Light in a darkened room
Two nights after Mary's funeral John was actually, physically alone. He had put Hamish to bed, and was sitting at his desk with a cup of cold tea between his elbows. He was supposed to go through some important papers, but as soon as he had sat down he had put his head in his hands and suddenly it was impossible to focus on anything. Sitting in the little pool of light provided by the desk lamp, lost in the pressing dark of the unlit flat he gave in to his despair.
Had he not been so devastated he would have jumped three feet when the doorbell rang. As it was now, he merely let out a guttural sound of displeasure. He had absolutely no intention of opening the door, not at this time of night; not at this point in his misery. The doorbell rang again, more insistent this time. He did not even bother to raise his head from his hands. Whoever was out there be damned. "Just leave me alone", he whispered. The third ring was left mainly unnoticed.
For three minutes nothing happened. Then his mobile phone lit up and let out a faint chirp. The blue light from the display was disproportionally bright in the darkened room. The phone was carelessly tossed onto the table just a few inches from his left elbow. Even in this stricken state he could not avoid seeing the letters on the lit-up screen: 'Incoming message' and then a row of numbers he did not recognise. He never knew why he picked up that mobile and clicked forward to the new message. It was an irrational thing to do. He did not want to see anyone, he did not want to talk to anyone, he sure as Hell did not want to text anyone – yet he picked up that mobile phone and read the incoming message from an unknown number.
You are not asleep.
Let me in.
SH
John Watson had stared at the message for a minute when he realized that his heart stood still. He had failed to breath since pushing the OK-button. What kind of a sick bastard had sent such a message!? He felt his anger rise. He would personally kill that twisted devil for this tasteless not-quite-a-joke! With a rush of adrenaline he stood up, marched to the front door and threw it open. Out on the landing – looking ill and even thinner than usual – stood Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock did not even flinch at the sudden and violent opening of the door. He looked very solemn.
"I heard about Mary", he said quietly.
John stared at him for a heartbeat. Two heartbeats. Three heartbeats. Then he took two steps backwards and fainted.
When he came to again, he was laying on the sofa with his feet propped up on a cushion. Sherlock was leaning over him with a glass of water in his hand.
"John?" he said, looking worried.
John grabbed him by the wrist, causing him to spill most of the water.
"Sherlock?" he whispered "Is that you, or am I hallucinating?"
Judging by the very sinewy and very dense wrist caught between his fingers, this person in front of him was an unusually solid version of a hallucination. Nevertheless, this was impossible. Sherlock was dead. He had been killed by Moriarty. True, the body was never found, but here had been witnesses that had seen the horrible accident. No man could have survived that. An hallucination was a more logical explanation than an alive Sherlock standing in his living room.
"I am no ghost, John" said the living man with a fleeting smile.
With a guttural cry John sat bolt upright and threw his arms around Sherlock, embracing him until all their ribs were in danger of snapping. He held on like he had never hold on to anything in his life before. The detective wrapped his long, thin arms around him and crushed him right back. For eons they held each other like that. For eons John's brain did not think of anything except the pure happiness of having this person in his reality again.
When the eon was over John pushed Sherlock from him, causing him to stumble backwards. Sherlock nearly lost his footing and fell into a corner of the sofa. He had merely landed when John punched him hard in the face.
"Where the FUCK have you been?" John cried, "You made me think that you were dead! You fucking bastard! You fucking fucking bastard! How could you DO this to me?"
Sherlock quietly caught his flaying arms and gathered him in a new embrace, letting John cry against his shoulder. John clung onto him, burying his fingers in a new, unfamiliar coat and crying all his tears into the nape of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock traced soothing circles on his back, whispering soft words filled with pain.
"I am so sorry, John. I am so sorry about Mary, I am so sorry about everything."
They sat like that until John was drained of tears. Then they went to check on Hamish. The boy was fast asleep, sprawled out in his pea green pyjama, a faint blush to his cheeks. Sherlock adjusted his blanket with a surprisingly tender movement.
"Is he good?" he whispered.
"He's young," John answered.
They spent the rest of the night in the kitchen, talking. Sherlock explained about Moriarty and the necessity of a faked death to throw the criminal off the trail; the necessity of keeping Watsons and everyone he cared about safe through ignorance. John explained about Mary and his insufferable loss. When the sun rose they went to sleep for a couple of hours. Sherlock stretched out on the sofa; John sitting in a chair nearby, too afraid to leave the room since Sherlock might be gone when he woke up again.
Sherlock was not gone when John woke up. In fact he did not leave the flat for a week. Hamish was delighted. The little boy sat with his toys at Sherlock's feet, quietly babbling to himself and playing with his building blocks while the detective worked. Sherlock spent the week mostly on the phone, plotting with Lestrade on how to tear down the last remains of Moriarty's empire. Mycroft would pop by at least once every day, and the brothers would huddle together over heaps of classified papers. At first John was furious about the obvious fact that Mycroft had known about Sherlock's faked death before himself, but that soon drained away. He was too mentally exhausted to care for very long. He provided them with food and tea at regular intervals but the rest of the time he kept to his study.
All the important meetings took place in Hamish's room, where the windows were covered in sun film that prevented anyone to see into the room from the outside. They put the kitchen table and some chairs in the middle of the space, but other than that it was still Hamish's working play pen. The rest of the flat was left to John and his thoughts.
In the evenings John and Sherlock would sit shoulder to shoulder on the sofa, each too exhausted by his own daily labour to talk. Truth be told, they did not need to talk, it was enough just to sit there.
When the week was over, so was Moriarty's remaining legacy. The plans made in the play pen wiped the slate clean concerning this Napoleon of crime. Sherlock went back to Baker Street and started to reinstate his life. John went back to grieving.
