A thousand apologies for the delay. Life gets overwhelming and leaves little room for stuff I actually want to do, blah.
"So it's true. The genius detective, Sherlock Holmes, faked his death. He is very much alive and with us, back in London, and apparently, back at work."
John was silent as the news programme played in the background. He was sitting at his desk, reading through a medical journal. The mention of Sherlock's name made his shoulders tense up, but he made no other motion to move.
So it was out. He'd come back then. And from the sounds behind him, they'd done an official press release, which they were showing now. Greg was there, fielding questions.
"John?" came Mary's voice, tentative. This caused him to finally look up from the text so he could glance at her. Her eyes were plastered on the tv screen.
"Hmmm?" he hummed questioningly when she didn't move or say anything else.
"Isn't that… your old flatmate? The one who killed himself?" She sounded nervous. John pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.
"Yeah."
"Did you…know?"
"Yeah."
At this, she turned her head to look at him. The look in her eyes was difficult to decipher. He caught glimpses of confusion and concern, but there was something else. They looked at each other for a few moments before John finally brought himself to look at the screen. Greg, Sally, and Sherlock were all standing around a podium. Greg was handling most of the press, even though a lot of questions were directed at Sherlock. The look on his face was one of sheer and utter boredom, and there were times when his mouth opened that John just knew he was about to make some ridiculously smart ass comment, but Greg interrupted him before he could. A chuckle escaped him that he wasn't prepared for. Of course he looked like that. The prick.
"Are you okay?" Mary was right beside him now, making him jump in his chair. He hadn't heard her walk closer to him. He turned back forward in his desk, fingering the edge of his page absentmindedly.
"I don't know," he admitted. He was too emotionally exhausted to lie. It had been another week since their encounter at Angelo's, and surprisingly, Sherlock had done exactly as requested. He hadn't texted or called once. It was clear he was back on cases now, and they were probably forced to do this press release before Greg could bring back onto crime scenes.
Back on crime scenes… without him. That settled inside of him in an unhappy way, and he didn't like it. He was pissed off at Sherlock, why on Earth was he jealous that they weren't on crime scenes together? He ran a hand through his hair and shut the journal, having completely forgotten what he was reading, and pushed it away from him with a sigh. Mary was still there. Still looking at him.
"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked, her voice firm. She had a hand on her hips. John sighed again. He was too emotionally exhausted to deal with this. He needed to, and he felt bad for not having said anything to Mary about it. He was still having such a hard time figuring everything out himself and getting his emotions sorted, so how could he honestly have expected to have a normal conversation about it with her?
"I don't know, Mary. I just… It's been a real shock to the system. I've had a hard time thinking about it myself, let alone talking to anyone about it. I just… I don't know."
Broken record. John felt like everything in his life was a broken record now. Mary raised her eyebrow, as if knowing he wasn't telling her everything. He supposed he wasn't. Again, though, he had no idea where to start. He knew that a lot of the emotions that were swirling through him were bizarre enough emotions to someone you were close to. A few dreams had started to resurface amidst the nightmares; dreams he hadn't had since before The Fall. Dreams involving him and his flatmate, in the most bizarre of positions, specifically speaking. Was Sherlock coming back what caused these dreams to come back?
Those dreams succeeded in pissing John off more than the fact that Sherlock was in fact back in Baker Street again. Why on Earth, now that the damn man had swept back into daily life, did his subconscious think it was a good idea of imagine the two of them sharing a bed? Intimately sharing, at that. Even the mere thought of it now stirred the most random of feelings deep inside his gut, and he gritted his teeth in frustration.
Holding his head in his hands, John stared off into nothing with a frown. Finally, after a few more moments of silence, Mary sighed and went back to what she was doing before (and what that was, he really had no idea), leaving him to his whirlwind of thoughts once more.
Sherlock sighed, eyes running back and fourth across the dead body lying in the road. Broken nose, bruises all over body, obvious signs of struggle. A peculiar scuff on his shoes. Mud and blood along bottom of his pants. Buttons ripped off shirt. Obvious signs of struggle. A single knife wound to the chest was the killing blow. The man was an alcoholic, and had no possessions on him. The area around his mouth stunk of alcohol, so he'd clearly been drinking just before his death. He turned to regard DI Lestrade with a genuine lack of amusement.
"Simple mugging," he stated flatly. "Absolutely boring. Why you needed me I can't quite fathom."
Lestrade chuckled, smiling that infuriating, knowing smile he was so good at. Sherlock's eyes slanted even more.
"And here I thought you'd appreciate getting back into things. Sorry I don't have any fascinating serial killers for you right now. It's been uneventful recently, can't help that." He shrugged nonchalantly as they walked away from the body, letting forensics come in and do their job. Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, sticking one in between his lips and lighting up. He was met with a raised eyebrow. "When did you start smoking again?"
"And when did you start sleeping with my brother?" he retorted in irritation. Lestrade's arrays of emotional reactions were to be expected. Mouth dropped, face got red, and he glanced away with a huff before regarding him again.
"I doubt that's really any of your business, honestly. Talk to Mycroft if you want details, because I won't provide them."
"Serious, then," Sherlock remarked. That much was obvious. Lestrade was being protective over the subject, which meant he cared about what was going on between him and Mycroft more than casual sexual encounters. Interesting. This was why Sherlock despised communication being restricted solely to texting and occasional phone conversations. Had he seen his brother in person, he would've been able to pinpoint exactly when this change of lifestyle had taken place.
He'd never admit it, but he was plagued more with jealousy than irritation on the subject. He couldn't fathom how Mycroft had gotten into a stable relationship, and here he was… He grimaced. He never cared about relationships. He especially didn't care about the fact that he wasn't in one. People that felt they HAD to be in relationships were ridiculously irritating. Now, though, he couldn't stop thinking about the fact that he had a desire to be closer to John. John… The man he couldn't stop thinking about, who wouldn't even talk to him right now. Sherlock had no idea what to expect. He had a feeling this was how his coming back would be handled, and he expected the anger and hostility, and even a little bit of the silence. But would the silence ever break? Would John ever come back to Baker Street again, come back to him again?
"John's not here," Lestrade commented after a moment of silence. Sherlock took a long drag from his smoke and rolled his eyes with a sigh.
"Your powers of observation have gotten no better since I left."
"Ha ha Sherlock. So things aren't going so well?"
"You could say that." Sherlock felt weird talking about it. Lestrade was here with John through everything; he had a better grasp on what all had happened after. How could he talk to the DI about any of this? How could he talk to anyone about it?
"It's an adjustment," the DI continued. "You have no idea just how hard everything hit him, Sherlock. He was a mess. He never stopped being a mess. He sort of became a bit of a zombie, going day by day, but not really doing anything."
"But Mary." It was a statement. Not a question. Something inside of him felt weird when it came to the woman's name.
"They've been together for a while, and not really gotten close. I've noticed. He spends most of his time alone or out with me, honestly. I have no idea what kind of relationship they have, because I've not really seen them together, but he's so detached from everything else in his life. Unfortunately, she's not much different. I hate to say it, but I'm surprised they're still together."
There seemed to be something underneath those words. From the way the DI was talking hinted at it. Sherlock couldn't quite put his finger on what it was, though, and it was frustrating. His pride kept him from requesting something more elaborate, however.
"He told me not to text him," he finally said. "At all. About anything. That was a week ago. I haven't seen or heard anything from him since last week."
"Makes sense," Lestrade nodded. "He needs time away to sort himself out. Be patient. I'd say, though, that you could start texting him again soon. Here and there. You've really been quiet for a whole week?"
Sherlock glared at him, taking another drag of his cigarette. He flicked the butt onto the pavement and stubbed it out with his shoe.
"Yes, Lestrade, I have. He told me not to text and I haven't texted."
"So start texting again."
A pause.
"Are you sure?" Sherlock asked hesitantly. Lestrade nodded.
"Yeah. It's been a whole week and you've done what he asked. Start talking to him again, slowly. Don't bombard him. But ask him to the next crime scene. See what he's doing. A little bit here and there, maybe to help him warm back up to the idea of everything. Of you being back."
Even when they had lived together, Sherlock hardly ever texted John casually. He didn't quite know how to start now. Sure, asking him to a crime scene would be easy. But apart from that, what?
"Perhaps…" he drawled slowly, skeptically. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he turned to leave. "Thank you, Lestrade."
The DI blinked at those words, watching the detective walk away, but smiled slightly before turning back to the crime scene to wrap things up so he could get home to the British government.
They started simple. The texts were few and far between, but they started happening. One night, as John lay down to try and get some sleep, his phone lit up on the nightstand next to him. Curiously, he rolled over onto his side and grabbed it.
'Good night, John. –SH'
John didn't respond. He didn't quite know how. He did, however, find himself siting there staring at the words on his small, bright screen, brow furrowed and hands frozen.
They were infrequent at first. The same three words, sent around the same time each night, every three of four days. Slowly, they began to appear more often. They increased to every other day, and by three weeks in, John was receiving these texts every night. He wasn't sure what Sherlock's point of them was. To remind John he was alive? To tell him that he still wanted to communicate? John wasn't sure. All he knew was that it got to the point where he found himself expecting the texts. He didn't quite know what that meant.
It finally started to dawn on him one night at dinner. He was out at a simple restaurant with Mary and one of her work friends, not at all paying attention to whatever the two women were talking and laughing about. He picked at his food half-heartedly, before feeling his phone buzz in his pocket. Arching an eyebrow, he pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at it under the table.
'Crime scene tonight. Tricky one, rather exciting. Your presence would be appreciated. Will you come? -SH'
His heart skipped a beat and he found himself just staring at it. He shouldn't. He knew he shouldn't. And yet…
"John?" Mary was asking, finally pulling him back into the now. He blinked, before glancing at her apologetically.
"Mary. Sorry. Something came up, I'll see you back home later?" he asked, starting to stand and reach for his jacket. Mary looked as if she was about to stand as well.
"Is everything alright?" she asked. John nodded as he tugged his arm through his jacket sleeve.
"Everything's fine, don't worry. I'll see you at home." He turned to her friend and nodded, excusing himself, before walking swiftly out onto the street, where he started to hail for a cab with one hand and pull his phone out to respond with his other.
'Address? -JW'
