instrument below his chin and let the music flow through the empty rooms. Beethoven. Symphony No. 9. Seemed fitting. He hadn't played a violin since his 'death' and he felt the pain in his finger tips where the horny skin had thinned. But he didn't stop. Besides John's presence it was the only other thing he had missed during the past months. But living in the underground provided hardly the right circumstances for carrying a violin around. The Sig Sauer his brother had given him had been much more appropriate.
From Beethoven he turned to Bach. He was midway through Sonata No. 1 before he realised what he was playing. Moriarty's song. His fingers and his bow hesitated for a moment, but then returned to the long practiced movements. He wouldn't let Moriarty stopping him playing what he liked. Out of spite he continued with Partita No. 1. He couldn't stop the small satisfied smile on his lips when he finished the last notes. Yes, it was over. The Triumphal March of Verdi's Aida seemed in order. Well, at least until he heard the thud of bags landing on the floor. Mrs Hudson. She came home. Carefully he placed the violin in its case, before rushing down the stairs.
She looked fragile, staring at him with teary eyes. She had lost weight (3 pounds), gained some grey hair and wrinkles (not from laughing), her hip was bothering her (should have taken the heavier bag on the other side). She looked more vulnerable as he had ever seen her. More than during this CIA episode, more than during her husband's trial. And Sherlock was lost, he had no idea what to do. He wanted to hug her, assuring her that everything would be alright, but on the other hand he feared that might be too much. John would know what to do. The detective felt a stab of irritation. John wasn't here. He was saving other lives.
"Sherlock?" Even her voice sounded fragile. "Is that really you?"
"Yes, it's really me, Mrs Hudson."
Finally making a decision, he closed the gap between himself and his landlady to pull her gently, carefully in his arms. He heard her silent sobs when she leaned her head on his chest, patting awkwardly in a – what he hoped – reassuring manner her back. He felt the wet spots where her tears soaked through the thin material of his shirt. It was strange and uncomfortable and everything in him wanted to get out of this hug. It had been too long since he had let anyone this close to him – even before his death he had definitely not encouraged such behaviour. But he forced every instinct to go away down, forced himself to stay and to wait. Slowly the sobs grew quieter until the only thing he heard was the woman's breathing.
And of course felt her fists drumming at his chest.
"How could you? … You stupid boy! … Leave us here and let everyone think that you are dead! … And John? … Have you thought about John? …"
Caught by surprise it took him a moment to catch her fists and force her closer to his chest so that she had no room to move. He waited until he felt the fight leaving her, letting her carefully go. She didn't look fragile anymore. Determined.
"I told him. I met John. But he had to go. An emergency at the hospital", Sherlock was eager to explain. Her eyes searched his face. She was one of the few people who could actually sometimes read him. What she saw seemed to reassure her, because he heard the fondness in her next words.
"Sherlock. You silly boy." A sigh. "Help me with those bags. I'm putting the kettle on."
Wondering what just had happened, Sherlock followed her without questioning.
He was sat on a chair in her kitchen, while she prepared the tea and put her groceries away.
"You weren't at my grave today." He had thought about that. Surely she was sentimental enough to come by, but she hadn't. He knew she had cared about him which was proven by the fact that she was mothering him now, but she hadn't visited his grave.
"John asked me not to. He wanted this day alone, find some closure and would accompany me tomorrow … Well; there is no need for tomorrow."
Her voice faltered a bit at the end and Sherlock saw fresh tears in her eyes, but she didn't let them fall. The detective recognised the question in her eyes and knew she wouldn't voice it, not in exact words, but in every other way.
"I had to do this. To stop Moriarty. It was the only way."
"You silly boy." His throat tightened when he heard the sadness in her eyes. "And is it over now?"
"Yes." He had made sure of that. Even if it had cost him one year of his life.
She simply nodded, then turned again with an "You need to eat" and started on preparing pasta while telling him about the new cook at Speedy's, Mrs Turner and her married ones, her sister. He wasn't even interested in those people, but he sat there with his tea and waited. He hadn't spent that much time with her while he was alive – John had sat with her during crappy daytime telly and tea and biscuits – but the normalcy had a calming effect. Hearing about those boring people with their normal lives instead of listening to whispered words about gun trades, drug deals or murder plans settled something in him. And the hot meal also helped, although he would never admit that out loud.
By some kind of silent agreement Sherlock didn't tell her about his hide and seek with Moriarty's men. They both knew she wasn't the right audience. She would be scared on his behalf or lecture him about his lifestyle. There would be no "amazing" and "brilliant", only some "Oh, Sherlock". Instead he gave her a very strongly censored version of his last months, concentrating on the few nice moments – staying in a French pub to listen to a rather good band, breathing fresh air after a ride with a sweaty farmer and his truck full of pigs, finally returning to England. She listened to him, sometimes commenting on his tale, making new tea once in a while, until it became dark outside and he could see tiredness creeping in her eyes. He stood up to leave, enduring one final hug from her while kissing her on her hair, when a thought occurred to him.
"I should probably ask: Can I move back in?"
She chuckled a bit, and then released him.
"Of course. It was too quiet without you."
Slowly he walked the way up to his flat. It still felt strange to him, even more so after the warmth of Mrs Hudson's kitchen. He wondered how long John would be occupied at the hospital, what he would do then. Surely he should do something, but the detective had no idea what this might be. He was quite literally lost in his own living room, because he had never planned on this exact moment. What he would do when he had come back. When he had spoken to John. Thinking of his return had been a private reward for those lonely nights on the hunt, but he had never spared a thought what would come after that. It had been too far ahead, when danger was waiting for him literally at every corner.
He had to make his return official and publicly known. Mycroft could deal with the tedious paperwork that was surely involved in declaring people alive, but letting the public know that he was alive was a complete different area. Certainly it would mean another round of this annoying media buzz. Journalists and photographers camping at his doorstep for a small glimpse on him and a short statement. How awful. But this would be the most effective way. Moriarty had been right, people believed the stories in the newspapers. But how to approach the media without having to answer the same questions over and over again or even worse giving a press conference. John's friend. Nicholas Cartwright. He had cleared his name – maybe he should give him an exclusive as 'Thank you'? Considering this Sherlock decided that this was in fact the best way of action. The Times surely would get the message across and since Cartwright had done everything to clear his name, he would probably not turn this interview into something unwarranted.
What else? He needed cases. Normal people had seldom provided him with interesting enough cases - Henry Knight was the one big exception. That meant Scotland Yard. He had to tell them, too. Probably should talk to Lestrade first. He entertained himself for a moment with the possible reactions of Anderson, Donovan and Chief Superintendent at his return, before deciding that he didn't care. He shouldn't have to explain himself; he was the one who had to stage his own death in order to get rid of Moriarty. If they had done their job properly – if they had believed him – there would have been no need for him to vanish.
Suddenly he felt tired. He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep, he had still lots of time before he reached that level of exhaustion that let him surrender to sleep, but nevertheless he settled himself on the couch, sinking in his favourite thinking position. He had spent endless nights in this position, pondering about the case at hand, exploring new ideas for experiments or just organising his mind palace. Another indulgence he had to leave behind during his year abroad. Slowly he began to wander in the well-known rooms, filing away the events of the year in a proper way. He didn't realise that dawn was lurking behind the windows, when he heard his phone ringing. It was a startling sound in the too quiet flat, so answering seemed the only possible way of reaction. Mycroft had kept his old number for him and there were only so many people who would call a dead man's number by now.
"Sherlock Holmes." For the first time in a year he actually answered a phone with his name. He briefly concentrated on the tight feeling in his chest, before listening to the voice on the other end.
"You're not dead."
John. A smile slipped on his lips when he confirmed: "I'm not dead."
Sherlock heard the soft thud of John's head leaning against the railing, the reverberation of steps in the background. John sat in the stairway, he decided. So still in the hospital.
"You should go to sleep." The advice sounded strange to his own ears and obviously to John's too, because he heard a soft chuckle.
"I should probably tell you the same."
"I'm fine." He was. He was fine, he had never needed much sleep and the past months hadn't changed that. In fact, they had only enhanced his insomnia. It's hard to get to sleep when there is so much data to analyse and always someone to look out for.
"How long have you been awake?" John's voice was an odd mixture of amusement, exhaustion and annoyance. "No, don't answer that. Listen, I will leave the hospital soon, get some sleep and then we'll meet and you tell me everything."
"You can sleep here, in Baker Street, in your room."
"My flat is just around the corner, I'm too knackered to make it to Baker Street. Hell, even the On-Call rooms sound much more appealing than they should."
The smile he heard lessened the sting somewhat, but nevertheless Sherlock felt rejected. This was ridiculous, Sherlock lectured himself. John was just sensible. They could talk when the doctor was not in danger of falling asleep inbetween. Still, it hurt.
"Okay. Text me when you come over."
"I will."
When he lifted his mobile phone from his ear, he realised that he was still waiting for John. That he had done practically nothing else for the last 24 hours than waiting for the doctor. Somehow his irritation grew when he realised that he spent the first day of his new life exactly the same way he had spent his time of 'death'. Waiting for someone to show up. Sherlock was annoyed. Annoyed with himself that he wasn't able to do something else, annoyed how much he depended on John. Annoyed that getting back to normal, to before apparently took endless time.