Sherlock lounged on the sofa, picking apart the different possible motivations for the case Lestrade wanted him to take. Far too boring of course, but having nothing to do had become completely unbearable recently. Wouldn't do to start brooding, he'd promised he wouldn't.
Three more months.
The flat was recovering from the lapse into total chaos that had followed John's redeployment. Sherlock had started cleaning. He hadn't decided whether to tell John or not, no need to give the man a heart attack or set any sort of precedent. His mouth quirked into a half smile at the thought of John's likely reaction.
Just three more months.
Halfway there. To be honest, his newest virtue had nothing to do with caring about the state of the flat. It being clean meant it felt more like John was there. He could have stepped out to do the shopping, or be coming home from work. Having the kettle boiling, the newspaper on Johns chair folded neatly, the unused cane leaning in its corner…without them it felt hollow. This way it felt like home.
Just three.
It had become a mantra in his head, counting down the time until John was allowed to come home. It was the last time, John had promised. Sherlock remembered coming home from a particularly obvious but intriguing case, a cooler with yet another head in it for further study of the phenomenon in his hand, to find a tall dark uniformed man sitting in his living room. He'd known at once of course, the way they faced each other, old friends, the concerned slant of John's eyebrows, the way John had looked up and met his eyes with a helpless concern and a touch of guilt. Sherlock hadn't spoken to him that night.
So close. Three more.
He'd forgiven him of course. He couldn't blame John for his loyalty, his desire to help an old friend, his honorable desire to finish the mission that he'd been sent home on. These were the things that made John John. He just wished it didn't have to hurt so much. He'd said he probably couldn't call or make contact, they would be out of reach and under cover. Three months of not knowing what was happening, if his John was alive or dead, or wounded, or perfectly fine. Of not knowing whether John missed him as much as he did.
Three months more of the same.
He vaguely heard the telephone ringing in the background, Mrs. Hudson answering it as usual. Then, the change of tone in her voice, the surprise…
"Sherlock dearie…" Mrs. Hudson called up the stairs in her reedy voice, but Sherlock was already off the sofa bounding across the room to wrench the door open, taking the stairs down three at a time, almost running into the banister as he leapt it at the bottom, and snatching the phone out of Mrs. Hudsons hand only moments after she'd spoken.
He paused, clutching the receiver, listening to the silence.
"John?"
He could hear the smile, the warmth in the familiar voice that spoke to him out of the receiver.
"Hello Sherlock."
He leant against the wall in relief and suddenly he was grinning like a madman, as Mrs. Hudson smiled and left her kitchen to let them chat. John filled him in on what had been happening to him (no injuries as of yet) and listened as Sherlock talked, telling him everything he could remember, all the deductions that John should have been there for, all the jokes and sarcastic comments that he'd wanted to tell him. He even told John about the cleaning, just to hear that perfect laugh and imagine that silly wide grin that so often flashed across his partner's face.
"Sherlock, I have to go." The phone briefly crackled with static. "I love you."
Sherlock swallowed, his eyes bright, heart beating wildy as he checked the kitchen to make sure Mrs. Hudson was out of hearing.
"I love you too."
Three months suddenly didn't seem so long after all.