Sherlock waited. He stood at the window of his flat and simply waited. It felt as if he had done nothing else since the anniversary of his 'death'. Before his reappearance he had the vague notion that it wouldn't take much and his life would return more or less to normal. Reality was far from that. Instead of gaining control over his own life he seemed incapable of doing anything else than waiting for John.
John, who should be awake by now, tapping barefooted in the kitchen to start the kettle before entering the bathroom. He should have found the letter, he should read it by now. Was it enough? Would John come back? Or at least talk to him again? Sherlock winced at himself, how pathetic. He was only glad that there were no witnesses to him being 'normal'. But he couldn't help it. He had spent the last day composing this letter, some earlier drafts which hadn't ended in the fireplace were silent reminders to his numerous attempts (and failings) at explaining something that had nothing to do with logic or simple brain work.
It wasn't as if he had been able to do anything else. The press had quite literally trapped him in his own flat and he hadn't felt any desire to cross this bunch of hyenas. He had even seen some at the backdoor, but they hadn't stayed long. Mrs Hudson resolute demeanour had chased them away. Today only the most persistent had stayed, all the others were gone one by one. Probably called back by someone higher, someone with minor influence on the media.
Right on cue a black car entered Baker Street. The detective watched motionless as his brother descended, but raised an eyebrow when he recognised Mycroft's company. He hadn't talked to Lestrade since his confessions in the DI's flat and hadn't expected a change so soon. He heard them ringing, after no reaction on their first try his brother wisely decided it was the best to go straight for Mrs Hudson. Mumbled voices as his landlady let them in and then two heavy footfalls on the stairs.
"Sherlock", the accentuated voice of his brother called his name in a way of greeting when the two men entered the flat. He waited another ten seconds before he reacted, turning around. He could see the slight irritation in his brother's features. At least that was still something under his control – irritating his brother.
"Mycroft, Lestrade." It was a simple acknowledgement - not quite a greeting - and of course included 'What the hell are you doing here?' with enough irritation slipped in so they understood that he had no patience for mind games right now. John was wearing his already not well developed patience thin.
"Well, Sherlock, I'm, um, here as official represent of New Scotland Yard today." Lestrade answered his unvoiced questions with an odd formality only to receive a raised eyebrow in response. Lestrade normally didn't stutter.
He saw the elder man sigh, then visibly straighten himself before holding out an envelope to the Consulting Detective.
"Scotland Yard wants to offer their apologies for, um, recent events and has instituted you now as official consultant of the police. You will receive a fee for each case you're involved."
"I don't want a fee."
"It's not about the fee." Lestrade sounded exasperated. "It's making you an official body in investigations. So nobody can claim they didn't know you were solving murders and things. The crown prosecutor thought it would enhance further courtroom convictions if you were an official consultant rather than a bloody amateur. Although I think he has to be pretty desperate to call you again as witness." The last line was delivered with a small smirk.
"The contract also allows you to provide your insight on cases for which you weren't officially summoned." Mycroft added. "And it grants you access to the legal databases if needed on behalf of a private client. But you are still free to choose the cases you want."
The contract didn't include anything that he hadn't done before – solving crimes, harassing detectives about unsolved cases or hacking in the police database – but this way it was much more convenient. It was an all-access-card to Scotland Yard, Sherlock thought impressed. Somebody very high must have been really scared. Probably of the press, but even more so of Mycroft or whoever he had chosen to fulfil his wishes.
"We even got you a badge, so you don't have to nick mine again." Lestrade fished in his pockets, pulling out indeed an official badge. When Sherlock took it from him, he inspected the gleaming metal before looking back at the Detective Inspector.
"I didn't nick them because I wanted a badge." This time the subtext wasn't hostile. It said 'Thank you' and 'I accept your apology'.
For a short moment the three men stood in silence. Sherlock even considered offering tea, but then thought better of it. He wasn't in the mood to suffer his brother's presence much longer. And besides, tea making was John's job. John who would normally have finished his shower by now and return to the kitchen. Had the letter made a change? His thoughts back to the problem of losing his best friend he barely registered the two other men leaving. And after a while he resumed his position at the window, waiting for the doctor to appear.
John's neck and his bad shoulder were hurting. It didn't do wonders to him sleeping on couches in strange flats, not to mention the nightmares. The first night after the 'letter incident' he had come home, only to leave the flat half an hour later with an overnight-bag and heading to his sister. She hadn't questioned his arrival or his motives, but she had been probably to inebriated by that point. He had camped in her living room, surrounded by an impressive collection of empty bottles.
Since the hangover version of Harry was the most unpleasant version of his sister, he had left after an awkward breakfast with accusations, but again without questions. Somehow during the day he had convinced himself that it hadn't been this awful and he had stayed another night. Not a mistake he was about to make again. From that on he had slept on Mike's or Nick's sofa.
It was probably a stupid method to avoid Sherlock. The man was a genius and a detective. Not to forget his elder brother with the access to CCTV. And even in the unlikely event that Sherlock couldn't deduce where he was sleeping, he could still come to the surgery. In fact, John was astonished that the madman hadn't tried to contact him. Surely he had expected some kind of reaction from John.
Maybe that had been explained in the letter. Another wave of regret for tearing the letter before reading it swapped over him, but he tried to dismiss the feeling and reenforced his decision to stay away from Sherlock as he had done the previous times. Everything was still too fresh and speaking to the man would certainly not help his resolve.
And it wasn't as if not everything and everyone seemed so keen on reminding him of the detective. There was no escaping the bold headlines of the tabloids or the 'reports' on the telly. Everybody on the street seemed to talk of nothing else. Sherlock had become topic number one in Britain. The doctor was only happy that most of the media had chosen to ignore him, although he suspected Mycroft's meddling in this.
But of course his friends – unlike Harry – asked. Sometimes actually voicing a question, sometimes only evaluating him. He preferred the latter. Living with Sherlock had taught him how to keep his secrets when you were under the inspection of those laser eyes. He couldn't explain his decision to anybody else, not when he still had to think of the ache to convince himself of the rightness. So answering the real questions was not an option. Thank god, those times when he was asked they also accepted his mumbled 'I don't want to talk about it' and offered a sympathetic smile and a second pillow.
John slowly stood up and started stretching himself. He had started his stretching exercises during his university days – an advice by one of his professors to avoid muscle cramps from standing too long at operation tables. Since Afghanistan it was mostly to avoid the pain in his shoulder when the weather changed or they had been on a particularly bad chase. When he felt his muscles loosen a bit, John headed to the kitchen.
He was greeted by a pot of coffee and Nick scanning the headlines on his laptop.
"Anything happened?", he inquired sipping his coffee.
"New elections in Belgium, probable terrorist attack in Indonesia and some minor scandal involving a minister and prostitutes in Brazil. And of course, I got a call from Sherlock Holmes offering me an exclusive." With his last words the journalist turned his head and watched John's reaction. Which involved choking on his coffee and several attempts to get his breath back.
"He hates the press." John felt inclined to point out.
"He said it was a ‚'thank you' for clearing his name." Nick still had his eyes on him.
"What did you say?"
"That I wont make decisions about interviews at 4 am in the morning."
John couldn't suppress a smile at the indignant tone in his friends voice. His imagination easily provided him with details of this conversation, Sherlock without any consideration for other people's sleep since it was 'boring' and Nick's attitude of 'sleeping whenever I can'. And there it was again – the ache in his stomach that told him that he missed the madman far too much. With determination he concentrated on the matter at hand.
"What do you want to say?"
"It's an exclusive. And as you say, he hates the press. It would make a nice finish to my researches."
"You want to do it." It wasn't a question.
"I'm probably only thankful that he didn't break into my flat like his brother did. That was creepy, I tell you." Nick offered an apologetic smile.
Sherlock breaking once again into a flat where he slept was something he decidedly didn't want to think about. Instead he tried another sip of his coffee.
"Do it. Don't worry about me. It isn't as if I had to sit next to you two and listen."
Nick eyed him carefully before turning his attention back to the laptop and mumbling something. It sounded like 'maybe you should', but John wasn't sure and the other man didn't say anything further. With a shrug John decided the conversation was over and went into the bathroom. He needed to hurry, it was a longer way to the surgery from Nick's flat.
He had waited a week, resisting the urge to go after John or even asking his brother about the doctor's whereabouts, but now he couldn't stand it anymore. Once again Sherlock let himself into John's flat. Although it was obvious that the other man wasn't at home, in fact hadn't been here for several days. He could see the undisturbed dust patterns. Despite this he couldn't resist and entered the flat completely, closing the door behind him. The rooms smelled of John, a fragrance that was almost gone from Baker Street. He briefly wondered if he could preserve it in some way and take it back with him. Maybe this should be his next experiment. His eyes glanced around the room, cataloguing all the small things.
John hadn't left in a hurry, everything was neatly in order, military style. The bed was made, there were no dishes on the worktops. He must have planned this. Sherlock opened the cupboard with John's clothes, but was unable to tell what and how many of them were missing. He had lost one year of cataloguing the doctor's belongings and he was sure he hadn't even seen everything before. Certainly John had some kind of storage room, maybe a cellar or something extern, because this couldn't be all.
Sherlock closed the cupboard's doors and went into the kitchen. He had noticed a tear-off calendar during his last nighttime-visit. It had shown the exact date. John was a man of habit, the calendar would certainly answer the question how long the doctor had been absent. It was still on the same date as Sherlock had seen it the last time. An uneasy feeling was settling in his stomach.
He glanced once again through the kitchen, registering the bin. The uneasy feeling was turning in some sense of foreboding. Slowly he moved forward, almost anxious to open it. When he did, he wished he hadn't. He stepped back, unable to look at the solid evidence of white paper shreds in an otherwise empty bin. So that was it, that was the reason why caring wasn't an advantage, his brain reminded him while the emotional turmoil became almost too much to bear. He took several deep breaths and registered with unpleasant surprise that a tear was rolling down his cheek.
John hadn't even opened his letter. And suddenly he understood all those silly metaphors of heartbreak and burning a heart out.
Something was off when John arrived at the surgery. Sarah greeted him at the front door with a mixture of emotions playing on her face. He thought he identified some kind of outrage and pity, not sure what to make of it. She gestured him in, before she turned to a table where a box was placed. She gave him the box and then answered his silent question.
"I got a text this morning from Sherlock. It said that he left your remaining belongings at the surgery. It also said that you can return to your flat, he would respect your wishes from now on."
Somehow he wasn't relieved that Sherlock accepted his decision.
