A/N Wow, two updates, one day after another? Been a while since that happened.

Thanks to Hummingbird1759, , innenlebenaussenwelt, johnsarmylady, total-animal-lover, 265, Guest, DuShuZi, and bazingaitsshamy

Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.

LV. Waiting

It's the one thousand and ninety-fifth day of waiting that John hears a knock on the door.

At first, he tries to ignore it, but it shows to be insistent, a steady pattern of raps that he can't quite hold at bay.

It's irritating. Today is a day that he wants to be able to have to himself—one of the rare days, in fact, that he'll allow a return to 221b itself. He's moved out, of course, found cheaper, trashier accommodations with an all too underwhelming roommate, but every year, on the anniversary of the Fall, he's returned here. Sat in the silence, let the ticking of the clock wash over him. Mrs. Hudson never rented out the flat again, apparently—221c finally got a buyer, but never this one. The familiar walls are tense, several bits of furniture still in place, but with notable aspects gone—the microscope, the refrigerator.

Sherlock's chair is still there, and John moves over to it slowly, his feet barely brushing against the floor as he settles into the thickly dusted cushion and lets his head tilt back, eyes slipping shut. The first year, there was still a trace of the late detective's scent clinging to the fabric, but now, on the third, there's nothing, nothing but dust and memories.

He doesn't know why he always returns, or if he'll ever stop. It's stupid, sentimental, and he knows that, yet he can't help but come anyways. It's like he's waiting, like they're all waiting—John, the flat, Mrs. Hudson. Even Scotland Yard and St. Bart's, on the rare occasions that John visits them, seem hushed somehow, silently anticipating the arrival of someone who they know will never return.

The knocking comes again, sharp and loud, from downstairs. Mrs. Hudson must have gone out. John sighs, coughing slightly when the action raises a wave of dust. He doesn't want to have to take care of his former landlady's business—despite how rude the action may be, perhaps he should just wait the knocker out, until they finally give up and leave him in peace. One day of peace.

More knocking, sharp, frantic.

Then the doorbell rings—maximum pressure adjusted to the half-second—and John's eyes fly open, he half-rises out of the chair because that sound brings back so much. Client. And then he's angry, angry that someone should dare to surprise and damage him like that, even unintentionally, and he's down the stairs, hurrying up to the door without noticing the tall, slim figure that darkens the glass, throwing it open with an exasperated cry flying out of his mouth.

"Would you leave me—?"

But then John freezes, his words cut themselves off as he takes in the sight in the doorway.

It's him.

It's him.