There are not many ways to shut up Sherlock's ever active mind. But right now John had found a quite effective one. All the detective could do was stand still and stare at the disappearing silhouette while a whole bunch of emotions settled in his chest. It took him a while to recognise the most prominent one - panic. He hadn't felt panic in a long time, certainly not since the drug-induced evening at Dartmoor. And as far as he remembered never in a situation when a man was simply walking away from him. But this was John. John who had always stayed.
He had alienated enough people in his life to know the words, versions of John's – some kinder, some with the addition of swear words. It seldom meant anything to him. It weren't the words which stopped him on the spot. It was John's tone, the finality in his voice. Sherlock knew this voice, it was John's Captain-voice, his version of 'Do what I say'. The detective had learnt pretty soon that you better cave when the doctor was using this voice. But he had never expected he would hear it in this context.
He had also never expected John's reaction. The acceptance on the graveyard had been a pleasant surprise, he had thought that things went rather smoothly. The anger in the flat was something he had imagined although not at that time, but never this. He had never thought John would turn his back on him. Returning to John was the one fantasy that had made the loneliness and everything else bearable. It wouldn't have done any good if he had imagined John leaving him.
John had always stayed, he couldn't leave him now, could he? Sherlock had done this for him, to protect him, that should mean something. But you never explained it to him, the voice inside his head that sounded suspiciously like Mycroft whispered to him. The thought brought him back to life. It was true. He had never been able to explain everything to John. Before his return it would have jeopardized John's life and afterwards they were always interrupted. Surely when he explained John would come back. He must.
Coming to this conclusion Sherlock contemplated simply waiting on spot for the doctor. It would be no problem at all since he stood here motionless for the past 2 minutes and 37 seconds. But slowly his brain started working again – oh god, was this how the brains of all those dull people worked? – and he realised that this would probably be classified as 'bit no good'. Right now John had only minutes left of his lunch break and Sherlock needed more time than that. Especially since John would insist on going back to work. He was already in the defence, there was no need to add further ammunition. He would leave for today. Although he didn't remember turning around and walking away to be this difficult.
Sherlock had really wanted to wait, wanted to stay away from John, giving the man time. Time to remember their cases together. Time to heal. Time was supposed to do that, he was told. But despite Mrs. Hudson's advice, Sherlock was standing outside John's new home – no, new flat; he corrected himself immediately – waiting for the doctor to show up.
After John's declaration, the detective had met Mrs Hudson in the hallway of 221 Baker Street. She had looked at him and then invited him back again in her kitchen. If invited was the right word for being manhandled. He hadn't resisted too much, being still in somewhat shock. Martha Hudson had offered him tea and biscuits, again showering him with trivia about people he didn't care for. He didn't mind this time, it was something that required no input from him. Instead he had let his thoughts wander, paying only marginally attention to his landlady's stories. There had been something in the back of his mind, calling for attention, something to do with her. What ... Oh! Maybe she could explain ...
"Why were you angry?"
The woman had nearly jumped at his sudden question as if she had forgotten that he was here. Which had been odd regarding the fact she had advised him to sit down in her kitchen in the first place. Her reaction had been unusual, as her reaction had been after his return. In a way he had expected anger as reaction, not necessarily by her, but by all of them – John and Lestrade. Mostly because it was one of the very normal human reactions to something unexpected. But there was more, something he couldn't quite grasp. And he had had the feeling that understanding this was one way of understanding John. And then finding a way to convince him back. He had needed more data. So he had asked her again.
She had looked at him with something like pity in his eyes, before she had sat next to him, taking one his hands between hers.
"I'm not sure if you will understand this, my dear. When you died I lost something like a son. And this isn't how the universe should work. I shouldn't stand on your grave with John."
She had been right, he hadn't understood. He wasn't sure if he did now.
"But I'm not dead. Shouldn't you be relieved? Why were you angry?"
"I am relieved, you silly boy." She had ruffled through his hair. "But you had hurt me, let everybody grieve for you, while you were fooling around." He hadn't been able stop the indignant snort at her description of the last 12 months. "You hurt me, us, deliberately and that's why I was angry. It is probably worse for John. Give him time. Time will heal all wounds."
Well, time certainly couldn't heal fatal wounds he had thought. And the thought returned now, while he was watching a tired doctor stepping out of the building. So, nightmares again. Was this good or bad? He slowly followed the doctor, uncertain whether he should speak to him. He wanted them to talk but now was as bad as yesterday, since John was once again on his way to the surgery. But maybe they could set a time, a meeting, to talk. Surely John wouldn't deny him this?
Instead of crossing the ex-soldier's path Sherlock took out his mobile and dialled the other man's number. He watched when John registered the sound, fished in his pocket for the gadget and finally stared at the little screen. He saw the moment of hesitation in John's figure, saw when John made a decision. Disbelieving he looked across the street when John pocketed his mobile again and resumed his way. The call was now transferred to John's mailbox, but Sherlock didn't leave a message. He already got his answer. Maybe he should put more faith in time.
It was now three days. Three days since John told him to stay away from him. Two days since Sherlock tried to contact him the last time. One day since he was publicly alive again and the media started hunting him and camping at his door step. He had to use the backdoor and his intimate knowledge of London to get to John. Admittedly there weren't so many reporters at his front door by this time of the day, but he didn't want to risk it. They hadn't chased John so far and he had the strong feeling that John ending in a media frenzy wasn't helping his case.
He let himself in and entered John's one-room-flat. He closed the door with a silent clap, before listening carefully for any signs that John had noticed his intrusion. But the other man was asleep. Sherlock watched the figure under the blankets. He couldn't see John's features since he faced the wall, but judging from the frantic movements of his body the doctor was facing another nightmare. Well aware of what happened the other day, when John woke up from a nightmare Sherlock silently stepped closer. He leaned over the sleeping body, not quite sure what to do next. He stretched his arm out, only to stop mid-movement, his hand hovering over John's shoulder.
It was as if time was frozen until one particularly angry movement of an arm and John's unconscious plea "No, Sherlock, no." Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. John pleading was something he had never heard before and he was pretty sure, never wanted to hear again. Carefully he put his still hovering hand on the man's back, trying to calm the frantic movements. Then he leaned in closer and whispered "John, I'm not dead." His attempts seemed to have the desired effect. John calmed, suddenly looked more peaceful. Sherlock let his breath go, astonished to find that he had hold it in the first place, before retracting himself.
He went to the kitchen, placing the letter he had brought at the tea kettle. Sherlock had given this much thought. Calls could be ignored, texts and emails deleted. But a letter was something substantial, something old-fashioned. He knew the doctor was old-fashioned in some things. Getting a letter had been one of his joys. Sherlock simply hoped that this would be true for his attempt, too. And he wished even more that it would explain everything, fix everything between them. He returned to the main room, watching the other man in his sleep, satisfied that the breathing pattern had slowed down and John seemed to get some rest. He allowed himself sixty more precious seconds before he left the flat.
When John woke up he felt absolutely whacked. Well, at least this time he was woken by the alarm and not his own screams from his nightmares. Of course, he still had nightmares, but not waking up from them should count as progress, shouldn't it? Barefooted he entered the kitchen to prepare some tea, when he saw it. A white envelope with his name on it. He knew the writing although he hadn't seen it over a year. But nevertheless he recognised it immediately.
He stared at the envelope, unsure what to make of it. Sherlock had broken in his flat – again. Some hazed memory of a familiar baritone whispering "I'm not dead" popped up and deflated John's anger about Sherlock's disregard of the rules he had set for him. To be fair he wasn't even that angry, more surprised that Sherlock indeed waited three days. And he had left a letter, another note?
"This is my note. That's what people do."
For a moment he was back on that spot on the parking space staring at the rooftop. The sudden stab of hurt was an old acquaintance by now and reminded him of his decision. Reading this letter would be a step back to Sherlock, back to the life he'd wanted to leave behind. Back to madness and adrenaline and crazy criminal masterminds.
Carefully he took the letter, weighing it, before taking it between his hands and started tearing it. One time, two times, three times until there were only small shreds of paper left in his hands. He threw them into the bin before rushing in the bathroom, this time giving in to the urge to vomit, until the cramps in his stomach couldn't produce anything more. Shaking he sat on the floor on the cold tiles and hoped Sherlock would stop soon. This wasn't good - not for him and not for Sherlock.
Sometime he managed to go under the shower, brush his teeth almost violently before he got himself clothes and left for the surgery. He half expected to see Sherlock somewhere along the way and was ridiculously relieved and disappointed at the same time when that wasn't the case. He steadied himself entering the doors of the surgery, greeting his colleagues and pretending that the man who was soothed in his nightmares by a whispering baritone didn't exist.