So the dreams are gone, time to face the reality...
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Reality
The two following days were filled with the atmosphere of waiting. Sherlock slept most of the day to heal his wounds a bit and treat his runny nose. The rest of time he spent on reading the information about the terrorist network that Mycroft had so obviously discreetly left on his desk.
So Sherlock sat and went through the documents, each time falling asleep at some point. It seemed everything was over now, that he was back in England, but somehow he still felt out of place. Already in London, but not yet home. He needed to feel that city again, to get accustomed to the changes, to breathe the car fumes...See his places again, visit his friends...
Only weariness and injuries from Serbia prevented Sherlock from dropping everything, including Mycroft's documents, and visiting John at Baker Street. He felt that he hadn't wandered around the world for two years, to be forced to stay at his brother's unfriendly house and bear his rare company. Mycroft had a lot to catch up after his absence, so he spent all days at his office, and even in the evenings he had something to read through. Not that Sherlock particularly wanted o have a chat and sip tea with his brother.
He couldn't breathe in that house, he just wanted to go out and finally come back, but he had to admit his brother was right when he said that he would probably give Mrs. Hudson heart attack, if he went on Baker Street in his current state. So Sherlock gave himself two days to rest a bit, and then he demanded a hairdresser. Indeed, if he wanted to go out, he needed to make himself presentable.
They sat in Mycroft's study in the cellar, a dark and unfriendly place in Sherlock's opinion, each of them buried deep in his thoughts. Mycroft got stuck in that terrorist problem of his, suggesting that the it was far beyond fun and the situation was serious now. On the other side of the room, Sherlock enjoyed little things. A pair of suit trousers, a new shirt... God, he hadn't had a decent shirt for so long! Even if this one was half a size too big to cover all the dressings, it still fit.
Mycroft had to mention Serbia of course, pointing out in somehow ungraceful manner the fact that his brother didn't verbalize his gratitude. This brought Sherlock's attention to the detail that had earlier escaped his mind. Truly, he was grateful for the rescue, that Mycroft had brought him back home... But at the same time he realized bitterly that his brother could have gotten him out earlier, instead of watching them torture him... Of course, Mycroft had a reasonable excuse and Sherlock would probably accept that, if his back wasn't killing him.
Once the decent atmosphere was gone, there was nothing to do to repair it. Mycroft bored him to death with that terrorist attack, Sherlock kept changing subject. A simple question about shirt, then, when he couldn't resist any longer, a question about John...
Just like the detective thought, his brother had collected all the information about his friend and his wellbeing. At the top of the file was a photo, probably the most recent they had. Sherlock winced at the barbarism in a shape of plain, boring mustache on John's face, and ignored Mycroft's nagging.
Soon enough Mycroft repaid him with simple remain. 'John isn't at Baker Street anymore. He has moved on with his life." Sherlock was calm enough to hide his emotions under a nonchalant response, but he felt as if someone removed ground from under his legs. What did he mean, that John was no longer at Baker Street? How could he not be there? Sherlock was coming home, back to London, to John at Baker Street, it was all connected.
Then he heard one more thing. Another remark, said in a tone that suited more a chat about the weather, which would be difficult, as the study didn't have any windows. You might consider that you might not be welcome. What a nonsense! After all, he was coming back, just like John pleaded, he was going to stop being dead, so how could he not be welcome? Surely it was his brother's isolation affecting his judgment. He had never had friends, and Sherlock had been gone for two years...
No, Sherlock wasn't going to let his brother spoil his joy. He struggled through the conversation and promised to take care of that terrorist problem... as soon as he met John, he needed his help after all.
xxx
He did try, honestly. Maybe it was because all the painkillers Sherlock had taken to be able to function more or less normally, but he came to nothing. Dressing up as a waiter, drawing mustache, fake French accent... All of this was meant to lighten the atmosphere, not to make his comeback begin with a disappointment. John Watson didn't recognize Sherlock, he didn't even look at the waiter who helped him choose a good champagne. The disappointment was painful, but that was nothing compared to what happened next, when the doctor finally looked.
One hit. John dully hit the table with his fist and Sherlock was ready for a panic retreat. He needed all his willpower to remain unmoved. And then it turned out that his attempts to turn the whole situation into a joke failed completely. Sherlock flew across the room, pushed by John, and he was too paralyzed to even try defending himself. Not that he had any chance to succeed.
It hurt. It wasn't only the fact that the impact from the fall left him breathless, or that his back was a mess of just dried cuts and his ribs slowly turned from purple to green, it wasn't even the fact that someone had to drag him back on his feet before they were shoved out... What hurt most, was that John had used physical violence against him so soon after Serbia.
Sherlock wanted to tell him. He desperately wanted to choke out everything he would never mention in Mycroft's presence, he wanted to share all the experiences from the last two years, that few good ones, and also the ones that left bloody marks of scars, pain and the lack of everything.
He couldn't. He remained silent as they went to the nearest bar, and John went as if he could turn around at any time and hit him again. All the reflexes from that last two years screamed in Sherlock to run away, but all he could to was to follow his friend, desperate for a normal human interaction, because he definitely couldn't call that these few days spent with Mycroft.
And then Sherlock said one word too many, or maybe he said something wrong – John hit him again. And this time Sherlock also didn't make any move to defend himself. A glass went on the floor first, Sherlock followed soon after. This time no one helped him up, as Mary, still surprisingly unmoved by the whole situation, was trying to calm John. Sherlock got up, hiding a wince of pain, because he probably deserved that. Probably – because he didn't know for sure. Right now he had no idea what he had done wrong or what should he do to make John stop hating him.
For a moment Sherlock deluded himself that it got better. They stood in yet another bar, because Sherlock wouldn't risk leaning his back against anything, they stood and talked, and John even answered the question about his mustache. He shouted a bit, but Sherlock saw a carefully concealed smile in his eyes. So maybe John was a bit glad after all? This deceived Sherlock, he allowed himself too much liberty. Sherlock knew that John had missed him, but the doctor wasn't ready for someone to tell him that straightforward. He wasn't ready to hear that from the detective.
This time Sherlock blacked out. One moment he was standing and talking, the next he was laying on the floor and for a long, horrible second he thought someone was going to hit him again and demand answers in Serbian. Only after a while did he realize that it was John's companion leaning over him and handing him a handkerchief. What for...? Oh, right, that warm thing leaking under his collar was blood from his nose...
Mary was intriguing. After Sherlock interrupted John's proposal, she had every right to make a hell of it, even he knew that much. But instead of getting offended or demanding from John to leave at once, she stood aside and interrupted them only when John became too agitated. Right now she stayed with Sherlock and left the local with him, though the doctor had stormed out earlier to catch a cab. She was entirely different from all the previous partners John had had, but then John had never tried to propose to any of them. Interesting.
But before Sherlock had a chance to talk to Mary a bit more, John caught a cab and they both drove away, leaving Sherlock on a pavement with a bloodied handkerchief and Mary's promise, that she would talk to John. Sherlock stood there for a moment, and then went slowly down the street, considering what to do next. Meeting with John left marks, and it wasn't just about his bloody nose, but that complete helplessness when it came to his friend's behavior... If he could still call John his friend.
So what next? Of course, Sherlock could go back to his brother, admit his defeat and try to remember how it was to work in London without John, but today he needed someone who would be glad to see him. He didn't jump just for John, after all...
Molly was first. Sherlock went straight to her, stopping only in a toilet before finding his pathologist, because he didn't want to scare her. He thought that maybe he should have seen her before he went to John, but then he had someone to go to now, when something went bad. Just like then...
At least it all went just like Sherlock predicted. He startled her, because he didn't let her know he was coming, he didn't even text her, but Molly just smiled at him, friendly and honestly, and that was all he needed. They talked a bit and for that moment it was as if Sherlock had never left... Well, almost. The image of Molly from the two years before was corrupted by the ring that irritated Sherlock so much, not because Molly was engaged, but because Mycroft was right yet again. It wasn't only John who had moved on... So Sherlock gave up his urge to tell her in general where he was and where was he coming from. After seeing John he felt he shouldn't... he didn't have the right to disturb her.
xxx
It was a long evening. Long and cold, and even if it had a few pleasant moments, like meeting Molly and Gavin, it left him mostly with the feeling of disappointment and loss. Sherlock stumbled to Baker Street, bitterly remembering his own cheery remarks from the morning. Go to Baker Street, jump out of the cake, John would be delighted. And Mycroft's reply, disgusted by his brother's joy. Consider you might not be welcome.
"Damn you, Mycroft," muttered Sherlock, slowly walking up the stairs, tired and aching. Mrs. Hudson, after the first urge to smash a pan on his head, laughed and cried at the same time, hugging him and commenting his appearance. Sherlock let her, hungrily absorbing her warmth, but the painkillers stopped working, his back was aching, and he was already half asleep on his feet. Tomorrow he would take care of that terrorist network for his brother, today he just wanted to come back home... Which appeared to be not quite possible.
Mrs. Hudson made his bed, still talking and even demanding some answers. Sherlock listened, not particularly caring what, just listening to her voice. As soon as the elder lady had enough and left, he just threw his shoes and coat and fell into the fragrant bedding. He still needed to sleep.
This night every light was turned on at Baker Street.