Dr. Watson had hoped that the fresh air of London and the city lights beaming down might renew the vigor that seemed to have departed the famous—and infamous—Sherlock Holmes, but it seemed to be the opposite. As they strolled down the sidewalk—Dr. Watson insisting that it would be nicer to walk than to catch a cab—it seemed that the streetlights only emphasized Sherlock's gaunt cheeks and drawn eyes. While Sherlock had always been a man of impeccable hygiene and grooming practices, he seemed now to be a dirty, unshaven man with matted hair and a sad gait.
Certainly, Sherlock noticed the sidelong glances coming from the nervous army doctor, but he said nothing and pressed his lips into a thin line, walking as if he were in pain and pressing the silence with the very mystery of his character. Dr. Watson worried whether drugs were to blame and the thought crossed his mind that perhaps Sherlock did not notice, and was in fact oblivious to the nuances of the world he had once been so attuned to.
He opened his mouth to speak.
And shut it again.
"Yes, John?" Sherlock asked, finally, putting a hand out to the doctor's chest, silently asking them to slow down.
Dr. Watson didn't comment on this implicit request, doing his best to refrain from any reaction that would betray his concern. Tall, lanky, and ever oblivious to the needs of others, Sherlock was always quick, walking hastily about London as if he had some great purpose in his direction, which, if Dr. Watson was honest, he always seemed to have.
"Yes, what?"
"You are observing, but not seeing, and you are wondering what you are not seeing. Would it not be better simply to ask?" He looked as though he wanted to smile, but his mouth only twitched at the corner and he returned his hands to his coat pockets. Something on his face seemed to indicate trouble to Dr. Watson, whose soldier instincts often warned him of danger before he could detect it himself, and whose medical instincts often warned him of other problems in advance, as well.
His hands clenched into fists again and he took a moment to breathe and unclench them, just as his therapist had taught him.
You've got a psychosomatic limp. Of course you've got a therapist.
It seemed like years ago that the two men had sat in a cab together and Sherlock had explained just how he had deduced so much about a man he'd just met, and of course it was. It had been years since they'd solved their last crime. And years since Sherlock Holmes jumped from the roof of Bart's Hospital in front of his best friend on the ground below.
This phone call, it's, um… It's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?
Leave a note when?
Goodbye, John.
Dr. Watson shook his head and closed his eyes, unable to stand the fiery gleam of his friend's blue ones. He remembered the blood—fake blood, he had later learned—that had run down those same blue eyes just two years ago, and had to force himself to breathe normally.
"John." That soft voice that had always pushed Dr. Watson out of his own trauma now shook with its own.
"You were dead. And you came back."
Sherlock was uncharacteristically quiet, his lips pressed into a line again, his face pale.
"But you haven't really come back, have you?"
The two men stood in silence, neither able to meet the other's eyes, but neither able to look away for long. They hadn't really changed much. Dr. Watson had only recently shaved his mustache and his clean face was set in a firm scowl that spoke to the conflict of anger and grief that gnawed at him. It really was no surprise that Sherlock had deduced his military service just from looking at the man. His stance, his posture, his features set in stone but somehow so soft as if he had spent as much time scowling as he had crying. Sherlock's appearance was different, of course. His normally clean face bore the faint stubble of a man whose diet did not permit a healthier display of facial hair. His eyes were sunken but bore the same crystal clarity as ever and it was apparent that he saw exactly as much as he ever had.
Which meant, of course, that he saw right through John Watson.
"No," he finally whispered, "But I haven't come back to the same London, either."
The stood for another moment before Sherlock raised an arm and hailed a cab.
_X_X_
It wasn't until they pulled up outside the familiar restaurant that Dr. Watson finally reoriented himself to the world around him. He couldn't help a laugh when he saw where they were.
"'A Study in Scarlet,' I believe?" Sherlock confirmed, smirking at his friend as they faced the restaurant they had shared a meal while on their first case together. Dr. Watson pushed aside the image of shooting the cabby that tried to poison Sherlock and settled on the feeling of surprise that Sherlock almost remembered the name of the blog post about it.
"Pink." He said, laughing, as they approached the small building.
Taking a seat, the same seat they had taken all those years ago, the two men ordered food and waited for their meal.
Sherlock, it seemed, ordered as much food as Dr. Watson had ordered the first time they'd been here. He remembered being simply ravenous that first night, not hardly having eaten since his return to London, struggling as he was with the PTSD that followed him home from Afghanistan.
He was glad that Sherlock seemed to be eating more than he had for a while, as well.
For a while, it seemed like old times and the two were able to chat as normal. Quickly, however, they ran out of things to say that properly avoided the things they knew they needed to talk about.
"So. Mary, then? I mean you're marrying Mary?"
"Ah, yes. That's the plan."
"That'll be nice. Yes. I mean marriage is sort of sham and ultimately will doom the species but I'm glad that you seem happy." He seemed to start a smile and then realize he'd said something wrong and frowned again. "I'm sorry, I only meant that I'm happy for you."
"Right."
Silence again.
"What about you? You doing anything exciting now that you're back? Or doing any…one…exciting?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Well you have a flat to yourself now. You could have a woman over. Or The Woman. Or another woman."
"Or no women. You know I'm married to my work, John."
"Right but you don't exactly seem to have been doing much of that."
Silence.
"I'm sorry." It was Dr. Watson's turn to apologize but he knew that 'sorry' didn't mean much to Sherlock Holmes and bitterly regretted having said something so harsh.
"No you're not." Sherlock whispered, staring out the same window where they'd laid eyes on the killer cabby and then chased down some poor American bloke on vacation. "And you're right, too. You're always right." Just a whisper.
"Not always. I wasn't right about you, Sherlock."
The detective's eyes turned back to his friend, who was frowning at his hands and avoiding eye contact again.
"I'm staying tonight," Dr. Watson finally said. "Let's go back." He put a hand in the air for the waiter, who merely waved them away. "Right. Forgot he doesn't charge you."
The city lights seemed poisonous to a sad Dr. Watson who stared out the window at a London that seemed, now, to betray him. Of course, that was silly. But Sherlock's words hurt to hear and he worried that the city wouldn't save the man who loved it so much and who knew every turn and street-sign and member of its vast homeless network. How was he supposed to save his friend when he couldn't even see what ailed him? He wasn't, it seemed, a very good doctor at all.
Stepping onto the familiar curb outside 221B, Dr. Watson felt as though he had done nothing at all to help his friend, although he was certainly more convinced that he needed help.
Without a word, they entered the building and headed upstairs to their unit. The unit, Dr. Watson reminded himself firmly. The flat that Sherlock Holmes occupied alone and very sadly.
Unfortunately, Dr. Watson had forgotten the present state of the flat and his face darkened when they entered.
"You never said," Sherlock asked, sinking into his chair as though it was quite a relief to finally sit, although they had been sitting just a few moments before, "were you here to pick something up?"
Dr. Watson blinked, surprised. "No," he finally said, "I'm here to stay the night. Thought you wouldn't mind if I came around?"
Sherlock's eyes were guarded as he surveyed his friend. "Of course not, John. 221B is your home in many respects and will be as long as I occupy it, I'd imagine. "
"Thank you. I should think so, as well."
Awkward as ever, Dr. Watson finally crossed the room and sunk into the chair across from Sherlock, who had closed his eyes as if to block out a painful memory that cropped up suddenly and unwontedly. He watched as Sherlock's face moved—twitched, rather—and finally settled. Dr. Watson considered himself fairly devoid of a more strongly poetic streak but the vivid image of a broken child resigned to waiting out a bad storm by crouching in it came to mind and the comparison to the great Sherlock Holmes was a heartbreaking one.
"I think," Sherlock finally said glancing at his watch, "that it is time for bed."
Dr. Watson kept his eyes down. "Right." He finally said.
"Your room is still yours to use, John. Goodnight."
And with that the detective stood and left for his room, walking with a limp that Dr. Watson hadn't noticed before.
"What happened to you, Sherlock?" He whispered to himself before following his friend down the hall and entering his old room, collapsing on the bed without changing his clothes.