"So, you have questions."
John's smile was sad. His left hand was wrapped around a mug of tea while he was running his thumb over the pads on the fingers of his right. It took only three months from the time he started playing for the calluses to form. Now, with the amount that he's played, it was comforting feeling of rough along his fingers.
"Where have you been? Why did you lie? I have a lot of questions, Sherlock. Not many will be easy to answer."
Sherlock took a deep breath, cataloguing their appearances. His eyes must have matched John's red-rimmed ones. His lip was busted and his cheek had a cut that looked like it would scar.
He imagined that their exhaustion mirrored each other's as well.
There were many ways that he could have responded to John's angry, resigned questions and statement. He only had the energy to say: "I know."
"Hello, Mrs Hudson."
"Oh, John! It's so good to see you here again, dear. I was starting to worry you wouldn't show up. I should never have doubted you."
"Where else would I go?"
"I don't know dear, and that's what worried me. Sherlock's upstairs, probably already knows it's you. Is that all you brought?" The elderly landlady gestured to the two old duffle bags in one hand and the violin case in the other.
"It's all I had worth bringing," His smile was self-deprecating. He had left most of his stuff at their flat when he left.
"Well, go on up. Keep the yelling to a minimum, for now, at least."
"Will do, Mrs Hudson."
John made his way up the well-worn 17 steps and stopped outside of the living room. The door had been left opened and Sherlock was sitting in the middle of the floor between their two chairs. He was cross-legged and in his dressing gown. John was shocked to see how normal everything looked. It was as if neither of them had ever left.
"I didn't think you were actually going to come." Sherlock stood up with way more grace than any regular person.
"Why wouldn't I?" John cocked his head and stepped over the threshold, his chest loosening.
"I suppose I thought that you were still mad at me. Possibly hate me. Meet someone, moved on. The list is endless."
"Of course I'm still pissed, you git. Doesn't change that I care about you. And me? Meet someone? In what, three days? How could I have ever moved on from you in the first place?" John scoffed. And then winced. That sounded a lot more sad and pathetic than he had meant it to. It was also too close to the truth. "You do want me here, right? I'm not overstepping my bounds?"
"The question is, I think, do you want to stay?"
John gave Sherlock a soft smile. "I wouldn't be anywhere else." John stepped into the living room and slowly turned around. Even Sherlock's violin was out and the skull on the mantle.
"I believe it was Mycroft, to answer your question. He kept the with the payments after… well, After."
John made a noise of affirmation, ignoring the comment about what happened for now. Instead, he looked down at his watch. It was late. Ish. "How about we go out for dinner tonight? Angelo's? If you haven't already eaten, that is."
"No, I haven't. Angelo's sounds perfect. He's already aware of my return, so I hope he shouldn't cause too much of a scene."
"I'm guessing you aren't already public knowledge, though?"
"When I am, we won't be able to leave the flat for a week, at least. Lestrade already knows, too."
John nodded. "Mind if I go put my stuff in my room?" He held up the arm carrying the duffel bags.
Sherlock didn't say anything about the amount of John's measly belongings, just a simple "Of course," and John was up the steps and out of the suffocating formality that sprung up between them. God, Sherlock trying to make any type of small talk was a nightmare in itself.
They walked to Angelo's, both of them quiet. They walked close together, closer together than they had Before. John couldn't bring himself to care if it meant he was able to physically ascertain that Sherlock was actually here and real.
They entered Angelo's and took their usual spot by the window. Angelo brought out a candle with a wink, saying nothing about Sherlock's and John's return. Neither one of them said anything about the candle.
John also didn't comment on how much Sherlock was eating when they got their food (it was what used to be their usuals, Before. Before Sherlock fell and John cut off ties to the outside world). He was eating like he just finished a week long case; putting as much food as he deemed reasonably polite while doing his best to look disinterested in the food.
When Sherlock wasn't shoving his face full of food, he was rattling off deductions about the other diners, just loud enough that John could hear him if he was almost pressed up against Sherlock's side, head bent down. He hid his laughs in his napkin and once or twice almost choked on his food. It was nice. It was normal. It felt painful.
It was almost like Before. This time, however, John could see the effect Sherlock's time away had on him. He was twitchy, more so than usual, his eyes never settled on a single spot for more than several seconds at a time.
John didn't say anything when he saw Sherlock flinch at a loud noise from the kitchen, or how he grimaced when he tried to push his back against the seat. John watched as Sherlock tried to resist the urge to look over his shoulder to the street, and John did his damnedest not to draw a conclusion without more data. All he had was a busted lip and a cut cheek.
Because this is painful. It hurts. The time away, Before Sherlock and After Sherlock, and it's something else. It's present it's undeniably there. This pain, this bittersweet emotion is yelling at him, screaming at him hoarse that none of this is real. That John can't have this. He's cracked and something happened, but this isn't it. John doesn't deserve a second chance, it tells him. John is useless, unneeded and unwanted. If Sherlock really came back, what would he want with John? What would be the point? What does John contribute? What good comes out of caring, it questions. John couldn't even talk down his one true friend from a rooftop. What happens when Sherlock leaves again? It's screaming again, saying that if Sherlock did it once, he can do it again. Sherlock doesn't care about him, he can't. Those things don't happen to John because John doesn't live in a fairy tale. Even if he did, John knows he wouldn't be the good guy.
He fell in love with the person who matters most. He mourned him, was still mourning him. He wrote him music and cried and sobbed and came so close to just…Well, to just following Sherlock to where John had thought him to be.
That thought makes John want to rage. He wonders what Sherlock would have done if John really did make that decision.
They have a lot to talk about. Too much that bears thinking right now. He didn't want to ruin a perfectly good night. It was so long since John's had one.
When they get home, John thinks. When they get home.