He was packing. He was leaving. Leaving 221B. The only home he's known since…forever. Now it was a prison. At every turn, every passing glance, there was Sherlock. John couldn't brush his damn teeth without the familiar stinging in his eyes. As he packs, John tries not to be nostalgic, he really does, but much like the rest of his life, it doesn't go as planned. What had started as a plan to pack all his clothes, ended with him on the floor of his bedroom clutching a pair of gloves that Sherlock had gotten him for Christmas. They were a horrid shade of green, but Sherlock often thought more of practicality than anything else. He fingered the material and thought.
John remembered that Christmas morning clearly. Although the flat was decorated it was missing the warm and cheery Christmas mood, though John had expected that much. Sherlock didn't very much care for the holiday. A "…manifestation of selfish wishes by ignorant people, how incredibly dull John, even for you." Sherlock would say with a scoff. Later though just before John went off to bed, Sherlock had surprised him. Sherlock looked over John, handing him the gloves, unwrapped and still with the price tag.
"The other day at a crime scene, you muttered something about your hands being cold. Here. Happy Christmas, John." Sherlock said, not looking John in the eye.
John had stuttered a thank you and apologized for not getting Sherlock anything. Even if they were a bad gift, they were a gift no less. Sherlock's lips quirked at the corners as he said, "You've already given me quite enough John."
John tightened his grip on the vomit colored gloves. Two years. Two years and he still missed him.
"Dammit Sherlock. What have you done to me?" John whispered his voice small in the nearly empty room.
Reluctantly, John got up from his not so comfortable spot on the floor and shuffled to the kitchen. It had changed very little in the two years. Empty petri dishes lay scattered about the counter. A microscope tucked away in the corner. John could never bring himself to give any of it away. They were the last things that tied Sherlock to the tangible world. The threads tying him to John would snap every day, leaving him more and more alone.
John continued packing away the kitchen and he moved the box to join the couple others in the living room. Most of the things in the flat are—were—Sherlock's. He piled the boxes next to the door. He was leaving tomorrow. Leaving 221b. Leaving Sherlock.
He sat down in his chair and thought. He thought about leaving. He thought about his life now. His boring, pedestrian life. He thought about his mundane job. He thought about Sherlock. Sherlock wouldn't be happy with John. Giving in to human emotions to the point of abandoning his only home for a cold, unfriendly flat a bit closer to the surgery.
John was immersed so far in his mind that the world could have been ending and he wouldn't have noticed. The only thing that had snapped him to attention was the door slamming. He shifted his gaze to a steaming cup of tea on the table across from his chair. He'd have to go thank Mrs. Hudson. She'd been so tolerant of his moods. The wallowing in grief, the bitterness. Mrs. Hudson was patron saint of Not Your Housekeeper.
John took a tentative sip at the steaming liquid. John winced at the sharp and bitter taste. Tea was the only thing that never failed to comfort John, but this time it had. Mrs. Hudson must have gotten distracted while making it. He sighed into the half-empty mug of disappointment and set it back down.
John got up from the chair and stretched out his leg. How long had he been sitting? John squinted at his watch-the damn numbers were getting smaller every day-it was half eight. John had been lost in his mind for nearly two hours. John rubbed his eyes and picked up the tea cup and tray. He lumbered down the stairs, his steps uneven due to the stiffness in his bad leg. He knocked lightly on Mrs. Hudson's door. After a moment her kind face appeared as she opened the door. At the sight of John she smiled, it had been a while since he was down for a visit.
"John, dear, you're back, what's brought you over?" she smiled as she asked, ushering John into her flat.
"Can't stay long Mrs. Hudson, just dropping off your mug. Thank you for the tea." John stood his ground at her door, holding out the ceramic cup.
"I didn't bring you any tea, John." Mrs. Hudson looked at him confused. John was just as baffled. He looked down at the cup in his hands.
"Hold on," John said, capturing Mrs. Hudson's attention again, "You said 'you're back' like I'd gone somewhere." John recalled.
"Because you did leave! I heard the door slam. Dreadfully loud, dear, don't do that anymore." Mrs. Hudson tutted.
"Ah, yeah, sorry…I…forgot." John said slowly, his brow furrowing, "I'll be leaving tomorrow. Just wanted a proper good bye."
"Oh John," Mrs. Hudson's eyes saddened as she pulled John into a hug. It took a moment but John reciprocated, "I'll miss you terribly." Mrs. Hudson sniffed.
"I can visit." John said, his voice void of any real promise.
"Of course, dear," Replied Mrs. Hudson, releasing John from the embrace, "now you go off to bed, you look tired." She turned and closed the door, giving him one last smile.
"Right." John said to the closed door, "Goodbye Mrs. Hudson."
John trudged up to his room and fell back onto the bed. The springs groaned in reply. The sound echoing off the empty walls. He stared at the ceiling for a bit. Thinking. Again. The tea cup hadn't been Mrs. Hudson's…and the door slammed…and…
"Really John, I'd have thought you would have gotten there sooner." Said a familiar baritone voice.
John sat in silence for a moment. Unsure if what he had heard was just his mind playing cruel tricks. He sat up from the bed and made eye contact with a dead man. Sherlock Holmes was standing in his bedroom. Sherlock Holmes was walking towards him. Sherlock Holmes was supposed to be dead.
"I'm asleep. You're not here." John said quietly, more to himself.
"I can assure you that I am, John." Sherlock replied, placing a gloved hand on John's shoulder. And John felt warmth. He felt weight on the hand. Sherlock Holmes was alive and John was…furious. Sherlock bloody Holmes is in his room after two years of being dead. A fountain of emotion sprung up in John. Happiness, anger, resentment, confusion, love. Love? Yes love, Sherlock Holmes, the only man John has ever loved. Was back from the dead.
Back. As in left before. Left you John. Sherlock left you. Left you to grieve him. He didn't love you enough to tell you he was alive. A voice at the back of John's mind said.
John was angry now.
"You were dead. I saw you. Y-You had no pulse Sherlock." John's voice was getting louder. He stood up from the bed and stood in front of his, what? His best friend? Were they even friends still? "I saw you jump, there was blood…so much blood." John's eyes went out of focus as he recalled that day. The moment his insides melted. The moment Captain John H. Watson broke.
"John I-" Sherlock began to explain but was cut off by a fist connecting to his face.
"You. Were. DEAD." John said, punctuating every word with a forceful prod to Sherlock's chest.
"John, please stop being so irrational—" Sherlock started rubbing his jaw, but was cut off by John again.
"Irrational? IRRATIONAL?! My best friend comes back from the dead after two—almost three-years and me being angry is irrational? You left me behind, with one of the most vague suicide note ever thank you very much, and you think my reaction is irrational? I can't deal with this Sherlock." John huffed, attempting to walk past his previously dead flat mate to leave.
"I thought you missed me. It seemed like you did at the graveyard every month." Sherlock bit back.
"Of course I missed you Sherlock. Missed you like hell." John said with gritted teeth, "but you can't just come back from the dead and expect everything to be okay. You can't do that to me. You can't—hold on," John turned to face Sherlock, "You were there, at the graveyard, every month?"
Sherlock stared into John's eyes, and continued staring into them. Sherlock wasn't analyzing everything about John. He was just staring into him. And his eyes were desperate. The silver searching for something in John that said I forgive you. But he wouldn't find it right now.
"Yes." Sherlock replied finally.
"You were the old man.
"Correct."
"I babbled on and on about you to you."
"Correct again, John, I assume you're reaching a point?"
John looked for something to say. Wracked his brain for any possible reply. He came up with nothing. He opened and closed his mouth several times, not wanting to say what he had to. But this was the rational response. John needed to think.
"I can't deal with this Sherlock. Not now. Please just, get out." John said finally, his voice cracking at the end.
"But John." Sherlock began to disagree.
"I don't—I don't mean out of here, out of the flat, just…get out of my room." John stared at the floor. As Sherlock walked past and out of the room
"When can we talk John?" Sherlock's voice was softer now, pleading almost. He stood in the doorway, waiting for an answer. John didn't answer and Sherlock tried again, "John." His voice dripped with something John had never heard come from Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock was upset. Genuinely upset.
"John," Sherlock started once more, "I need you to give me a chance to explain. Please."
John's heart dropped into his stomach. The man's voice was filled with this sense of pure human need. John looked up at Sherlock again. Mistake. Sherlock looked a mess. Dark circles under his eyes, his lips chapped and cracked, eyes red from...what…crying? John swallowed the lump in his throat. Sherlock stared into him again. Not analyzing. Just looking.
After a forever of silence, John finally spoke.
"Later." He said, closing the door on the consulting detective.
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"I'm sorry I hit you." John said into Sherlock's shirt.
Sherlock's arms tightened around him.
"I'm sorry I left you." Sherlock said quietly, pressing his lips to the top of John's head.