Sherlock had finally decided that it was time to reveal himself. There were many times in the months beforehand when he had desperately wanted to raise the curtain, to show himself after leaving so… abruptly. But he knew that if he had shown himself before getting rid of the men Moriarty had hired to kill the only his only friends in the world, they would still be able to eliminate the unfortunate three.
But finally, FINALLY after hunting for almost a month, Sherlock had found the last sniper and snuffed him out in Bulgaria. Almost that same day, he sped off for London, and Baker Street for his big return.
That's how Sherlock thought of it all. A big show onstage, and the fall from St. Bart's rooftop signaled the curtain closing. But now was the time for it to rise again, because Sherlock couldn't stand it being the end. Oh no, he wanted it to continue on forever. He had grown used to, perhaps even comfortable in his old lifestyle of waking up, having tea in the morning, flopping onto the sofa to ponder and play the violin and argue with John about his bloody blog and the utter idiots that poked and prodded John for more updates on their old cases. John….
Though Sherlock didn't fully admit to himself that he missed his tiny tyrant of an army doctor, the thought was still in his brain, just sitting there like a seed not being allowed to flourish, but not being removed either. When he arrived at 221B, that tiny seed fluttered slightly to life and probed its flimsy roots into the crevices of Sherlock's mind. He barely needed to search further into the tiny flat to know that 1. John was out and 2… Everything was exactly the same. From the robe haphazardly flung across the back of the armchair, to the many souvenirs on the fireplace, even to the Petri dishes from an experiment Sherlock started god-only-knows how long ago.
The smell of the flat came rushing back into him, the smell of tea leaves from hundreds of afternoons ago, Sherlock's old hand sanitizer he would use before and after experiments so often that the smell was stained into the atmosphere, yet there was another smell, one so distinct but so familiar…
John. It was John.
The fragile seed in his mind suddenly shot up into a stem and sprouted a leaf.
Judging by the state of the place… John isn't well. God, please don't hate me.
While Sherlock absentmindedly picked up his violin (from the same place he last left it, right next to the window) he had almost no idea what to do with it. He couldn't focus on music after recovering from being… homesick, if that was the right word. He had no idea whether to play Bach, Handel, or Mozart. None of their pieces seemed to fit his situation correctly. So Sherlock did what he deemed appropriate. He played from his heart. No written notes, other than the ones in his soul.
Times like this were the only time Sherlock saw emotion as useful. They usually made wonderful pieces. The last time he had done this, he had thought that The Woman was dead.
The song started out slow, almost timid. As it went on, it became more earnest and pleading, as if saying please, please forgive me, I didn't mean any of it. The song climaxed and crescendoed, the song as rich as red wine, and Sherlock found his eyes brimming with tears. He knew what the song meant. He knew who he had written it for, it echoed throughout the empty house, accompanying the lonely notes. John, John, my John…
The tiny stem grew into a beautiful luscious tree wrapping itself throughout Sherlock's body. A single tear trailed over the detective's cheekbone that seemed to slice into the inky darkness.
Sherlock felt drunk. He'd never played like that, not even when Irene disappeared. God, what was happening? Why had the thought of his army doctor leave him in a mental wreck?
The detective pulled himself out of his stupor in time to hear someone grip the door knob… then hesitate. It's him.
Before he could stop himself, he bolted for the kitchen. Why the hell should I need to hide?! He screamed internally, but he didn't move. Because barely visible in the darkness, turned half away so his profile could be seen was John Hamish Watson.
The look on his face would've shattered a lesser mans heart. Sherlock could see the tear-stained trails marring the good doctors face like scars. But for just a moment, Sherlock could see something that hurt him more than the tears; Hope.
John had missed Sherlock, he knew that before he even arrived in London, but he never thought that John would shed tears for him, let alone wait until he showed back up.
And as Sherlock watched from the shadows, he knew just how badly John had needed him. John had begun to cry because Sherlock wasn't there. It took every ounce of strength Sherlock possessed not to reach out and make John better, somehow. He wasn't sure John would ever be the same ever again.
He waited until it was over, and continued to watch as John steeled himself and wiped his face of any trace of feeling. John rubbed his face and let out an utterly broken breath he'd been holding. Sherlock prepared himself for whatever was yet to come when John found him. John rounded the corner and set down a bag- Chinese, by the smell, probably dim sum- and nothing could have readied the great detective for the look that ran over John's face like a freight train. Shock, disbelief, anger- fear.
John had lost weight. He wasn't sure how much exactly, but his face was thinner. Dark circles shadowed his eyes and his cheeks were gaunt like the skull on the mantle. Insomnia. He hasn't taken any medication, so he must he afraid to go to sleep. Recurring nightmares, then.
The two men stood there, both shocked, both unsure of what to do next, both waiting for something to happen. Sherlock wanted to speak, but what would he say? Hello John, as you can see, I'm not dead. It was all a trick, so now everyone can calm down and everything can go back to normal.
A frozen wind ripped through the majestic tree's branches in Sherlock's mind when he saw that John's eyes were welling up once more. The detective had the sudden urge to examine the floorboards as if they contained the answer to everything in the universe. I can't even look at him…
Sherlock could hardly peek up at John through his dark lashes when he said what was possibly the worst line to ever grace the ears of mankind.
"Did you miss me, John?"