A/N: Hoping these longer chapters give you something to sink your teeth into. I wanted the first few chapters to set the tone for what's happening overall for both men. This chapter was inspired by "Near To You" by A Fine Frenzy.
Sherlock sensed John even before he knew what was going on. The hairs on the small of his neck stood on end. His skin became flushed, warm yet still sporting goosebumps. His stomach clenched, his nipples hardening beneath his cotton t-shirt. Small muscles in his lip twitched, pupils dilated, heartbeat elevated. His senses heightened, hearing the blaring car horns and the whispers of the passing crowd and the almost unheard vocals of the crooning lady on the radio, singing about "something always brings me back to you".
Within seconds of his arrival, Sherlock knew John Watson was near. He quickly stepped out of the taxi and onto the curb, his head swiveling along the street to catch sight of the blonde-flecked head of hair he so desperately missed. Sherlock knew John could not be allowed to see him, could not know just yet that Sherlock was living a new life without him. Abruptly, he saw a shorter man in striking red plaid searching the crowd with frantic, needy eyes. Sherlock turned up his collar, smiling as he thought of how John would scoff at such actions in the middle of July.
He sought out the bookshop he had been spending his days ensconced in, drowning himself in the stacks of musty books to occupy his mind. He knew it was risky, stalking John so close to Baker Street. Honestly, he had no idea if John was still living in their flat at 221b. He couldn't imagine why he would; with Sherlock being gone the rent must be difficult to get on with, even if Mrs. Hudson took pity on John's misery. That's if someone hasn't moved in with him yet. The thought crept into Sherlock's unwilling mind as he walked against the midday crowd. No, who would live with John? Ornery at best, the man had almost no one he could rely on to help him while Sherlock was away. Shaking the disconcerting thoughts away, Sherlock hurried through the crowd, suddenly annoyed at every person walking towards him. Thankfully he reached the small, dusty bookshop and ducked inside.
A perfect, forced smile played along Sherlock's lips as the bell on the door tickled a joyful tune upon his entrance. Gerald, the shopkeeper, loved seeing Sherlock daily, however Sherlock was slightly off-put by Gerald's overly-affectionate greetings.
"Ben! Good day? Was wondering if you'd skipped out on us today!"
"Nah, wouldn't dream of it Gerry! What else would I do on such a lovely midsummer's day?"
Gerald chortled behind his counter "Ben, your smart mouth! Direct link to that genius brain, eh?"
Sherlock tipped his hat to the shopkeeper, praying he had time to move to the stacks before John found him through the shop window. He hurried down the shelves, concealing himself behind a large bookcase. Unable to control his desperate need to glimpse John Watson again, Sherlock twisted around towards the picture window at the front of the shop. Warmth and joy spread like wildfire through his veins as the middle-aged soldier stopped at the window. The sunlight raked through John's speckled hair, glinting off the remaining blonde strands, danced along his stubble-lined jaw, highlighted his shoulders, illuminated the slate blue irises and the pale skin. Without hesitation, Sherlock's body reacted to the sight. Sweaty palms gripped his lean thighs, his body on fire with elation, fear, and desire. A small mew of longing escaped from the back of Sherlock's throat, and he had to bite his knuckles to keep from calling out. His eyes remained on the figure on the other side of the window pane, refusing to believe John would simply leave him standing there alone. Any thoughts of John searching the shop for him were dashed as soon as they surfaced, because John was now turning away back into the mill of commoners on the outside.
Sherlock blinked rapidly, gasping when he realized he had been holding his breath. He cursed himself for acting so foolish. John could not know. Sitting down at the closest table, he rested his head on his propped elbows and considered deleting this moment;considered how mush easier it would be if he just deleted John Watson and 221b altogether. He'd been tempted to do so many times before; those long nights laying in bed alone, those brief moments of a song that John used to hum around the flat, the men who resembled John Watson at every turn. They all assaulted Sherlock's mind with memories of his former life, his former home, his former love. Former flat mate. He was never in love with you. Did you forget his string of women, Sherlock? The way he brought them 'round the flat while you worked on cases, how you loathed all of them for being such prats? No, course you didn't forget...
A sudden sneeze brought on by the ever-abundant dust particles rattled Sherlock's brain enough to recover from the unpleasant inner monolog he had been lost in. With a sigh, he rubbed the anxiety from his temples and stood to begin his continuing book project in his corner of the stacks.
"Keep the change" muttered Sherlock as he snatched the takeaway bag from the greasy counter of the deli. It was far too late to be argumentative with a merchant about something as trivial as the £1 stuffed in the tip jar. He had frequented this deli since he moved into the tiny studio apartment located directly above the space. It was not particularly amazing in its preparation of fine deli meats and cheeses, however Sherlock was about as good a cook as Greg Lestrade was at covering up his bad marriage. That is to say, Sherlock was a horrible cook. His skills had progressed in the past year, though, and he could at least provide enough food for himself to stay alive. Why, that's the real question.
He marched up the stairwell, carefully avoiding the steps which sagged under any amount of weight, maneuvering around the holes in the worn carpet, tip-toeing past each door as to not make more noise than necessary. The place was a dump. In reality he could have afforded more acceptable accommodations for Britain's only consulting detective, however technically that detective had died on the cement in front of St. Bart's. Everything Sherlock had now was owned by Ben Moffat. And Benedict Moffat was not a man who owned nice things or lived in nice places. He was a simply brilliant man who had fallen upon hard times, lost his well-paying government job, and had to steeply downgrade his life. Now, he worked at the musty bookshop two blocks away from Baker Street. He wore faded jeans and ratty rock band tees like The Who and Rolling Stones. His hair rested upon his shoulders. Benedict Moffat was almost the antithesis of Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock pushed open his apartment door. Ducking through the doorjamb, he dropped the takeaway onto his sad excuse for a coffee table and kicked the door closed. Someone, somewhere, yelled obscenities about "loud noises at this hour" but Sherlock could not have cared less than he did at that moment. He was cold despite the July heat in London, a loneliness beginning to creep in, weariness radiating from deep in his bones. Sherlock pressed his thumbs into his eyes, steeling himself for yet another night of bad telly and the mediocre deli sandwich with soggy chips. He snatched the bag off of the table and dropped himself onto the sagging sofa that doubled as his bed. The tasteless comedy show flickered on the screen of the small television, casting a soft glow over the long, lean figure slumped back, snoring lightly while his brain drifted off to happier times, of much better flatmates than the family of mice currently noshing on the soggy chips in the Styrofoam container.
