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The window is open and Sherlock is standing in front of it, the slight breeze carrying a faint smell of rain, for him everything is dialed down, slower, quieter, all the edges rounded.
It is not so for John. He sits in his usual chair, if anything can be considered usual after so much time has passed. For John, the breeze is a gale, and the scent of rain would overpower him but he can smell nothing but Sherlock. Sherlock standing here, in the flat, in Baker Street – Sherlock alive. The knuckles of his right hand ache, and he cannot see Sherlock's face but he thinks there must be a livid red mark upon his cheek. He ought to regret it, but he doesn't. He wanted to keep punching, to split his own skin apart, to create a vent for the things swelling up inside him.
Sherlock has not spoken, not a single word beyond the "John" he uttered when he stepped into Mrs. Hudson's kitchen two hours earlier, when John sat at the table, squinting at his mobile. Mrs. Hudson had asked him round for dinner, and the text clearly indicated 4. Yet Mrs. Hudson was not present, though the door had been unlocked. Assuming she had popped off for a last minute ingredient to their meal, he set his mobile down with a sigh. At the sound of Sherlock's voice, the achingly familiar cadence of his footsteps, John had turned his eyes to the side, but not his head. He felt the muscles in his shoulders pull back automatically, his chin raise. He clenched his teeth. This was not the first time he thought he heard that voice, or those footsteps.
When he realized there were no more words forthcoming, he pulled his eyes away and simply waited. But the spectre of Sherlock did not leave. Came closer, in fact. Stood across the table, eyes boring holes through the top of John's head. Nothing for it, then, he figured, but to face it and find out for sure. He stood and drew back a fist, which connected squarely with Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock's. John stared down at his own hand, the pinking skin proof of connection with a solid object. He was not proud of his next move, but he turned on his heel and fled, onto the street, as far as his legs would carry him before shock locked his knees and stole his stomach, and he crouched against a wall in an alley, pulling desperate breaths through his nose, pushing them through pursed lips, fighting for control.
He revises what just happened, encourages himself to believe he made a tactical retreat, so as to assess the situation. John Watson doesn't flee in blind terror.
He makes the walk back to 221, and sees the form of Sherlock at the window. It is a second story only, and the window barely open, but John cannot stand here, looking up at him from the ground. It itches along his skin, the back of his neck hot. He reenters the place that has not been home for 3 years, and sits in his chair, watching Sherlock's back.
They've spent many long stretches of silence together, over the years, sometimes out of frustration or anger, when words were just cannon fodder. Other times, John has remained silent while Sherlock thought, or pouted, or scratched notes into his composition book and raked his bow across the violin strings. It happened once or twice that Sherlock remained silent while John grounded himself, orientated back to London not Kandahar, or extracted himself from psychological combat with his sister. Those times were short, because Sherlock has never had patience for anyone's need for silence besides his own.
But now he lets it stand between them. John does not think this is out of consideration for his emotions. But it seems equally unlikely that Sherlock is avoiding confrontation. Perhaps he cannot think of what to say, though this also is not a common affliction of Sherlock's. John wonders if he should show mercy, and make the first move. Ask a question. There are many. But he has been in the dark all this time and he deserves answers, he deserves words from this infuriating man who is somehow, improbably, cruelly, blessedly alive. Why should John have to fix it? It isn't his fault, none of it is. When Sherlock was dead, when he'd believed that there was no option for him but to destroy himself, John had accepted a part of the responsibility. There had to have existed some combination of words that would have penetrated Sherlock's thick skull, and stopped him. John just didn't find the words. Or perhaps he just did not find them in time.
Because he had words, plenty of them, after. Standing at the foot of Sherlock's grave, rushing forward to place a hand on cool stone that would never be his friend's flesh. He'd had plenty of words then, words like you were the best man and I owe you so much. And later, at the one year mark, he went back because it might be ridiculous, but John is a member of polite society, and observing anniversaries is important, damn it. And he has not had words all year, for his therapist or his coworkers or the shattered remains of the people Sherlock left behind. His words after one year were perhaps less grateful, but they came from a part of him that was dying, and he couldn't care if they were cruel. We all fell with you. You selfish bastard, you arrogant prick, how did you not see it? How did you not see that we would believe you, always, that no one could take that faith from us? Why didn't you trust me, why did you leave, why didn't you even let me. And the words had caught in his throat, wrapped in a sob, and he'd turned to go, leaving nothing behind. But his feet failed him, again, and instead he knelt on the dewy grass and let the words slide out of his eyes, onto his cheeks, onto the ground. I am more alone than I have ever been. I need you with me. You wanker, you absolute idiot, I loved you and you never let me say it.
At the two year mark, he didn't go.
It's two weeks shy of three years, and John is choking on words but he will not be the one who breaks. Now that Sherlock is alive and breathing and barely three strides away, it is Sherlock's fault now, because John found the words and Sherlock wasn't here to listen to them.
"Biological demands," Sherlock says finally, as he turns from the window and slumps into the chair opposite John's. His legs are close enough now that if John stretched, he could touch them. John does not stretch. "I'm tired, John." And he looks it, every inch of him sharper and stranger than before, or perhaps it is the newness of him, perhaps John has forgotten his angles, smoothed them out in his memory. Perhaps the Sherlock John remembers never existed at all. But his eyes are the same, immutable, their shifting color landed at grey for now. His hands and feet are the same, his nose, mouth, cheeks. His hair is shorter, lighter, but the curl pattern is the same, flopping over his forehead, untamed. "I'd like to sleep." And god help him, but John thinks he might be asking for permission. John simply nods, and Sherlock stands and walks towards his bedroom. He would seem completely confident to be home, certain he belongs there, but his steps stutter beside John's chair, and again when he reaches the empty kitchen, and he leaves his bedroom door open.
It is probably not an invitation. But John follows Sherlock. They follow each other. It's simply what they do. And this Sherlock, who is quieter and more tired than the other Sherlock, the Before Sherlock, has elected not to lay diagonally across the mattress as he would normally do. He has left a side of the bed free, sheets and blanket turned down, and that is an invitation. John does not take it, not immediately, and while he contemplates it, Sherlock's hand floats from under the covers and snaps the bedside lamp off, casting the room, himself, and John into dusk. Enough light filters in from the street and the electronic glow of the digital clock on the desk, enough that John can see Sherlock's shoulders rising and falling with each breath, though he is too far away to hear it.
He needs to hear it, suddenly. It rushes in him so quickly he is dizzy with it, the need to feel Sherlock breathing, to know he is true. John does not slide into bed, does not tuck himself against Sherlock's back, though he aches to. He comes around to the far side of the bed, where Sherlock is laying still, eyes open, fixed on John's movements in the darkness. John sits, places a hand on Sherlock's chest, and is convinced by the thump of the heart and the whistle of the lungs. He sits that way for a very long time, until lassitude tugs at his eyelids and his limbs are heavy. He blinks and shakes his head, rubs both hands over his face. Sherlock makes a questioning sound, not made of words but John hears it clearly. Yes, he is fighting falling asleep. Sherlock is still, as if listening to John's unspoken answer. He reaches for John, rests the very tips of his fingers against the outside of John's thigh, the seam of his jeans too thick for the touch to really penetrate, and John wants to press down, wants to score those fingertips onto his flesh as proof. If he shuts his eyes and lets hours go by in sleep, anything could happen. People who reappear so easily can surely disappear again in the blink of an eye. He imagines it, for a moment, opening his eyes, finding he is back in his own flat, tears drying on his cheeks from this cruel dream. Worse still, he could wake up here, in 221B, in Sherlock's bed, with the smell of him in the sheets and his warmth still on the pillow, but Sherlock could be gone, and John will still never have told him. Panic bubbles up in his stomach, overflows into his chest, his throat, and he is opening his mouth to release it, because it is going to strangle him. "I love you."
Sherlock is still, silent, but he does not draw his fingers away. He does not flinch. John says it, again, and again, because he has 3 years of these, because he has far more than that, one for every minute of every day since "Afghanistan or Iraq?" He can no longer be worried about Sherlock's response. Which, when it comes, is entirely unexpected.
"What does that mean?" Sherlock presses his fingers more firmly into John's thigh, and covers his mouth with his other hand.
John could laugh. He could cry. Instead he shrugs. "I don't really know. But I think it means, don't leave me here alone."
Sherlock drops his hand from his mouth, reaches for John's, which is still resting on Sherlock's chest. He withdraws his hand from its position on John's leg and uses it to curl John's fingers deliberately around his wrist. John presses his first two fingers into the delicate skin there, feels the steady pulse, a bit quick, but there, undeniable. Sherlock's name falls from John's lips, and Sherlock tugs his arm in towards his body, bringing John with it, because his grip is not loosening. John feels Sherlock's chest against his back, the rhythm of the heartbeat there and in Sherlock's wrist, covered in Sherlock's breath and the warmth of his skin, the reality of his blood and his bones. Sherlock covers John's hand with his own, rubs John's knuckles until he releases Sherlock's wrist. Sherlock uses his freed hand to push two fingers against John's carotid artery, and lets out a shuddering breath at the warmth of John's skin there, its slight moisture. It is enough confirmation, then, though it will not be enough tomorrow; there are questions that need answers and apologies that require words. But this moment, they cling to the proof of their life, and John trusts Sherlock's love enough to fall asleep.