John Watson walked slowly up the stairs to his flat, shouldering groceries in one arm, his keys biting his palm. The effort seemed enormous to him. It had been a year, and still he carried on. Sometimes John wondered how his life had become so tragic so fast. One moment, a kiss. The next, a body.
John clenched his jaw. Now was not the time to be thinking about that. Those images were kept securely locked in the back of his mind, always there, quietly bruising. They were for the night, when he lay in bed, staring aimlessly at the ceiling. Sleep was hopeless.
Having successfully unlocked the now chipped black door, John removed his worn shoes and set the groceries down on the table. He didn't bother using the chip and pin machines any more as there was no rush. No, everything had slowed down. It was like living underwater.
Methodically, he took of his coat and put the kettle on, putting out two cups, just like he always did. Sherlock drank his tea black, with sugar. There was always a cup going cold on the counter, in the bedroom, in the kitchen. It was as if the owner had suddenly vanished into thin air, leaving nothing but a mug of lukewarm liquid in his wake.
The kettle boiled and John retired to the sitting room, hands warmed by the blistering hot mug. Sitting in his chair, he faced Sherlock's, admiring its angles and edges and the fact that it never went anywhere. Always there when he got home, always there when he left. Still, it was too quiet. The flat felt empty, even though it was still inhabited. No ghosts in these rooms, just a lonely blogger.
.
It had been 168 hours and 10 minutes since he had last seen Molly, since he'd been so angry, so not very good. A week to dwell on that. There wasn't much else to do, as Sherlock spent most of his days hiding out while he stayed in London. While Moriarty may have been dead, his henchmen most definitely weren't. It was all for John's safety. He repeated this to himself day after day, safety safety safety, until it became a mantra, until he didn't know what it meant anymore. What was this odd promise of comfort? Sherlock's body was numb, immune to cuts and scrapes and the cold. He'd been attacked recently, an average mugging. Nothing affiliated with anyone, but the assault had left him reeling, bloodied and bruised. He couldn't feel it anymore. Numb. Safety safety safety.
It was 4:59 pm as he sat in Speedy's, just steps away from his old flat, his old life, his old friend. He fidgeted, stirring his coffee with trembling fingers. Sherlock observed his human difficulties. Was it the coffee, the adrenaline that came from being so close? The danger of discovery? No. It was fear. Weakness.
At 5:02 pm, Molly Hooper walked through the door, hair freshly washed and lipstick on. She was flushed, and her eyes darted around as if she dared hope for Sherlock's presence. When she saw him, her gaze hardened and her mouth tightened, but she walked towards him nonetheless.
"Hello, Sherlock." Her tone was formal, suppressing an irritation that was probably due to his harsh words 168 hours and 23 minutes earlier. People seemed to take offense so easily. Molly sat down in the chair across from Sherlock, clasping her hands together, unclasping them and tidying her hair.
"Hello, Molly." He straightened, fingers scattering an open sugar packet across the table. His pale skin was bruised around the knuckles. Sherlock pulled his gloves on, even though it was warm inside the shop. He didn't want her questions. For once, he didn't have answers.
.
John stood suddenly, the tea in his cup splashing up on the sides, dampening his hands. He didn't notice but set it down roughly on the coffee table. It was difficult to explain why he felt so upset so suddenly, but then again, he hadn't tried to explain his emotions after... the accident. John straightened and inhaled deeply, trying to find that quiet anchor inside him, when it seemed that everything that constituted John Watson was a hurricane, a vastly raging tempest. He went back to basics, trying to calm his beating heart. Breathing. Inhale. Exhale.
Slowly, his ocean began to calm. His pulse returned to normal, his hands stopped shaking, and he was able to walk to the washroom. He turned on the taps, running his fingers under the lukewarm water, scrubbing the tea off of his sleeve. He splashed some of the water on his face, relishing in the moisture running down his cheeks, not unlike the tears he hadn't shed since the day Sherlock died. Not one tear. For all his quiet infirmities, John Watson did not break down. Not noticeably at least.
He looked in the mirror, seeing his own reflection as if for the first time. His hair had begun to grey, turning silver around the temples. He looked worn, probably due to the extreme lack of sleep. Still, his bright blue eyes remained a fundamentally solid part of him, they always looked back, exactly the same. John liked that. They didn't change, always the same early morning fog, a flat azure.
John moved back into the living room, going over to the window and peering out. It was about 5 pm and the sun was beginning to set, the frost collecting on the window panes in the early January evening. He turned and saw Sherlock's violin, encased in a red velvet-lining. He stared at it, and slowly knelt and unclasped the case, lifting the lid delicately. The violin had not been touched since his death, and John eased it out of the case gently, soft hands caressing the cold wood. He ran his thumb across the strings, once, very lightly. The instrument shuddered in his grasp, as if aware that he wasn't practiced in the art of enchanting music from its resistant strings.
.
"You need to go back." Molly was arguing, passionate like Sherlock had never witnessed before. "You need him, and besides, I think he's lonely."
"Think?" Sherlock spoke the word and let it hang in the air between them.
She paused.
"He's alone, of course he's lonely."
Of course he's lonely. Sherlock never understood that feeling, never felt anything but enjoyment at the prospect of solitude. More time to think, he supposed. But that was before John. In a way, Sherlock had been so very alone. John had given him so much.
Sherlock ran his gloved finger along the table, sweeping patterns in the spilled sugar. When was the last time I ate? He couldn't remember, it was all a haze of coffee. He didn't feel hungry.
Molly shifted in her seat, uncomfortable with the dreamy air the detective was taking. He didn't look well. She didn't want to say anything, but the man was wraith-like, all bones and skin. His eyes were hollow. It made her heart ache in a way she didn't know could apply to Sherlock Holmes. Apparently it did.
She reached across the table and took his hand. Fervently, Molly prayed that she wasn't making a complete fool of herself. Again.
His eyes were tired, as she stood up, still grasping his hand. Turning slowly, as if in a dream, he followed her until they stood verging on the street.
"Please Sherlock. Just do this. For yourself."
.
John Watson stood at the top of the stairs of 221B Baker Street. He felt uncomfortable in his own skin, it was too hot, too cold. This feverish quality drove him outdoors, donning his old green jacket and grabbing his cane. He hated it, but for long walks, it was necessary. He worked on his breathing, trying to master something that should have been natural but to no avail. As he limped down the stairs, John gave up and let himself shudder in the darkness before the doorway.
.
Sherlock Holmes stood at the door of 221B Baker Street, hand raised to knock, heart pounding wildly. So this was what fear felt like, he reflected. But what was he afraid of? John?
.
John opened the door and almost ran into a man, waiting there with his hand raised to knock. Mrs. Hudson was trying to rent out 221C despite the mold, there were people in and out of the building all of the time.
"Excuse me." John kept his eyes on the ground, focusing on getting outside before he completely lost whatever control he had left.
"John."
He looked up at the man standing at the door, hand still raised absurdly. Almost as if realizing what he thought, he curled his hand behind his back. The man was tall, with a curly mop of black hair and sharp, angular cheekbones.
Worst were his eyes, two flecks of ice surrounded by the deep bruises of little sleep and lots of nicotine. There was a cut on his cheek, John instinctively reached out to touch his face, the contact jolting him back to reality.
Sherlock Holmes stood before him, a gaunt version of the man he had known, but breathing nonetheless.
"You. You're... dead."
"Apparently not." The detective gave a rueful smile, his lips cracking with the effort.
"No. I- I saw you, Sherlock- Sherlock. On the ground. After the cab ride- you-." John paused, feeling his ocean crash over his head until he was fully submerged.
"You were broken." His voice came out strangled, stiff with the tears he hadn't cried.
The detective looked pale, ghostly with his bruised face and dark hair.
"I am." His deep baritone was shaky, and John could see his pulse beating rapidly in his throat. Sherlock swayed on his feet, and John noticed Molly, one hand firmly planted in the small of his back, gesturing up the stairs towards the flat.
"I think you're both going to need to sit down."
John nodded, incapable of coherent thought and grabbed Sherlock's arm, which was startlingly thin. The detective slowly turned to face John and whispered, "Thank you." before allowing himself to be propelled up the stairs.