Even the silence with him was priceless now, just to see him rigid with thought, laced into his un-creaking leather chair. The room that had once been so familiar felt alive when he sat across from him, but still John's mind guttered like a candle burning off its own tallow, the waxy remnants of nightmares dripping down his creased forehead.
Memories etched into his mind like a tombstone. Declaring his life was a lie, when the truth was rolling down his cheeks. Stop it, now. Stop thinking of the crises that had been solved by his return.
But the shadow of the shame still stood, bleak before the grey London skies, bleeding out across careless pavestones...
There was something strange about the way such deception lingered in his heart: like he saw his best friend's face superimposed on the broken skull of years ago, and then with a few swift blinks the layers of gore washed away, shaven and suited, deep in contemplation mere meters away.
And when he fell – what did he feel? Purpose? Martyrdom? Regret? Simultaneously he loathed and longed for the latter, both wanting him to feel the guilt for his sake, and never wanting him to tap into the pain he'd caused.
Then again, of course, Sherlock Holmes didn't feel. He was, obviously, beyond that. He was unsympathetic of sorrow and un-adept with emotions. Or so everyone else though.
"I'll burn you. I'll burn the heart out of you."
"I've been reliably informed that I don't have one."
"Yeah, but we both know that's not quite true."
John found it sickeningly funny that he had understood that elusive part of his character as well as he did. Even Sherlock didn't seem to acknowledge it most days, so engrossed in the vital inconsequentiality of his 'work'. Now as the bachelor's eyes flickered to him, he watched his mind toying with that dire irrelevance he clung to. In the old days, Watson might have tried to talk to him; now the problems he tumbled over in his head were just as complex.
Could he ever forgive him for all the destruction he had caused? The heartbreak, the suffering, the danger he had instigated had led him into a world more threatening than the battlefield: for now he warred with emotions: unresponsive to negotiations, invulnerable to combat, and any attacks on the enemy only lacerated himself.
Who knew how many hours he'd been sat in the deep-sinking cushions of his armchair, burning down the wick of his anxieties, but he began to long to hear the man's voice again. Sometimes he just had to check that this safe haven of waking dreams he had found wasn't just his straining imagination as it had been for so long.
Clearing his throat, John shifted in his chair, feeling a strike of phantom pain in his leg. That never works, he belittled himself; I'd have to be on the roof of St. Bart's to get his attention. He sighed away a shudder that snuck up his spine, and drew himself to his feet, debating whether a cup of tea would just go cold next him; he had grown used to the patheticism of trying to get Sherlock to notice him.
He watched the transparent kettle boil, transfixed by a million bubbles breaking free from the agitated water, and just in the same way did his thoughts percolate. What troubled him the most was the idea of it happening again – of him leaving, in any manner or interpretation. For there were no words which could save him then, no way to talk down a determined Holmes. The soldier who slept within him raised his head at the idea, but besides killing him himself, he knew there would be no stopping him.
The button clicked upward; he shook himself from his daze long enough to fetch two mugs, and to watch the dark shades of tea swirl into tangled threads of milk, a sight nearly as soothing as the gentle curls of his thick raven locks.
Now what am I thinking? Snap out of it, or else he'll only disappoint you, if the past is anything to go by.
He scooped up the mugs and stepped back through into the living room, dodging the no-longer-dusty chemistry and near-enough murder kits, his gaze catching on Sherlock's for a moment, but his vision was glazed over by endless reels of mental documents. He had to smile at his focus, leaning down to rest his tea on top of the chess board, the king lying dead while the queen stood over him, before turning back to his own chair and-
"Thanks."
He nearly spilled his tea, spinning round and eying him as if he had performed a miracle. Animated once more, the detective's eyes were bright as life, frowning slightly as if the new case had stumped him – the case of Dr Watson's random surprise. John stared back, and began to grin; the single syllable was enough to prove God's existence, as far as he was concerned, and it drifted through the air like an unheard symphony.
"You're welcome," he replied at last, sitting down slowly, revelling in the scrap of attention he had been rewarded with.
Sherlock smiled, confused but nevertheless happy he had made John so; it was simple to remark that he himself had experienced the most joy in his life on the day of his return to John (even though he had nearly killed him shortly after). Even now he felt fragments of that divinity whenever he saw his partner smile, and it warmed him in a way he'd never truly felt or understood before.
He reached over and took the mug in nimble hands, sipping at it as an aristocrat might taste an expensive bottle of rosé, dabbling the liquid across his tongue, flicking it across his palette, before swallowing silently and letting it slip away, leaving traces of its essence. The rush of tastes overwhelmed his diligent musings, and he allowed himself to be pleasantly distracted by the look of accomplishment on the doctor's face, even if he was a little unsure from where such a pride stemmed.
Curious, he asked, "What are you so gleeful about?"
John shrugged lightly, unwilling to answer "you" lest Mrs Hudson overhear and instantly run to tell the neighbours. But he licked his lip thoughtfully, and then told him as truthfully as he could bear, "It's good to have you back."
"I've been back for nearly a year," Sherlock shot back, deadpan.
"Yeah, I know, but..." he trailed off, feeling that too much sentimentality might burn the man alive. But Sherlock watched him attentively, waiting for an answer; John couldn't find the words to phrase one, so he shifted and cleared his throat and shrugged again, hoping he might let it go – but of course, he would not. "You know – well, actually, you probably don't... Ah... When you miss... something... you think it'll never come back." He sighed softly, unable to restrain his lips as they curved upward, his eyes keenly locked to those of the inquisitive friend before him. "But you did."
He smiled again, and Sherlock smiled with him, for once nearly wholly sympathetic. "No, I do know," he answered quietly. Now his gaze faltered to his drink. "Of course I know."
John sniggered through a gulp of tea to disguise his relief. "Oh really?"
"Eh, maybe," he replied with a dismissive wave of his hand, grinning and glancing back up at him almost cheekily.
For a few more moments they drank in amicable silence, and as they did their troubled thoughts evaporated; what more was there to worry about when they were in each other's company? The last niggling anxiety in John's mind, he seized by the root, ripping it out as he uttered, "But if you ever try to leave again, I will murder you myself, just to make sure you don't scare the shit out of me some years in the future. Got that?"
Sherlock chuckled, and he didn't have to say it: he could see it in his dutiful eyes, his eased posture, his gently bobbing foot: there were no circumstances that would make him part from John Watson ever again, even if it killed them both.
Perhaps not the utmost optimism, but it was the highest offer of loyalty he could ever profess.
And just like that, they had rekindled their flame. The doubts would always linger, when the pressure of the situation became too great and they feared the worst, but the shimmer of candlelight of their promises would illuminate at least a little of the darkness, and, one case at a time and in each other's true company, even if bickering every now and then led them to opposite corners, they could begin to put the world to rights once more.