4. Homecoming

"Well I have to say, you were right about the Chinese. That was the best Moo Shoo Pork that I've ever had," John said as the taxi drove away behind them.

Sherlock grinned. He opened the door to 221B and entered, taking the steps two at a time with John right behind him, all of his things packed compactly into the green bag slung over his shoulder. As he passed through the door into the flat Sherlock sighed.

"What a mess they've made of my things," he said walking into the kitchen. "These experiments are ruined! I must bill Lestrade for this."

"Bill him?" John asked, "but ...I didn't think that you got paid for investigating."

"I don't, but if he's going to destroy my flat, the least he can do is pay for a cleaning service to straighten up."

"You're going to hire a cleaner?"

"No of course not, Mrs Hudson will do it, but Lestrade needs to know that he can't just march into my flat, turning over everything to find evidence. It's not like I tried to hide it. I left the case out in the open this time. That drugs bust was a bit heavy-handed. Clever though, I have to give him that."

"Do you and Detective Inspector Lestrade fight often?"

"Oh no, he's fine," Sherlock said discounting the thought with a wave of his hand, "but you, Doctor Watson, how did you enjoy our first case together?" Sherlock turned toward John staring down into his eyes, a smirk on the edge of his lips that he tried to hide, but couldn't.

"Case?" John asked. He stood very straight. "So this kind of thing happens to you often then. This is what you do every day."

"Pretty much, did you like it?"

John pursed his lip and tilted his head to the side before looking back up at Sherlock's expectant expression. "Well, it was certainly interesting."

Sherlock's smile widened to cover his face, and he clapped his hands together placing them against his lips as he strode across the room to stand beside the mantle. He hung on the edge of it swinging his body around to look back at John Watson.

"Indeed, it wasn't boring," John said, "and it's 'John' by the way. You should call me John."

Sherlock angled his hands down and stared straight at him as he tried the name out, "John," he said before beginning a smile that he had to hide behind his steepled hands.

"Well, if that's everything, then I think that I'll be off to bed. It's been ... a bit of a day for me and I'm tired. Goodnight, Sherlock," he said slinging his bag over his shoulder as he walked off toward the stairs.

"Goodnight ... John," Sherlock replied turning his head to follow him as he left.

Sherlock listened to the footsteps as John climbed the stairs.

One. Two. Three. Four...

He is tired. The pause between one step and the next is slowly increasing as he climbs. He'll be asleep before a half-hour is up. Sleep. How could anyone sleep after a day like this? I couldn't possibly sleep for hours. Days even.

John.

Brilliant! He's simply Brilliant!

That shot! Through two windows. In the dark. Having to adjust for wind conditions. Even if he opened the first window in order to avoid slowing by the glass, that was incredible. I've never lived with a crack shot before. Well... it's not like many people have lived with me...that is stayed living with me for long.

There's no guarantee that John will stay.

Sherlock felt his stomach drop at the thought.

No, of course he'll stay. He was smiling. His eyes dilated as we talked at the foot of the stairs, and his temporalis muscle was relaxed, not pulsing like it was at Barts. He enjoyed himself. He'll want to stay.

That was fun! I've never had a partner before.

What a day!

A serial killer, serial suicides, and Moriarty...my fan? What does that mean?

Sherlock jumped in place a few times.

How could anyone sleep on a night like tonight?

Sherlock turned his head toward the ceiling and listened to the sound of the bedsprings stretching.

Not quite asleep yet, but he will be. Military man, probably learns to sleep off his adrenaline so as to be ready when the next crisis comes. I'll have to make sure that they keep coming. John Watson is too much fun to let go so easily. He killed a man for me today.

No, that's melodramatic, what really happened is that he perceived that shooting him was the only way to save a life. It wasn't me. He would have done that for anyone. Wouldn't he? Would he?

He could have simply shot the wall and startled us. Made me drop the pill.

But he didn't know how he was making me take it.

It was a rational decision to shoot the man who was certainly the instigator of the crime. Good judgment really, and good judgment to get out of the way before anyone noticed that he had done it.

Really, Doctor John Watson... John, really knows his stuff. I like him.

Oh.

That's a strange thought. Liking someone.

I really should watch that. Emotions are unpredictable.

There's no guarantee that John Watson will even agree to stay here. I sort of tricked him with the psychosomatic limp thing. Clever ploy if I must say so myself, but he needed a place immediately. He might move off on his own later, when he finds a position that pays well enough. He is a doctor after all. Lots of demand for experienced doctors.

And having a doctor with me on a case would be so wonderful. He could confirm my deductions. I wouldn't have to wait for the autopsy to know that I'm right. Things could work so much faster.

Sherlock flung himself into his chair and tapped his feet very quickly on the floor.

How could anyone sleep after a night like this? I could have died. How aggravating not knowing if I took the right pill. I must look for the analysis. But how could I tell which was which? Crime scene photos? If only I hadn't thrown mine. Damn it.

Then again, maybe both were poison. Then I would have been twitching and dying on the floor of the college and he would certainly have made a name for himself. The man who killed Sherlock Holmes. He would have won. And that Moriarty person. What would he think, or she? I must go over my fan mail. See if one of them could possibly be this ...Moriarty. Hmmmm.

Sherlock stretched out his legs looking up at the ceiling as if he could see through it.

Then he jumped up and walked toward his violin, pulling it out of the case and picking at the strings to tune it before he began to play.

He started with a rapid staccato rhythm before settling down to play Brahms Lulluby. He walked as he played trying to calm his heart which refused to slow down. He felt buzzed, like the first sniff of a new batch of cocaine. He felt a tingle running up through his legs and spine, and he hoped that it never went away.

He passed from one song to the next. Fluid as thought. Changing from low notes to high, playing measures from Beethoven, Paganini, Philip Glass, until finally he just played notes that came out of his mind creating a composition in honor of the day. A composition to express the joy that he felt at this moment.

He would try to remember it later, but he would only be able to remember snatches of themes. Now, it flowed from him as if it was being unfurled from out of his heart. He closed his eyes and played for hours until his soul and mind were at rest, then he put the violin lovingly away before going to sleep for eleven hours straight.