A/N: My apologies to anyone who has been waiting for this chapter. Things have become hectic, and the few times I tried to sit down to write this, nothing wanted to come out.
Sherlock smiled to himself, satisfied, as he stared at the TV monitor, watching John walk away. He leaned back in his seat, eyes on the screen until John was no longer in sight. It was only a few short minutes after that he heard footsteps nearing from down the hallway; Quick, purposeful footsteps that sounded a tad bit too heavy, a tad bit too rushed to not be riled up.
He waited until the footsteps were stepping into the room. "Hello, Mycroft," Sherlock drawled without turning.
"Are you happy with yourself, Sherlock?" Sherlock had been right. Mycroft's voice sounded bored, but he could hear the agitated edge to it.
He finally swiveled the chair to face his brother and flashed a brief smug smile. "Yes, quite."
Mycroft raised his eyes to the ceiling for a moment. It was the closest he ever came to rolling his eyes. "You were so insistent that I help you keep an eye on him. You asked me to help you stay dead because it was imperative to your safety, as well as that of others." Sherlock could see that Mycroft was struggling to keep his composure. "Now, despite all that, you are running around, playing with Doctor Watson, hinting that you are alive, and creating even more of a mess for me to clean up. So tell me, Sherlock: at what point did you decide that your little... games... would be a good idea?"
"I'm bored, Mycroft. It's been nearly a year and yet you have managed to accomplish nothing. I'm running out of patience."
Mycroft's nostrils flared as he stared down Sherlock scornfully. He inhaled deeply, then squinted at his infuriating little brother. "So you thought it would be a good idea to... what, precisely? Are you truly doing this to relieve boredom?"
"Not just mine. His, too."
Mycroft raised his eyebrows a little. "You think he's bored, do you?"
Sherlock gave a quick nod. "If he wasn't, he wouldn't be investigating, pushing for answers that he isn't even sure are there."
"You do know most people do such things out of trivial, silly things such as grief, or desperation or denial?"
"John is not most people."
An almost smile pulled at Mycroft's lips. "True, but that does not mean he doesn't experience... 'normal' emotions."
Sherlock was silent for a bit while they just stared at each other. He brought his fingers into a steeple, his signature move for when he was thinking hard. Through fingers pressed to his lips, he finally broke the silence. "He needs these games, these mysteries, just as much as I do, Mycroft. Even you have seen it- he missed the war because he craves the excitement. It's the only reason he stuck with me, I am sure."
"Even so, the fact still remains that it's imperative you remain dead until everything is sorted out. Are you trying to mess it all up?"
"Bored, Mycroft," Sherlock groaned as he threw himself back against the chair and flopped his arm over his eyes.
Mycroft sighed. "You are going to get yourself killed."
Sherlock's arm flew off of his face and he sat up straight, staring his brother dead in the eyes. "Good! Maybe if I reveal myself, the remainder of Moriarty's men will come after me. It would be the perfect way to lure them out and finally finish this. At least, if anything, it could be a chance at some real fun."
Sherlock's lips twitched at the sight of his insufferable older brother becoming increasingly exasperated with him. Which, of course, only made Mycroft more irritated. They stared at each other for a very long time before Mycroft finally turned to leave.
"I won't ask you again. Do not contact Doctor Watson again," He demanded, not even needing to turn to know that a smug smirk had worked its way up Sherlock's face. "I mean it, Sherlock. So help me..." Mycroft let his sentence trail off as he stepped through the doorway and rounded the corner.
John was done.
It had been two months since the initial contact with Maybe-Sherlock, and a month and a half since he had heard from him last. There were brief messages for a little while, but nothing of consequence. John tried, on multiple occasions, to set up a meeting. Every time he did though, it would be hours, maybe even days before he would receive another text. Even then, when he would finally receive a reply, it never said anything about arranging a meeting.
One day, he finally just stopped responding. A few texts came in in the course of a week, but eventually they ceased altogether, perhaps put off by the lack of response on John's end.
John was done with the game.
He was done trying to grasp at straws. He was angry. He had gone around in circles, thinking that he couldn't handle the crippling disappointment of this anonymous texter turning out not to be Sherlock. Then again, he was furious at the idea that it could be Sherlock. If it was him, that meant... Well, that meant a number of things. It meant he was alive, first off. That was all John had wanted for the entire year, but the knowledge that he had been not only lied to the entire year, but even taunted, played with, made him hope desperately that it wasn't Sherlock after all. Two months was much too long for any decent human being to toy with someone the way they had been toying with John.
It was so inhuman, so the thought that it could be Sherlock after all broke his heart. He was happy remembering Sherlock as, in John's own words, "the most human human being" he had ever met. So, of course, there was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach at the thought that it could be Sherlock- his Sherlock, the Sherlock that he knew wasn't the coldhearted sociopath he told everyone he was. He didn't want to dwell on the doubt when he knew very well that Sherlock was not that heartless. He couldn't be.
But he could, couldn't he? The thought was intrusive, unbidden, and John brushed it away, refusing to acknowledge it.
No, he thought. No, of course not.
Three months after the last contact with Maybe-But-Most-Likely-Not-Sherlock, John decided it was time to start being social again. It was time to date again. After all, he hadn't been on a date since... well, since the "boring school teacher," as Sherlock had not-so lovingly addressed his previous girlfriend. John couldn't even remember her name anymore.
He wished he felt bad about that, but he, for some reason, just couldn't.
So, it was a peaceful, uneventful Sunday evening that brought John to an equally peaceful restaurant with a woman he knew absolutely nothing about, other than the fact that he worked with her, she was very pretty, and they got on well on the occasion they did speak. John wasn't thrilled, he wasn't having the time of his life, necessarily, but it was definitely a lovely time with a lovely woman and some lovely food, so he allowed himself to just sit back, relax, and feel at ease in a way he hadn't for nearly a year.
They were eating very slowly, talking, laughing, enjoying each others company, when John's phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it, barely even pausing before resuming conversation. About two minutes later, there were two more buzzes in quick succession. He would have continued to ignore them despite the immense curiosity, but his date smiled at him, having heard the vibration, and gestured at him.
"I'm sorry, let me just check those real quick and then I'll power it down," he said ruefully as he pulled out his phone.
"By all means," She said as she took a sip of wine, easy going smile on her face.
He brought up his inbox and clicked on the first message, then read through.
John. I'm ready for that meeting you so adamantly suggested. -SH
221 B Baker Street. Come if convenient. –SH
John's stomach lurched.
If inconvenient, come anyway. –SH
His chest seized up.
He held his breath, waiting for the next message to pop up. It was inevitable, he knew. He knew what was coming.
It took a few minutes, but eventually it came through.
Could be dangerous. –SH
John didn't even hesitate before making up his mind to go. He didn't need any more ammunition than those four texts. He knew very well that he was already in danger. He knew very well that he could be walking right into a trap. He knew very well that there was a 1% chance of it actually being Sherlock, but a 99% chance that it would be one of the people who he and Sherlock had supposedly angered. Mycroft made allusions towards there being danger. John was intelligent enough to be full aware that this could very well be that danger rearing its ugly head.
He couldn't bring himself to ignore it.
He decided to take his chances. He had missed the danger, anyway. He almost couldn't function at all without it, despite his numerous, repeated attempts at normality. It just wasn't him.
He looked up at his date, smiling apologetically, meeting her eyes for only a brief moment before she sighed and set her napkin on her plate.
"It's okay," She sighed again. "Sarah warned me this might happen."
Sarah. Of course she'd say something, having been in this exact position.
"I had just hoped," She continued, "that maybe, with Sherlock gone and you not running around the city solving all those silly mysteries, maybe you wouldn't be pulling this kind of thing with your dates anymore."
"I'm sorry, really, I am. It's got nothing to do with any of that kind of thing," He lied. "It's just... there's been an emergency with my sister and I really should go to see her." More lies.
He wasn't sure if she believed him or not. She grimaced, and gestured from him to the front door of the restaurant. "By all means," She said once again. This time, however, a grim, disappointed, annoyed tone edged her voice where the carefree playfulness had been only minutes ago.
John knew he should have done more, should have stayed at least through the end of dinner. They were nearly finished eating, after all. He knew he should have waited, but instead, he jumped up from his chair, muttered one last apology, and darted out the front door. The flat was a few short blocks away from the restaurant, so he didn't bother with a cab. Instead, he sprinted most of the way home.
John had absolutely no idea what awaited him at 221 B, if anything.
But that wasn't about to stop the temptation of finding out what could be there.
Sherlock lay sprawled out across his sofa, lazily plucking at his violin, which he had been extremely pleased -and surprised- to find not only in the flat, but in plain view. John had stowed away quite a few of Sherlock's possessions, but not his violin. And not his skull, either, much to his delight.
He closed his eyes, head reclining on the armrest, waiting for the sound of John's heavy footfalls on the stairs, the sound of his key in the lock. He tried not to dwell on the possibility that John might not even come. He didn't want to admit that he had possibly let too much time pass for John to have stayed the same, and for Sherlock to be allowed to re-enter his life.
No, he didn't want to entertain the idea of any of that.
So, to distract himself, he continued fiddling around with his violin, going back and forth between simple slow plucking with his fingers, to picking up his bow and playing snippets of actual numbers. It was after twenty minutes, when he finally began to feel discouraged, that he heard the door downstairs open then slam shut. He waited, pausing from his absent strumming, while he listened to the rushed footsteps coming up the stairs. Sherlock could tell it was John, and he could tell that, while he was keeping up a quick yet steady pace, he was making a major effort not to sprint. His trepidation, his restrained excitement- it was all in the sound of his footsteps.
Finally, the sound of the key turning the lock, and the click as it was released.
Sherlock held his breath, trying to steady himself, trying to appear calm. He picked up his bow to resume playing, eyes closed, heart palpitating as the door opened.
There was nothing but the sound of his violin for a whole fifteen seconds until he finally ceased his playing, set his instrument on his stomach, and opened his eyes.
"Hello, John."