Chapter 7 everyone! In which Sherlock and John get a lift from Mycroft, and Mrs Hudson reacts to her favourite tenants' return.
Happy Reading!
After two weeks in the hospital, Sherlock had had enough. John could tell by the fact that Sherlock had cut himself free of the IV and monitors and had somehow managed to borrow beg or steal a set of clothing. It was illfitting on his slender frame, but at least it was something other than a hospital gown. He looked over his chart, apparently decided it looked good enough, and invited John to join him in the break out.
John couldn't help but smile. Even when the doctors all went into a flutter and tried to get Sherlock to stay. They were all waved off, though, in that dismissive manner Sherlock had. The bruising on his face had faded, the welt around his neck nearly gone. If not for the cast and splints on his right hand, the healing cut on his cheek, and the pronounced limp because of the knee brace, no one would ever guess Sherlock Holmes had just come off two months of torture.
As they rode down in the elevator, John realized they had no money, no vehicle, and no knowledge of the country side. He needn't have worried, however. As soon as they stepped outside, a sleek black helicopter set down in front of them.
"Borrowed your phone to call for our ride," Sherlock called to John casually over the sound of the whirring propeller. "Hope you don't mind."
"Not at all," John replied just as casually, stepping into the helicopter as if things like this happened every day. He realized, then, that with Sherlock back in his life, it was actually possible that it would be a daily occurrence.
Inside the chopper, Mycroft sat in the back waiting for them. Sherlock eyed him for a while, then turned his attention to the country side.
"Alright, then?" Mycroft asked nonchalantly. Sherlock turned back to him, fully aware that his brother would have gone through his medical files in great detail.
"Perfectly," he replied. His eyes strayed somewhat tellingly to John. Mycroft noticed instantly but didn't comment. In truth, he was glad that Sherlock had found someone to share his life with. Whatever manner they chose to do it in.
And that was all the conversation that passed between the brothers for the entirety of the ride. It was strange to John how they interacted. If Harry had just come off some life threatening venture, John was sure that even with all their problems there still would be some show of affection between them. A hug at the least. Questions about how they were, what had happened while they were gone, expressions of relief that the other was safe.
Somehow, John knew that the Holmes brothers had a connection buried deep. They just handled it differently. Mycroft's casually uttered, "alright, then?" had been the Holmes version of a hug and a thousand questions about well-being. And Sherlock's, "perfectly," was a deeply masked expression of gratitude for the concern, for providing the way for John to reach him, for flying halfway across the world to pick him up when he'd tired of the hospital. John shook his head. No, he would never understand them, but at least now he could see below the surface.
Once they arrived back in London, Mycroft handed Sherlock a large packet neatly labeled with his name. "That's all the papers you'll need to resurrect yourself, Sherlock. You'll find that all your assets are exactly as they were two years ago. And if I am correct, I believe your flat is also much the way it was before you left." He turned to John for confirmation.
"Oh, yes. I haven't changed much." Anything. He hadn't changed anything at all. It was as if some part of his heart had been preparing for this day. As if somewhere inside, he'd known that Sherlock couldn't be dead.
"Much appreciated," Sherlock said to both of them.
"I suspect you'll have a bit of notoriety now that you're back." Mycroft signalled to a car down the street. The sleek black vehicle pulled up next to him. "Do try to stay out of trouble, won't you Sherlock?"
"I make no promises," Sherlock replied with only a hint of a smile. When Mycroft sighed and shook his head, the smile widened. He did so enjoy baiting his brother.
When the car pulled away, John and Sherlock looked up and down the street together. "Cab?" John finally asked.
"Actually, I'd like to walk, if you don't mind. I need to refamiliarize myself with the city. My mental road map is bound to be rubbish after two years away."
"You do know you're not supposed to be on that knee, don't you?"
"Triviances," Sherlock said with a wave of his hand. "Pity you don't still have that ridiculous cane, though. Could come in handy about now." He heaved a dramatic sigh and John laughed.
They arrived on Baker street two hours later. Sherlock had spent the walk memorizing every new bit of road and walk way. He'd also spotted a few members of his homeless network and asked them to spread the word to the others that he was still alive. All in all it was a very productive walk, and quite worth the pain he was now feeling throb angrily in his knee.
As soon as they went through the door, Mrs Hudson called out to John, asking him if he wanted a cup of tea, as she had the kettle already on.
"No, I think I'll pass, Mrs Hudson. But there is someone else here who might like a cuppa."
"Oh? Who did you bring home, John-" She was walking out to the entry way and then stopped dead at the sight of Sherlock. Her hands trembled, her eyes wide. For a moment, John and Sherlock worried that the lady would faint dead away. "Sh-Sherlock?"
"Yes, Mrs Hudson." He smiled at her winningly. She took two steps toward him, faltered, then took another two steps. Once she was close enough, a single tear fell from her eye and she caught a sob in her throat. Then she launched her frail fist against his chest.
"You prat!"
"Mrs Hudson!" John was aghast. And he was worried about Sherlock's ribs. The older lady was frail, but there was strength left in her yet.
"No, its fine, John." Sherlock caught Mrs Hudson's shoulders in his hands and drew her against his chest. She sobbed fully now, letting go of the restraint. She battered at his chest lightly a few more times, her cries muffled into his coat. "Ssh, there now," he soothed. John only watched them, fascinated at the exchange. Despite their somewhat curt attitudes towards each other from time to time, it was clear that Sherlock looked to Mrs Hudson as a mother figure of sorts. He could recall with startling clarity, how Sherlock had punished the CIA man who'd roughed up Mrs Hudson years before.
"I thought...I believed...Sherlock, you're alive!"
"That I am, Mrs Hudson. Though how I've survived these years without your tea remains a mystery to me." He tipped her chin up with a gentle hand and smiled at her again. She smiled back, then focused on his cut.
"Oh Sherlock! Your face! What've you done to it?"
"Minor run in with some characters of questionable repute," he dismissed. John nearly choked at Sherlock's casual way of referring to the men who'd tortured him for so long. But he knew that Sherlock would never cause their landlady the pain that telling her the truth would bring. She tutted, patted his cheek gently, then blushed when Sherlock kissed her forehead.
"You just go on upstairs and get yourself settled in," she said happily. "I'll go get that cuppa and you can have a nice sit down." She turned and bustled back into her kitchen to get the tea. Sherlock only smiled after her, then headed up the stairs.
John watched him like a hawk as he climbed, wary of any pain he might be in because of his knee. Sherlock made it up to their flat without problem, though, and stopped at the threshold. In that moment, John wished more than anything he could see into the mind of his best friend. See with those eyes what Sherlock saw. Did he think it pathetic? Alarming? Amusing?
Sherlock could hardly breathe as he looked around the flat he hadn't seen for two years. If he'd ever doubted John's affection, his feelings would have shown crystal clear, through the state of the rooms. Sherlock's mug sat on the coffee table, obviously washed but still sitting where he usually had it. His dressing gown was still tossed casually over his chair, exactly where he'd left it two years ago. His violin was propped gently against the window where Sherlock liked to play. It was all there, exactly as he'd left it. It was as if he'd never been gone. The only signs that life had continued after his absence showed in the wear of the carpet, where John had paced before the mantle. The slight dipping in the cushion of Sherlock's chair. He could tell John had spent many a night there. The laptop that usually sat prominently on John's desk was closed and pushed aside as if in anger.
If John could have seen inside Sherlock's head at that moment, he would have been stunned. Because Sherlock was stunned. He felt, for the first time, awe. He was humbled. Touched deeply. He wanted, desperately, to turn and look at the man who'd left this for him. The man who'd kept Sherlock alive in his heart for two long years without hope. But he knew that there was emotion shining in his eyes. He couldn't control it. He was taken aback, so utterly startled by the intensity of it that he didn't stand a chance of resisting it. Instead, he stepped through the door and took a turn about the room. He let his fingers stray softly across the strings of the violin and felt it resonate beneath his touch. He longed to pick it up, but knew if he played, it too would betray his emotions. He'd used the music as an outlet of emotion before, but this was just too keen, to sharp to put on display. Then he crossed to his chair and studied it more closely. He could see where John's head had rested on long, lonely nights. How he'd tucked his compact body into the chair. He could even see very small telltale signs of where the man had rested his hand, almost hesitantly, against the soft fabric of the dressing gown strewn atop it.
When he was sure his face wouldn't betray him, he sat himself carefully in the chair and met John's eyes. The uncertainty there made a rush of sympathy course through him. John was waiting for his reaction. Lest he give away the full extent of it, Sherlock schooled his features and flashed a soft smile at John.
"It feels as if I never left," he murmured. John let out a shaky laugh.
"I know what you mean," he replied softly. "If I close out all the rest, I can almost imagine that the last two years never happened. That you've been here all along."
Sherlock knew what John meant by 'all the rest.' He meant the grief. The pain. All the sorrow loosing Sherlock had caused him. Sherlock opened his mouth, determined to say something- maybe something that would let his carefully checked emotions slip, reveal him. But before he could, Mrs Hudson came in and set down the tea tray.
"Should I use the mug I've brought up, then, Sherlock?" Mrs Hudson looked at Sherlock's old mug, sitting on the table.
"No, I think I'll use mine thanks. John's left it out for me. I think its time it got used again." He never took his eyes off John. Mrs Hudson looked between the two men, realizing she'd interrupted a moment. She looked to each of them, her boys as she thought of them, and smiled to herself. Everything would be alright now. Sherlock was home. Content with that, she poured the tea into Sherlock's mug, kissed the top of his head, and went back downstairs. At the foot of the stairs, her feet moved in a shaky little jig, her bad hip turning the moves a bit wonky. But in her head, it was a celebratory cha-cha, smooth as can be. Sherlock was home. Yes, everything would be alright now.
What did you think? Tune in tomorrow for the next chapter...and maybe a kiss! ; )
