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“Sherlock?” John’s steps echo in the stairwell as he calls. “Mrs. Hudson said you were in, do you have some time?”
John gently pushes open the door to the sitting room, the faint creak familiar in its pitch.
“Sherlock?” John says again.
A sniff from the couch catches his attention. John sees Sherlock laying on the sofa, his legs in a loose curl in front of his chest, his hands tucked against himself.
“Sherlock…,” John smiles, affection painting his tone. “I’ve been trying to get you to sleep more but now when I need to talk to you you’re not awake to hear me.”
Walking across the room to what he still claims as his armchair, John takes the afghan that’s draped over the back and shakes out any dust. He settles it over Sherlock’s still and quiet form, his hand staying on Sherlock’s shoulder, not willing to break contact.
Sighing, John kneels down in front of the couch and lets himself indulge.
He lets his thumb run back and forth over Sherlock’s covered shoulder, his arm moving up and down in tandem with Sherlock’s shallow breaths.
“Hm,” John smiles. “Look at you.” His eyes flick over Sherlock’s face, so soft in sleep. “I wish you could be like this more often. Not so cold and defensive. I wish you didn’t feel the need to push people away. You must feel so lonely, isolating yourself to the outside world. I don’t want you to be lonely, Sherlock.”
John stops, his smile faltering. “I miss you,” he says in an almost whisper. “I miss us. I miss the magic that we used to have. It’s still there, mind, but it’s muted and dull. There’s so…so much in our way. I want to be with you again, chasing criminals and having a laugh afterwards.”
Johns hand drifts down Sherlock’s arm, resting lightly over Sherlock’s hands. His voice remains low and quiet, hesitant to make Sherlock wake and witness his embarrassing monologue.
“Can we have that again? Just us? ‘The two of us against the rest of the world’ you once said.” John gives a small laugh. “And I nearly broke your nose when you did.”
John smiles once more, squeezing Sherlock’s hands in what he hopes is comfort. “I want our magic back. Please. We’ll get through this. All of this. And then we’ll have all the time in the world to be together, and grow old, and keep those bees you’re always talking about. Okay? I promise.”
John stands, his knees creaking in defiance. He leans over, brushing a few errant curls away from Sherlock’s forehead. “I promise,” he affirms again, placing a chaste kiss to Sherlock’s temple.
John leaves a note on the coffee table telling Sherlock to call him when he wakes.
“Have a nice day, Mrs. Hudson!” he yells as he jobs down the steps.
“You too, dear!” she replies.
John opens the door of 221b and steps out into Baker Street, renewed with determination that he will finally, finally, start making his life want he wants it to be.