That familiar voice. Saying his name. no question who it was, no need for Sherlock's mind or memory. The recognition of the name was a reflex action. Sherlock's entire body clenched and tightened, his hand's tightened on the newspaper. John couldn't know he was back. Now that Sherlock though about it he realised that he was embarrassed by everything, for leaving John the way he did. He was too embarrassed to see him again, to look him in the eyes and try to find the words to explain the wherefores and the hows. He couldn't do it.
How had John recognised him? He had changed himself, the way he talked, walked, looked - he knew that his disguise was good enough. And he had the newspaper in front of his face, hiding his prominent cheek bones and his angled face. Only his eyes remained over the top of the paper, the piercing eyes that intimidated, shocked, scared, intrigued, attracted… reactions that changed as much as the eyes themselves did, never constant or settling on a colour.
From over the paper, John came into sight, he was limping again. He was moving as fast as he could towards Sherlock's bench, his shoulder getting more and more sore with the extra strain that he was putting on it with the cane in his hand – the fast he tried the move, the slow he became, not being able to use his cane as well with the increasing pain in both his arm and leg.
It was now that Sherlock gave another glance at the boy at his feet, who had now defeated the double knot and was feeling very proud of himself. And it was now too that the boy looked up at Sherlock. Sherlock knew those eyes, he had looked at them so many times before. They were eyes that looked at him usually full of admiration, enthusiasm, occasionally disappointment or defiance, but something that they never had was fear, offense and always hope.
These eyes looked with only confusion, these eyes didn't know this Sherlock's face or mind or life. All he knew was that the man who gave him the eyes – who he had obviously escaped from much too quickly for that man to keep up with his cane – was his father and was calling his name.
'Sherlock, Christ's sake! How many times? Don't wonder off like that, where's your teddy?'
John picked up his son with a grunt and much difficulty and bushed him clean of the dirt he had been sitting in. The little Sherlock only giggled and grabbed at his father's arms, squeezing them and holding on as tight as he could, his adventure over and happy to be safe in John Watson's arms once more.
John turned to the ginger man his son had been harassing, 'Sorry about that, mate. He's just always running off, full of energy, take advantage of me' John laughed, a flash of sadness and some of that embarrassment pashing behind his eyes as he gestured to his aching leg, 'You know how kids can be sometimes'
'Um, of course, it's fine… excuse me.' Sherlock got up from the bench and turned away from his best friend – his only friend. He walked away as fast as he could, gracefully gliding away from John before that small feeling of recognition of those eyes could grow and spread inside enough that he knew where the feeling stemmed from. Sherlock had to get away before his name could appear in John's mind and he would turn once again to look at the slender man racing away from him and think of his old roommate and, still, his best friend too. Before John could realise that the man who owned those eyes would not look at him again or smile at him and realise that no matter how many cases he tried to help the Yard with or try to live like he did when he was around Sherlock, his limp would not go away again and he was all alone with his son - the constant reminder of the incredible man that the world lost three years ago.
A/N: what do you think? i would really like to know. also, i was thinking of writing more on this, i dunno, i would love people's opinions on my writing... thankyou for reading, chickens
Dakota xx