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You and Sherlock took a cab back to Baker Street. The flat still needed to be cleaned up after sitting idle for so long. The occasional sheets of dust that weren't cleaned by Mrs. Hudson remained thick on the surfaces of shelves and furniture. Generally everything there was left untouched. No one could bear to see themselves throw any of it out. A part of Sherlock Holmes lived within everyone whether or not he was still around.
You briskly wiped down the old green couch with your hand and led Sherlock to sit on it. He groaned lowly in pain as he carefully leaned back into the cushions. You frowned watching Sherlock’s sore expression. His eyes were shut tight and he hissed quietly, an arm clutching his ribs.
John did quite a number on him. It was your job to watch over him while Sherlock was gone but you supposed that no amount of pampering and comfort could bring anyone complete peace after losing their best friend — someone that meant so much to John. But you didn’t doubt that Mary would help bring him around with time. They were Holmes and Watson after all. They always figured it out no matter how much they’d like to deny it.
Sherlock eventually opened his eyes again and found you staring. He made an effort to straighten his back and relax his face as best as he could in his condition. He flashed a sarcastic smirk. His voice came out quiet and tired.
“Don’t worry. I’ve looked worse.” There was that infamous wittiness you remembered so dearly.
You fought back the smile trying to creep on your face and shook your head at him. You went to the bathroom to grab some first-aid supplies. You returned to the living room with a bowl of cold water, some towels, and a first-aid kit. With everything on the coffee table beside the couch, you just stood in front of him expectantly. No words had to be exchanged for him to understand that you were waiting for his permission to help him. He smiled a little at your old habit. Always the sweetheart. Sherlock nodded lightly and you sat yourself down on a soft spot next to the detective.
His eyes followed your hands as you wrung out a small towel in the water. You dabbed the cold cloth along his long face, being sure to avoid touching the cuts and green bruises. Sherlock inhaled deeply, closing his eyes and relaxing under your care. Butterflies fluttered in your stomach seeing how calm he was with your touch. How he could fully trust you and be himself in your proximity.
Even when he was wounded and struggling to keep himself together, his mind was still racing as fast as ever. You swore you could hear how loud his thoughts were bouncing around in his head.
Suddenly, the curly-haired man sighed heavily, “I thought I told you to take care of him when I left.” He was referring to John.
“I did, Sherlock.”
“Not well enough, surely,” he perked his eyebrow and immediately winced from it. You blew air in your face, huffing at his comment.
“I did the best someone could do when their friend disappeared off the face of the earth for two years.” Sherlock was silent hearing this. Afraid you had struck a nerve, you scanned his face, searching for any signs of vulnerability. But he looked overall unconcerned so you decided to continue.
“He has been quite well, actually, aside from tackling you at dinner. He met Mary a few months ago and really felt something special with her… He was actually trying to propose tonight,” you said pointedly, pausing your sanitizing to give him a sharp look. Although his eyes were still shut, his lip twitched from the feeling of your gaze.
“John hasn’t been the same as before but let’s face it, no one is. We’ve all been doing the best we can; I’ve been doing the best I can.” The subtle shaking in your voice didn’t fly past him. It was safe to say that he was a big reason for your internal disturbance. He peeked an eye open and analyzed your expression.
You were focused solely on taking care of his injuries. Your brows furrowed down in concentration and your jaw clenched and unclenched ever so often. In your eyes, you were troubled. Conflict flashed and swirled within them but Sherlock could see how you suppressed those thoughts.
He knew you spent these last two years blocking out everything and marching forward. All this effort to keep yourself functioning. To keep living each day one second at a time. If it were otherwise, you would have cracked under the overwhelming pressure a long time ago. Anyone would do so. And yet here you were, still putting others before yourself like always.
Your hand accidentally brushed the cotton pad over his cheekbone. He hissed sharply and pulled his head away. You mumbled a quiet apology, “Sorry.
Your gentle hands carefully caressed his face and pushed his hair away. Along the way, you ran your fingers through his wavy locks. Sherlock leaned into your hand from the sensation.
He was reminded of how much he missed your tenderness. No matter how many harsh jabs you tried to throw at him, you were too good for him. It was a known fact to Sherlock — and one he did not choose to argue with.
His pale hand trailed along your waist as you leaned forward to patch up his wounds. Your mind was too busy to register his fond touch. Sherlock absentmindedly messed with the material of your clothes. He was soon engrossed in the feeling of the fabric wrinkling under his rough fingertips.
You were still wearing your formal attire from the restaurant and Sherlock had to admit, it was a good look on you.
“You clean up nicely,” he commented. His soft tone shook you out of your immersive state. You pulled your hands away from his cuts and looked at him, baffled.
“Was that a compliment I heard?” Sherlock made a small smirk and shrugged. You narrowed your eyes down at him. “...Odd hearing that from you.”
“I’m a changed man.” He smiled at you and you willingly returned it. The detective was all patched up now but you found yourself resistant to leaving that spot on the couch. Sherlock was humming deeply under the slow circles of your fingertips in his hair. You felt your chest heaving up and down as your eyes flickered along his beautiful features in the room’s dim lighting. You were his peace as he was yours.
“You have no idea how much I've missed seeing your annoying face.”
“Well that's not a very good compliment,” he mumbled, on the brink of falling into a sweet slumber from your ministrations. You snorted at his casual humor, trailing your fingers around his jaw.
“Yep. Definitely missed that.” He grinned in response and covered your warm hand with his, getting lost in your eyes.
You continued to trace his features, delicately dancing around his wounds. Sherlock’s colourful eyes pierced through you and your breath caught in your throat. His eyes were blown, dilated. You could feel the vibrations of his heart pulsing through his body and over to yours when you touched him. The way he remembered to stop and breathe and all the tension in his body left when you were with him. And that’s when the realization finally settled in.
Sherlock is back. It's really him. A tear slipped from your eyes and a strangled noise gurgled in your throat. You pressed a hard kiss on his hand and curled up into his chest. He was shocked, jumping at first, startled by your sudden movement.
Slowly, he wrapped his arms around your figure and rubbed your back comfortingly. He hushed you, now being the one to run his fingers through your hair.
“I really did miss you, Sherlock,” you hopelessly cried into his shoulder. “It’s been so long. I’ve been so worried, you idiot.” You weakly pushed his chest but ultimately ended up hugging him.
He smiled admirably at you, pulling back briefly to return a kiss of adoration on your forehead. Then he pulled you tighter into his form, holding you more securely as he whispered into your ear.
“It’s alright. I’m home now. I'm not going anywhere.”