John set the tea down on the table. Sherlock had yet to lift a finger, but his eyes were locked on the sad imprints of his death in the crinkles around John's eyes. John stared at him emotionlessly.
"You look tired." Stated Sherlock, an useless (and already noted) observation. The words had no purpose, except to fill the silence around them. It was something Sherlock never did, but in that moment, the silence had started to bother him. Back in the old Baker Street, his Baker Street, the silence had shaped clear moment for him to think. John also took pleasure in his silence, and so Sherlock occasionally went out of his way to make ridiculous noises at the most inconvenient times. He made up for it with his excellent violin during festive days, or so he liked to think. The silence was always the sign of mutual agreement, and he relished in the swift moments of silence, back in the old Baker Street. The silence had started to bother him after the fall. But it had never mattered, because he was alone. Alone, pick-pocketing his way through Europe, Asia and America to destroy the last of Moriarty's web. The silence had been his protection, smothering him like a blanket. And yet, here he was, back in the company of his flatmate. Regretful, delighted, and struggling to break the silence.
John picked up his saucer and tea, blowing softly to cool the scalding liquid. Sherlock tapped his fingers restlessly; "You still don't believe that I'm here. Alive." John took a sip, knowing full well it would burn him. The sensation confirmed that he was conscious. He felt no need to respond to Sherlock, seeing as his friend was dead, and this incident was simply a note to himself saying he'd gone mad.
"My deductions," Sherlock sighed, referring to his earlier rant, "They were correct, no?" John paused, then tilted his head slightly. It was enough. "What's her name?" John froze, teacup against his lip. His romantic life was far from interesting to Sherlock. The most Sherlock had ever done was laugh over his poetic emails, and almost kill his coworker Sarah on their first date. The man sitting in front of him was definitely not Sherlock. With this realization, (or verification, for that matter) John relaxed.
"Mary," He said, sipping his tea once again. Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes. It was clear that John was blaming his existence on personal delusion. He regretted showing any interest in this new woman, but considering the fact that she was now living in his flat and waiting to marry his best friend, he felt compelled to ask. "Ordinary name. Mary and John," Sherlock rolled the names around in his mouth, as if testing the taste. "She's lovely, although I'm not quite sure you two would get along," John retorted. Having a conversation with his hallucination wasn't turning out so bad, he had missed Sherlock, after all. His eyes darted to the open door and the window as he hoped nobody was watching or hearing him. Sherlock followed his eyes, and resisted the temptation to chuckle. He's worried about people thinking he's mad. This might actually be a more peaceful solution of contacting John than having him believe I'm alive.
John continued to stare at Sherlock with complete concentration. Sherlock sat there, and for the first time, felt mildly uncomfortable in the presence of his only friend.
"When are you going to leave?" John inquired, stone gaze fixed on Sherlock's confused stare. "Leave? My dear John, I was aware this-" Sherlock swept his long arms in a graceful arc, "-was our home. And I have returned!" John tried to laugh, but choked on his tea and it came out as a gurgle. Sherlock's forehead creased into a frown. "Did you not miss me? I was expecting a joyous celebration, to say the least." His sarcasm slipped past his lips on the last line. John did not look particularly impressed, but stayed silent. Perhaps, he mused to himself, he will simply disappear on his own. It would especially bothersome if this vision stayed all the way until Mary got home. Oh bloody hell, who am I kidding? Sherlock, hallucination or not, will forever pester me to the ends of the Earth.
Sherlock watched every flicker in John's eye, deciphering each thought as it passed through the blonde man's muddled head. "John?" He protested, "I would never pester you." He looked insulted at the idea, "I bring excitement to your life, that's all. Haven't you missed our adventures?" John rested his head on his hands, letting out a long sigh. "Of course I have, Sherlock. But they were more misadventures, and you're dead now." He brought his face up, peeking at Sherlock's smug grin through his war-riddled fingers. "I have a life now, it's different and less exciting, but it's nice. Now please, just walk out that door and let me clean up this tea and clean up before Mary comes home. And take your imaginary jacket with you." Sherlock stopped listening halfway, and had his fingers resting against his lips once more, in a praying position.
"John," His name came out as a mix between a grumble and a whisper. "I want to be back. I want to be here. I worked so hard to get back here." John remained silent. Sherlock's voice was uncertain, the rare tone that he had only heard once before. And he had been strapped to a bomb jacket and struggling to stand in an indoor pool with one psychopath facing against another sociopath. Sherlock's eyes dragged slowly up to John's face. Sherlock's eyes were always shifting in colour; sometimes blue, sometimes green, sometimes grey. The day at the hospital, they had been a sad grey-green that reflected the stormy skyline. Today, they were a piercing shade of cobalt. Sherlock suddenly jerked back, and his typical satisfied smirk crossed his face.
"What?" John inquired, perhaps a bit too harshly. It bothered him, the various faces of Sherlock Holmes. For the most part, they created a sense of inferiority in John yet ultimately told him nothing. Sherlock's expression didn't change, but he slowly reached out and picked up his teacup, balancing the handle delicately on his index finger. John blinked. Once, twice, and then again. He put his hands over his face, as if he were trying to block out the image in front of him. When he peeked through his fingers again, Sherlock was sipping the tea carefully, his analytical eyes tracing the crinkles around John's eyes. The teacup was in the air, there was no doubt about that. Sherlock slurped the last couple drops, then placed the teacup back onto the tray. It was empty. John looked at the teacup, then back to Sherlock.
Teacups don't float. John's thoughts felt methodical and useless.
Tea does not magically disappear. John felt the anger seeping through cracks, as if his heart had been carefully damaged to allow leakage.
I poured tea in that teacup. It felt like flames, now shooting out from his chest and bundling his fingers into fists.
That tea is now gone. It was all a bit of a blur. Well, to be fair, it was a bit of a blur for John. Sherlock saw the action coming clearly, but he welcomed it all the same. John's fist connected with his left cheekbone with great force, but not enough to actually break anything. Sherlock was pushed backwards into his plush armchair, and then the compact army man promptly tackled him out of the seat altogether. Soon, they were on the floor, Sherlock attempting to fend off the lashes that were being thrown at his face and head. Amidst the pain and angry noises John was emitting, Sherlock found some sort of peace in the situation. The blow to his head told him that John had finally accepted the fact that he was back, and now things would slowly restore themselves back to normal. Sherlock was home now, and his life had finally returned.