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Sherlock stands outside and stares at the building he wants to call home again. Of course it’d be raining. He’s never really felt such an attachment to a place before- his childhood house, the various flats and hovels throughout university and adult life. They’ve been places in which to sleep, eat, piss, get high and think. The sensation of being home is overwhelming. He doesn’t know if he has the right to think he’s home. Certainly, it would have just been another place with any other person. He knows the building itself isn’t home. The skull on the mantle doesn’t make it home. The fridge, the bed, the chairs don’t make it home. One word runs through his head over and over and over, one word that is a simple name jogging in place. That’s home.
Sherlock takes a deep breath and knocks on the door. There’s no answer. He sits for hours, waiting and waiting, his heart beating a bit too quickly for sitting and his stomach tied in knots. He’s ready to explain.
No, no. Rewind.
Sherlock takes a deep breath and knocks on the door. He hears uneven footsteps come down the stairs, and he feels like he might vomit. Anxiety, fear, nerves, joy. Home is so close and drawing ever closer. The limp is even worse than when they first met. He curls his hands up into fists, his nails dig into his sweaty palms as the door swings open.
“Hello—” Sherlock never forgot his voice. It sounded exactly the same. Happy. Expectant. He looks up and…
Rewind.
Sherlock knocks, and this time he has something in his hand. What might it be? Flowers are a romantic, stupid gesture. Alcohol is just asking for trouble. Keys to a car- no, no, no, he isn’t trying to buy him. He looks down at his hands and forces them to uncurl. He lays them open flat and outwards, as if to say, ‘Here I am, please forgive me.’ Maybe that’ll be enough.
Rewind.
Sherlock knocks and feels his eyes begin to water.
Rewind.
Sherlock knocks and tries to smile but fails miserably.
Rewind.
Sherlock knocks and looks wistfully off to the distance… well, to the corner of Baker Street. His dramatic flair has no place here. Come home honestly, Sherlock. Come home honestly, or not at all.
Rewind.
Sherlock knocks and clasps his hands behind his back, head bowed. He hears the uneven footsteps come down the stairs and he feels like he might vomit. He doesn’t squeeze his hands into fists, but keeps them relaxed in each other. He wants to pop his collar up, but he knows it’s a pointless gesture, even as self-defense. He forces his shoulders down from around his ears and takes a few deep breaths. The door swings open.
“Hello—” The voice doesn’t sound happy. The voice isn’t sad. In the span of two smooth syllables, it goes from curious to shocked.
“John.” A fist collides with his cheek.
No, rewind again.
“John.” A fist collides with his nose.
No, no no!
“Honey, I’m Holmes!” A fist collides with his mouth, breaking his teeth.
Ugh, no! What is he THINKING? Rewind!
“Hello—”
“I’m sorry,” he says quickly and looks up in time for the fist to collide again.
“Hello—”
“Let me explain.” Fist.
“Hello—Sherlock?” Curiosity to shock to disbelief.
“Hello, John.” Sherlock watches as John loses colour. He looks older, much older, and he begins to shake.
No. Rewind.
“Hello— Sherlock?”
Sherlock looks up eagerly and smiles. “John,” he says as warmly, happily, sincerely as possible. He’s terrified; he’s overjoyed.
A hand reaches for him, but it’s not a fist, nor is it an open palm. This one is promising. A hand reaches for him and glides along his cheek. It smells like honey, and it is warm. John’s expression doesn’t sit still; his face leaps and falls and dances about in all the possibilities.
A hand rests on Sherlock’s cheek, thumb pad tracing along the bone. John’s smiling face says, “Welcome home.”
John smiles and says, “It’s about time.”
John goes white and whispers, “Is it really you?”
John looks terrified. “This can’t be happening.”
John cries wordlessly.
The faces appear, and the words blend together one after another; none of them are right. Nothing is right but the smile on Sherlock’s face, the open door, and the hand on his cheek.
Yes. Fast-forward.
The hand on his cheek smoothes a curl back behind his ear, and another reaches for Sherlock’s scarf.
John pulls Sherlock in. Their foreheads rest against each other, and they stand there forever, sharing the air and letting the cold in. John doesn’t mind that the rain falling from Sherlock’s hair soaks his own.
John pulls Sherlock in. Their eyes meet, and his smile is returned. No, it’s not quite…
John grabs Sherlock by the shoulders and hugs him tight. Sherlock is crying, and John is whispering his forgiveness.
John grabs Sherlock by the shoulders and hugs him tight. John is crying and—
Sherlock reaches out and touches John’s neck, traces his thumb along John’s jaw, the stubble only hours old. John tilts his head and kisses Sherlock’s hand.
Sherlock reaches out and touches John’s neck, and John’s eyes are so blue. His smile is so wide but when their faces are only inches apart, John frowns.
No. No, no.
Sherlock reaches out and touches John’s neck, and –
Fast-forward.
Sherlock’s lips hover near John’s. They share each other’s breath, though they’ve not said a word.
Sherlock’s lips hover near John’s, and he doesn’t know if this is okay. John’s not giving him any clues. He’s not pushing him away, but he’s not coming any closer.
Sherlock’s lips hover near John’s, and John’s tongue darts out nervously. Sherlock closes the gap and hears the building collapse around them, but it’s just the sound of blood rushing to his head.
Sherlock’s lips hover near John’s, and John looks at him the way he used to all those years ago. John leans into Sherlock and kisses him without a moment’s hesitation. It’s slow, and his lips are soft.
John leans into Sherlock and kisses him, chastely. Like a brother.
John leans into Sherlock and kisses him, hard, furious. His stubble is harsh, and they both breathe sharply through their noses, perfectly synchronized. It sounds like music. The intensity shocks Sherlock, and their arms wrap around each other, and they want to get closer. A button goes flying, a wet coat falls to the floor, and a particularly ugly jumper is wrangled from John’s torso.
Fast-forward, fast-forward.
John and Sherlock are finally in the flat properly. The door is locked behind them, and the coat is on the floor somewhere behind them, getting acquainted with an ugly jumper. John pulls Sherlock towards his old bedroom, John’s new bedroom? John’s lips grace upon Sherlock’s throat, and Sherlock pulls John’s shirt from his trousers.
Pause.
Sherlock stares up at 221 B Baker Street and takes a deep breath. He knocks on the door and thinks, John Watson, please, let me come home.
Play.