Ok guys, I'm not that great at doing Sherlock's perspective but here goes :) As always reviews are much appreciated
The dark clouds that had hung over the city threatening rain finally made good on their threat by pouring down buckets of rain. As the cloudy evening turned into night massive amounts of bone chilling rain poured down upon the unlucky souls who were walking the streets these nights, including a tall figure walking with his coat collar turned up against the wind.
Sherlock was weary...this was a truly rare thing. He often went for days without sleep but somehow this weariness was different. Maybe it was the cold rain that soaked his clothes down to the skin. Maybe it was the blisters on his feet from the miles that he walked that day. Maybe it was the fact that he couldn't remember the last time he's eaten anything. It could be anything; he refused to believe that he felt so weary because of the task that lay ahead.
John...he hadn't seen the man in three years and now he was face to face with the prospect of seeing him again. Weird thing, emotions. He tried to distance himself from them but this was proving very difficult at this moment. He was walking up the street that John's new flat lay on and soon he would come face to face with his blogger...
A weird feeling stirred in his stomach and he was puzzled. It could be nausea but it didn't quite feel that way. Indigestion? No that wasn't it either. Hunger? Ridiculous...it wasn't that. What else was left? Nerves... A most strange realization. At the prospect of seeing John again he was actually feeling a nervous stomach. Those strange, annoying emotions were actually altering his physical state now.
This was truly ridiculous. Why was he feeling nervous at seeing John? They had worked and lived together for a year and a half before his faked suicide. So why should he be nervous about seeing him now? He counted John as a rare friend, the only person that saw who he truly was and yet never left him.
But you left him...
That annoying thought was truly absurd. Of course he had left John. He'd had no choice. It was the only way that he could prevent John from being killed. True, he had no idea what John would say at his return, but once he explained the situation to him, he was sure that he would see that Sherlock had no other choice and that they could put this ugly episode in the past. Surely the good doctor would be pleased at seeing him again; it had to be positively dull without their consulting work .At this thought the weird churning in his stomach was replaced with another strange feeling; a warm feeling radiated from within his belly and outward, making his limbs feel a bit weak. No matter the possibilities that he ran through his head he couldn't make a deduction as to what this particular feeling was, though he was sure it was another pesky emotion affecting his body.
Sherlock walked up the street, head held high as if the cold rain was not even there. He shivered slightly and his hair hung dripping wet across his forehead, at times obstructing his vision but he was not to be dissuaded. He was nearly there.
Sherlock stood in front of the door for a moment before trying to enter. Sherlock would have liked to have returned to 221B Baker street, but he had known that to hope that John would have stayed there in his absence was illogical. Sherlock took in the surrounding street filled with buildings that were in need of some minor repairs and could see that John was not living up to the level at which he had been on Baker street. The paint on his front door was chipping, due to the hand of a lazy landlord or the carelessness of his friend he didn't know.
Sherlock worked at the doorknob methodically for a moment until the door came open. The flat was dark and quiet except for the sound of television in another room, turned to a low volume. As he entered, he noticed the flat in a poor state. A glance into the kitchen showed a sink full of dirty dishes, mostly cups and saucers, very few plates or bowls he noticed; John wasn't eating much. The kitchen table was stacked with a mess of papers, letters and newspapers which seemed to have been thrown one stack on top of each other without being gone through. Also, several glass bottles sat empty on the table. Odd, seeing John had never been much of drinker before.
Sherlock continued to walk and passed John's bedroom to the side. The bed was unmade and appeared to have been for sometime. Clothes littered the floor, books and papers scattered across an end table by the bed. Glasses sat on the table as well, with remnants of amber and clear liquid in them. On John's desk sat his laptop, but it was obviously unused as many other items sat carelessly on top of it. Sherlock didn't have to read the situation to know that John had not blogged since his death; he checked it periodically to see if he had updated it with anything. He had not; that wasn't entirely unusual. After all, he had blogged about their cases and without him there, there hadn't been any.
As he took one last glance around the bedroom he noticed something out of place. Sitting on the chest of drawers was his violin. What on earth was it doing here? He had assumed that by now John would have thrown out all of his belongings, so why the violin? For once, his mind couldn't give him a logical explanation for it.
Sherlock turned away from the bedroom and headed for the living room. He hesitated for a moment. The glow and sound of the television were coming from that room and he was sure to find John there. He allowed himself five seconds to hesitate before entering the living room.
He was surprised when he was not met with a stunned face, but rather an asleep John. Across the room John lay on the couch, fast asleep. As Sherlock walked into the living room he observed much of the same that he had found throughout the rest of the flat; papers and books scattered, dirty clothes around, bottles and cups laying on the table. Sherlock had never really known John to be an exceptionally messy person, but he had obviously changed some of his patterns since the incident.
Sherlock walked over to the couch where he could see John illuminated in the glow of the television. Sherlock could feel that weird warm feeling in his stomach again and his stomach almost seemed to jump. Again he tried to place what this strange feeling was but he could not. He was no expert on feelings; they were too unpredictable and unreliable.
John was curled up on the couch, obviously deep within a dream. His eyes fluttered underneath his eyelids, his fists curled into balls and his lip quivering; he was obviously having a nightmare. Sherlock thought to rouse him from it, but it was probably not the best way of coming back into John's life; awaking from a nightmare to see a man you assumed to be dead standing over you.
So instead, Sherlock just stood and stared at him, taking in all his features. To the untrained eye he would seem the same man that he had been three years ago. But he was not an untrained eye and he could see the true John. He was much thinner, just as his dirty dishes suggested, he hadn't been eating much. His face seemed drawn and tired; he obviously was not getting much sleep, another reason to not wake him now. Beside the couch sat John's old cane. Surely he couldn't have regained the limp that had once ailed him. But, it had to be; there was no other reason for it.
Sherlock watched John's face twist into a mask of pain as the nightmare troubled his sleep. Flashbacks? Surely they were; John often dreamt of the war, though those dreams had seemed to lessen with time. He could see that John was perspiring heavily through his sleep as evidenced by the sweat on his brow and on the collar of his pajamas shirt, but now it seemed that his body was cold. He shivered in his sleep as the startling scene continued to play.
Sherlock reached beside the couch, where a quilt lay, and pulled it up. He draped the cover over John and then sat in the chair opposite him, waiting for moment his eyes would open.