Day 6 - Holmes Home
I was born very far from where I am meant to be and now I am on my way home.
221B Baker Street was Sherlock's. He knew where everything was. At least if he'd been the one that had put something down. John had a tendency to move things and put them not where they were supposed to be.
Annoying.
But Sherlock had glossed over it for the most part. Because misplaced things meant he had a flatmate. He had someone around, to help him think, to encourage him. Not that he'd say that in so many words. But Sherlock Holmes had been very lonely before John came along. And when he was two years on the run.
When John 'got on with his life' Sherlock had scoffed. Like he'd expected John to just wait around for a dead man, to haunt the halls of their home until the day his long dead friend could burst back into his life. Sherlock had been given a rude awakening. John moved out.
He'd moved out because Sherlock had died. John moved away because each reminder of Sherlock around the flat had been too painful to think about. Sherlock hadn't understood that. Not until he got back home and his flat was empty. Until he saw John's empty chair and realized the he wasn't ever going to live there again.
John wasn't dead, of course. Just getting married. That was almost just as bad.
So although Sherlock was alive and he'd gone home to 221B again, it wasn't really home. Home wasn't an empty flat.
Home wasn't so much a place, but a feeling.
The wedding had been lovely, just beautiful. Crime solved and everything. And Sherlock had left. Molly was dancing with her fiancé. Janine had found a date. John and Mary lost in the privacy needed for the baby news. Mycroft hadn't even bothered to show, not that that would have been enjoyable. But at least he wouldn't have been alone.
Sherlock walked out that night into the cool spring air and didn't quite plan on waking up in a pocket universe. 221B wasn't there. Instead it had been a house suited for his every desire. Similar to 221B, but still very different. At least John had been close. So Sherlock settled in. He didn't need London, he just needed his people.
And here in the Convergence his home grew bigger, even as 221B itself followed him in. That feeling encompassed people and memories, not a building. Memories of playing with his dog. Of sneaking cigarettes with his brother while their wives chatted. Of laughing so hard with John his sides hurt. Of holding his niece for the first time. Of dancing with his smiling bride and marveling at the oddity of it all.
'Home' was Natasha. 'Home' was John. Home was where he was loved and accepted. Home was where he was seen and understood. Where his needs were met and he mattered more than just his intellect. Home was where he was praised and encouraged.
Home equaled love and family.
He was home in the Convergence, despite it's downsides. He was home because all those things were true from the ones he surrounded himself with. He'd never stop struggling with addiction. He'd never stop missing his work, London, and being 'Sherlock Holmes'. But those things weren't the entirety of home.
He was already there.