"Alright, guess that's it. Let's get all this wrapped up and put away." Lestrade said, directing his attention to his crew. As they all ran off to do their assigned duties, Lestrade walked up to Sherlock.
"I know you wouldn't just take the bait of a fake tip. But I also know you wouldn't just let a murdered walk away. So what happened?" Lestrade asked.
"Of course I didn't just let them walk away," Sherlock spat, a bit too harsh for the situation. "To be honest, I must have gotten the timing wrong, because whoever they are, they didn't show."
Lestrade stared blankly at Sherlock for a few moments, perhaps trying to get a reading on the unreadable man, before giving up.
"I don't know why you're protecting a murderer," he said quietly, "but there better be a good reason."
Knowing he couldn't hide the truth, Sherlock gave in, revealing both nothing and everything in just a few words. "I always have a good reason."
Lestrade's eyes widened at the confirmation, but to this he said nothing. Instead, he backed up a couple of steps and said (rather loudly, in Sherlock's immodest opinion) "Well, I'm glad your back. Anderson always thought you would be, but I never believed him. Poor bloke, he nearly went mad with guilt and grief over your 'death'"
After 30 minutes of yelling at the taxi driver to drive faster, Sherlock finally arrived at 221 B.
He didn't wait for the car to stop before running up the steps and into the apartment, slamming the door behind him.
"JOHN!" Sherlock yelled, rushing into the living room. As he expected, John was pacing the floor, mumbling, waving his hands wildly at the incoherent words with a frantic look in his eyes. He didn't seem to hear him, so Sherlock called again.
Startled, John looked up. Recognizing Sherlock, he ran to his formerly-believed-dead-friend, he ran to him and hugged him, sobbing into his chest. Sherlock returned the hug, a bit awkwardly but well enough. Trying to get John to come down from his hysteria, Sherlock began to speak.
"John... it's alright... I'm here now... I'm going to help you..."
He soon stopped after realizing he was only making John cry harder, which confused him.
After a solid half an hour of rocking back and forth, somewhat cradling his friend in his arms, Sherlock decided it was time to face reality. Backing away from John, he pulled out his phone and made a single call:
"Mycroft, I believe your assistance is required." Then a long pause. John, standing a few feet away exactly where Sherlock left him, still attempting to compose himself, jumped when Sherlock's fist suddenly hit the wall. "YOU KNEW?!" Another pause, presumably Mycroft trying to get Sherlock to calm down. Once Sherlock had done so, even by the smallest fraction, he seemed to continue, pissing Sherlock off once again. And so, his rage continued: "No, Mycroft, I'm NOT going to turn him in. He's my best friend."
John winced slightly, drawing Sherlock's attention to him. He gave a small smile before listening intently to the other end of the phone once more.
"Yes, that's reasonable." Sherlock then hung up the phone without another word.
"What was that about?" John asked, making an attempt at normalcy. Even in his head it sounded false.
"Mycroft. Making arrangements. You're going to be fine." Sherlock replied shortly.
"Alright," John said, unable and unwilling to dig deeper. Sherlock was staring at him, with a strange look in his eyes. "What?"
"Go to sleep. You look exhausted."
"I'm fine. Besides, even if I was tired, I don't think I would be able to sleep alone."
Sherlock was about to move on before he paused. '"Alone" What on earth does he mean by "alone?" Is this an invitation of some sort?'
Sherlock stood silent, observing John for a little while, finding only "grief," "exhaustion," "depression," and "guilt," which he had already assumed earlier.
Giving in, Sherlock decided to go with the most logical course of action and just ask.
"John? Would you like me to join you?"
John, who had until this point been avoiding his sympathetic stare, met it, nodding eagerly before blushing and looking away again.
'BLUSHING?!' Sherlock thought, 'HE'S KILLED AT LEAST 30 PEOPLE, CONFESSED TO THIS MURDER, AND IS STILL FEELING THE ENORMOUS GUILT. HOW THE HELL IS HE BLUSHING?!'
John grabbed Sherlock's hand and led him to Sherlock's bedroom. Although John seemed to have moved into it, it remained almost entirely unchanged but for a few extra pillows and some of John's clothes thrown hazardously on the ground nowhere near either the closet or the basket.
John, stilling holding Sherlock's hand, sat down on the edge of the bed before scooting upward, pulling Sherlock until he was cocooned within the arms and legs of the detective.
While John arranged him, Sherlock watched with an odd combination of delight, confusion, and awkwardness. There were other feelings too, but Sherlock refused to let those enter his mind.
Author note: I know the ending is a bit cut off, but I needed to end it somewhere sooo here you go. Also, sorry about the space between updates, I've been working really hard but the ideas just. Stopped. Halfway through this chapter, so I had to redo the whole thing. ANYWAY, if you have any suggestions as to what either one's next move should be, let me know!
ONE LAST THING, I am going to try my very best not to rush anything, and you may think that John is acting weird, but it's all a part of my plan. (cue the evil witch laugh, ally) There WILL BE SMUT, but it will be a while before that happens. There's still a lot of angst and feels (tm) to happen before anything spicy can even think of happening. Sorry not sorry.*