John took off down the street as the cold rain pelted him. His head still pounded from the drink of last night and soon he was shivering from the rain but he didn't care. He didn't know where he was going, he just kept walking.
After a while he came to a park and decided this was as good a place as any to stop. His bad leg was hurting and he didn't want to walk anymore. He found a bench and sat down. Luckily because of the weather he alone in the park. He hung his head and closed his eyes. He breathed deeply, in-out, in-out. The cold air stung his lungs but he continued to breathe deeply. If he focused on his breathing, he might be able to hold himself together.
As he hung his head rain ran down over his head and off his hair, hitting the ground. The water had soaked him to the skin; he was probably going to get pneumonia now not that it mattered. John sat up and looked around the park; the empty playground equipment, the cold fog that was curling up around the ground, the rain that touched everything and everyone who dared to be out and about. How had this become his life? How was it he came to be here, sitting in the rain in the middle of park with nowhere to go? He didn't even know what to do anymore.
Part of him secretly wanted to pretend that nothing had happened; that Sherlock had never left, never betrayed him. Part of him did just want to go back to Baker Street and go back to being a consulting detective with Sherlock. He hated that part of him. It was desperate and weak and he couldn't listen to that part. He couldn't just accept Sherlock back into his life as if nothing had ever happened. No matter what Sherlock thought, this was all a big deal and couldn't simply be shoved under the rug. He'd had to learn how to adapt to not having Sherlock around, and while he may have not done that great of a job, he still had adapted in some way and it was going to take some time to even get close to what had been there before.
John had been right that the storage unit had been easy to find; it had taken Sherlock all of 2 minutes to figure out where to go. An hour later he sat in John's flat with a few boxes of mostly essential items. He'd been very surprised when he had seen the amount of items in the storage unit; it appeared to him that all of his items must be in this size of a unit. He left most of things there and took just what he immediately needed. Seeing as John had wanted to send him away and only reluctantly agreed to let him stay, he didn't think he'd appreciate Sherlock filling his living room with his items.
Sherlock felt somewhat refreshed after having changed into his own pyjams and dressing gown. But something was still off. He sat down on the floor in the living room and began to look through his things. They had an old, unused smell to them and they even felt a little foreign to him. He hadn't seen these things in years and it was odd to have them now.
After digging through some of his clothing he found a photo in the bottom of one of the boxes. Sherlock picked it up and starred at it. This was not something that would have been found in his personal items; John must have put it here. It was a photo of him and John at Christmastime. John had felt the need to decorate the flat with a large amount of detracting decorations, including a fully decorated tree. Mrs. Hudson had insisted that "the boys" pose in front of it. Sherlock had argued that he didn't want to, but eventually he had given in so she would stop talking about it. Sherlock didn't hold onto photos; they were sentimental things that he hardly saw the use for. Yes, this was definitely John's; he had kept that photo for whatever reason. Except upon his death; then he decided to part with it.
Sherlock starred at the photo and thought about the row he and John had had. He could hardly believe the way that things had turned out. John just couldn't seem to understand that he had done what was necessary. He couldn't have let him in on what was going on; it was for his safety, his protection. Sherlock had been hunting men trained to kill John; if there was even the slightest chance that John knowing about his work would result in him being killed Sherlock wasn't going to take it. That's why it had taken him this long to get here; he'd had to make for certain that they were all gone; that everyone tied to Moriarty was gone. Though he tried to explain this to John he didn't seem to get it and kept getting upset.
Sherlock could now see that he had underestimated how much John would be affected. He hadn't believed what Sherlock had told him on that building and just as he feared, he was harder for John because of that. He didn't quite understand the level of care that John was putting into this situation but even he had enough knowledge of human emotions to see that John was greatly hurt.
The words passed between him and John came to his mind. He tried, unsuccessfully to put them out of his mind. That was the annoying thing with being around John; he often made his thoughts confused and got him off track from where he needed to be. His emotions affected Sherlock, no matter how much he tried to deny it. When John said he wanted Sherlock to leave he had actually felt….hurt.
He needed a case soon; he needed something else to think about. His mind truly was deteriorating to be getting so lost in in these emotions .
John didn't return for the rest of the night. It was late, more like early morning than late night, with pink light beginning to shine through the window, when Sherlock decided to finally rest. The couch seemed uninviting; after all the strange places he had had slept in the past few years what he really wanted a bed to sleep in. Sherlock walked to John's room and looked inside. Since John wasn't here, surely he wouldn't mind him using his bed this one time. Sherlock fell upon the bed and pulled the covers over his head. The covers smelled like John and he felt content.
The next day John rubbed his eyes as he sat at his desk. He was finished seeing patients for the day and only needed to finish up his paperwork. Everyone else had just left for the day because, as usual, John had overbooked himself with patients. John tried to wipe the fuzziness out of his eyes but it just didn't seem to want to leave. He hadn't gotten that good of sleep on Stamford's couch last night. After the fight with Sherlock he hadn't wanted to go home and so he'd went over there. This, combined with the night before, caused Stamford to give him a worried gaze and ask incessantly what had happened and was he ok but John held firm and didn't give him any information. He'd mumbled just information to appease Stamford and then quickly went to sleep. Or rather he tried to sleep; he faked for a long time so Stamford would leave him alone but it took a long time before he actually fell asleep. Annoyingly enough, he had the old standby nightmare; Sherlock falling, the blood, the anguish…. It really was annoying considering he now knew it was all a big sham.
As John finished the paperwork he tried to decide what to do when he finally got done. He knew he had to go home; he couldn't keep avoiding his own flat, that was ridiculous. But still the thought was tempting. He didn't know what to say to Sherlock or what to do, but he decided that he'd had enough of thinking about it for a while.
John picked up some dinner and then caught a cab home. When he stepped into his flat he found Sherlock sitting in a chair- his chair- in the living room reading a thick book. When John stepped into the room Sherlock glanced at him with one eye over the top of his book but then quickly looked back down at his book. He didn't say anything; fine, John mused, I'm not going to be the first one to say anything.
John dropped the bag of food on the kitchen table and then went to the bedroom to change out of his two day old clothes. He didn't feel satisfied with just a change and so decided to take a shower too. Having the warm water wash over him loosened his tense muscles and made him relax- a little.
Feeling much better physically and mentally John walked to the kitchen to grab his dinner. What he found in the kitchen was a surprise; Sherlock had helped himself to John's food.
"Sherlock…." John sighed in an "I-cant-believe-you" way as his stomach gave a big growl. He was prepared to get really worked up ( after all, he had just bought enough food for him) when he looked at Sherlock; really looked at him.
To say that Sherlock wasn't a big eater was an understatement; often John wondered how he consumed enough calories to stay healthy. And yet right now Sherlock was eating his food as if he was….starving? John had never seen Sherlock eat like that before. Now that Sherlock had some of his own clothes on John was able to notice his weight; Sherlock had always been thin but now he looked almost gaunt. His own clothes, which had always been tailored to fit him, hung loosely on him. With a sudden pang of sympathy John wondered what Sherlock had been through all this time that he had been gone.
Sherlock looked at John " Problem, John?" he asked. That was Sherlock; to not even mention John being gone for a day, to be completely clueless that the food wasn't for him because of course everything was about him.
"No, nothing at all" John said. He brushed off the thought of saying something and went to the cupboards to search for something to eat; the prospects were dismal. After giving up he went into the living room and ordered take away. He turned on the television and flipped idly through the channels, not even paying attention to what was on the programs. After a while Sherlock emerged from the kitchen and sat on the couch facing John. He was perched on his chair and his eyes had that bright look in them he got when he had an idea. He placed his hands together and said, " I think 9 o'clock will be a good time, what do you think?"
"Good time for what?" John asked as he continued to flip through the channels.
"To go to the station tomorrow of course" Sherlock said, " Talk to Lestrade"
At this John turned the television off. "What?" he asked.
"Go to the station, get all this business cleared up" Sherlock said, " I am sure no doubt that they will have their misgivings and there will be some legal fall out from this, but I am sure that once we explain all this to them-"
"We?" John asked " Why would I be going?"
" What do you mean John?" Sherlock asked, " Of course you would be going because we are a consulting team."
"Well, I have work tomorrow Sherlock" John said, slightly annoyed " I can't just call in because you want me to go to the station with you."
"So, I take that as a no? You are not going to talk to Lestrade with me?" Sherlock asked.
" Well of course not Sherlock, that is what I just said," John said. He was trying to keep calm but Sherlock was annoying him. He hadn't seen or talked to anyone from the station since Sherlock's 'death'. He had no way to know how they were going to react to him coming back. At any rate they probably weren't just going to immediately start calling him in on cases and John wasn't just going to throw away all his hard work for nothing.
Sherlock assumed one of his 'pouty' faces or at least what passed on Sherlock as pouty.
"Fine" he said as he stood from his seat "I'll go by myself. I do not need your help anyway"
"Of course you don't" John mumbled, more to himself than Sherlock.
Sherlock grabbed his coat and threw it on hurriedly. He walked to the door, said, " I am going out" quickly before slamming the front door. John got from the couch, went to his room and slammed the door behind him loudly, though the sound just echoed through the empty flat