Sherlock had been angry with Mycroft because he had given the letter to John. Sherlock had written it for the emergency situation. He had wanted John to know what he felt. But Mycroft, idiot, had handed John the letter without him, Sherlock, being dead. What if they ever met again? How was he supposed to explain?
He had travelled Tibet and had spent some time at Mecca and Khartoum. He had learned a rather solid Standard Tibetan, and some Arabic and Anuak. He had begun developing some interest in human rights. Whilst teaching at a village school in Sudan, he had realized how privileged he had always been. He had felt ashamed enough to act on it and help. And then Mycroft had ushered him on to Montpellier. As Jean-Marc Leclerc. Engineer.
Sherlock had accepted the challenge and dedicated himself to a study on oxygen. He still missed John.
When his mobile sounded, he rubbed his eyes. Four weeks. He had hardly developed instruments for his study. This time, Mycroft had good news, "Happy to inform you about recent developments. You may come home, little brother. MH"
Home. Sherlock cleared his throat. Going home meant facing John. What if the other man didn't want him back? What if he had misread John's intentions?
Sherlock remembered that night vividly. It was the case of the hounds. It was the weather, the infuriating drizzle that would never stop. It was the fact that they had to share a bed. It was the wine. It was the moment. It just happened. Or didn't it?
Sherlock thought of their first night together. He had woken up by a gentle caress. John, sound asleep, had innocently stroked his hair. He had watched him. When John woke up, he had been mortified. Sherlock had found this intriguing. He had asked John to do it again, stroke his hair. Of course, John had refused, so Sherlock had been stubborn and sulky, and John had given in. John's hand buried in his curls, Sherlock had fallen asleep. The next day, they had solved the case. They had gone out for dinner. They had too much wine and they had been silly. And when they returned to their hotel, they had fallen onto the bed and kissed.
Sherlock was not sure who had started it. He just remembered looking into John's blue eyes, giggling hysterically, and leaning in, his lips meeting John's in a very chaste touch.
And afterwards they had slept. They had never mentioned that night, and Sherlock could not be sure if John did remember at all. He hoped he would. As much as he hoped that John had liked it.
"Not to London. Find me a place in the country. SH"
"What about John?"
"Must think. Give me time. And don't interfere."
The place was just as he had imagined it: a white thatched cottage with a blue door, a small garden with rose bushes and apple trees, and a gate leading to his new life. In the study he found all his belongings. Mycroft had had the library moved from Baker Street. He had had the armchair and sofa placed by a cosy fireplace and his desk by the window. Sherlock took off his jacket and put it on the chair. Then he sat down on the sofa and sighed deeply. He was Sherlock Holmes again. Not Consulting Detective, but Apiculturist. He had written a lot over the past three years. He did not miss London. He was scared of it.
When his mobile sounded, he felt lost. He still wasn't sure about how to confront John. He would surely be mad at him for walking out on him. Sherlock could imagine John's words.
You couldn't just bloody walk out of my life. You had to bloody die!
And yet he wanted to see John. He knew little of his friend's life these days. He read his blog, of course. It kept him up-to-date, but it missed out on the little things that made life interesting. Did John have a girlfriend? Boyfriend? He could have asked Mycroft, but part of him was too afraid of what Mycroft might dig up.
"Call him. Tell him where you are. M."
Sherlock knew his brother was right though he hated to admit it. He heeded the well-meant piece of advice and typed, "Not dead. – SH," "Rose Cottage. Old School Lane. Tudley. - Come," and "I miss you."
And John came.