Chapter Text
Shifting his weight to his right and attempting to almost vertically stack and wedge the shopping bags together he grabbed for his key. They slotted into the door easily enough. Seventeen steps and one more door to go. Easy enough.
As he walked up the steps John went over a list in his head. He would need to restock his medical bag and put in an order. John dumped his keys into the bowl, hearing them jangle against another set in the bowl.
He stopped. Slowly and quietly putting the shopping down John glanced around. A coat on the hangar, not John’s. Longer sleeves than John, so probably this person was taller. Not Mycroft. The door knocker was askew.
The door knocker. It was askew.
John swallowed and dared not think the next deduction.
He stepped into their living area. Their living area, already his mind was betraying him, running ahead without the facts. Sherlock wouldn’t approve.
Sherlock was standing in the center. Clearly having stood up from his chair. His hands tapped out a rhythm on his legs. He was standing favoring one side.
“Sherlock, sit down. Are you hurt?”
This was easy. This John could do. He could stitch up Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock didn’t sit, he just watched John get closer.
John grabbed the med bag he had stashed by the entry way. Not a full one, but it would do. He reached out for vitals first. Fingers brushing over a pulse point. Sherlock seemed to steel himself to not react.
“Okay, sorry. Sorry. I forgot my manners. Sherlock, please talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong. What hurts. Can I help you?”
It hurt to say. After all this time. After every time that Sherlock said it was them against the world.
“Surprise.” Sherlock whispered. “I’m not dead.”
“I gathered.” John replied. “But you are hurt. Please, can I help?” He almost added that he was a doctor.
“John. I- you’re supposed to be mad. Or happy. Or something. What did I do wrong?”
“You died, you git. Now sit down and tell me what hurts.”
Sherlock sat. “I’ve been treated. A whole team of medical staff.”
But they’re not your doctor, John wanted to say. “Okay. Recovery?”
“Boring.”
John breathed out a laugh.
“Not you though.” Sherlock said, eyes honing in on John who was now kneeling in front of Sherlock’s chair, medical bag clutched in his hand. “You always stay so interesting. You opened a practice. Not a regular one, no, you had that bag stashed. You’re wearing practical work wear shoes. Not boots, but they do have a steel toe. You have sterile gloves tucked into a pocket and carry around two CPR masks. Same jacket you used to wear, your jacket, but it’s been stitched up. More knife slashes and it’s been regularly dry cleaned. You don’t dry clean unless it’s a stain you can’t get out. You used my dry cleaner. Your pants are work pants, the reinforced knee has seen some wear. It’s still damp now, bits of asphalt embedded in the grain.”
Sherlock touched John’s knee when he said that, feeling the coarse asphalt in the fabric. “So you knelt, just like this, with a medical bag helping someone else out in a car park. Why a car park? Yellow from the painted lines. Hasn’t rained in four days so the puddle was in a covered area without proper drainage.”
Sherlock took a breath and John noted how strained it was. He saw bandages under Sherlock’s shirt.
Sherlock continued. “You, John Watson, are a sentimental man. You live here, still, in our flat. You never moved into my room, which is the better of the two. Even when your limp briefly returned after my-.” Sherlock stopped. Then kept going. “You have new medical books and articles strewn about. Researching emergency care. Community support. Soft infrastructure. Homelessness. Poverty. Trauma response. You set up a clinic for the irregulars. No. It started as the irregulars, since you knew them. Except word got out and you are not a doctor to turn away a patient in need. So it became anyone who asked for help. Can I help? That’s not the phrase they teach you in First Aid courses. That is all John Watson. Let me help. You always wanted to help. It’s why you became a doctor.”
“Brilliant.” John breathed. He began to stand up. “Tea?”
“Please.”
John retrieved his groceries and returned his med bag to the appropriate spot. “I wish you had come home before I got the groceries. I didn’t get anything for you. I don’t have your tea.”
“Would you have thrown it away?” Sherlock asked, in that way he did when he didn’t want John to answer.
As John turned on the kettle he could hear Sherlock stalk into the kitchen behind him. When John opened the cupboard that hosts the tea he could feel Sherlock gazing in.
“Didn’t snoop while you waited?”
“I needed to repeat the opening act.”
“What?”
“St. Bart’s. Keep up.”
John stopped. Bile rose in his throat. He dropped down to the floor in a crouch, his palms meeting the cool linoleum. He could see the cabinets, the linoleum, his fingers, some accumulated dust, and a spoon he must have dropped and forgotten. He could touch the cool linoleum tile under his hand, that cabinet in front of him with each of it’s dings, the spoon. He really should grab that. He could hear Sherlock saying something in that soothing baritone voice. He could hear the kettle boiling water and the buzz of his phone in his pocket. He could smell the hand wash from the clinic. That strong medical scent. He could smell tea, it must be steeping now. He could taste well, nothing in particular.
John breathed out. He was at home, in 221B Baker Street. Sherlock was here, with him. They were safe. That old mantra, the one he hadn’t repeated in years played in his head. It felt strange. John sat back against the cupboard and checked his phone.
Doing stock tomorrow, restock your bags TONIGHT
Sarah was reminding him then. Figures, since the last three times John had restocked his bags after Sarah took stock. He’d written down what he’d grabbed and how much for her, but apparently that wasn’t enough. In his defense the last two times it had been because John had gotten an early call and didn’t make it to main clinic in time.
A cup of tea was set down beside him and Sherlock slowly lowered himself to the floor.
“Thanks.” John said. It was his RAMC mug, the handle had been poorly glued back on years back when it was a casualty of an experiment gone wrong. The tea was perfect. For a moment John remembered a different apology with tea that had actually been an attempt to drug him. He wondered how Henry Baskerville was holding up. “I’ll have to head out. I can grab take out for dinner. I need to restock my med bags.”
Sherlock looked at John. He gazed at John in the way Sherlock used to always gaze at John.
John had no desire to leave this flat or the presence of the man beside him. Sherlock’s shoulder was pressed into John’s.
John opened up his phone again.
“I’ll call Angelo. He has a new delivery boy. Frank went to college and got an applied maths degree.”
“Mmm.” Sherlock intoned.
John wondered what Sherlock was thinking. He wondered if he could ask.
The ring sounded in John’s ear and John pressed the knuckles of his right hand into the floor. Sherlock was beside him, on the floor of their kitchen. They were home in Baker Street. They were safe.
“Hello, this is Watson. Yes, good, how are you? Oh lovely. Yes. I’ll tell her you said hello. A double please. Thank you.” He hung up.
John had long ago changed his diet to more closely match anything Sherlock might eat. He found that letting Sherlock steal his food was often the easiest way to get the man to eat.
“You’re back?” John asked after some time passed.
“Yes.”
“Who knows?”
“Mycroft. My parents. Mrs. Hudson. I was down at hers first.”
John nodded slowly.
“Two years.” John had been to the grave site last month. “Plus some.”
“You have questions.”
“Why didn’t you take me with you?”
Sherlock set his mug down. John heard it as he stared straight ahead at the leg of their kitchen table. It was the one propped on a brick Sherlock had pocketed from a crime scene.
“I couldn’t. There were snipers. You were being watched.”
John sipped his tea. He sighed. “There are always snipers. First thing you learn in Afghanistan.”
“You. Mrs. Hudson. Greg. I had to save you all.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
John didn’t want to ask the other question he has. The one that might break him apart. He would have to wait. Wait till he knew what he felt about all this. Wait till his brain believed that Sherlock Holmes was back.
The buzzer went off and John got up. He set his tea on the table.
Seventeen steps down. His wallet was still in his pocket. He had cash, he always had cash.
Dirk was at the door. “Good evening.” John said as he opened it.
“Evening. Here you are.” Dirk held out the take out bag.
John handed over a tip. “Thank you. Have a good night.”
“You too, doc.”
John locked the door and plodded back up the stairs. Seventeen steps.
Sherlock had put the plates out.
“You’re sober. 19 months.” Sherlock said when John set the food down.
“Did you put the groceries away?” John replied.
As he dished up, John remembered how tired he was. He had planned to shower after putting away the groceries. Dinner was supposed to be a large batch of soup he could put in thermoses for the week. He wouldn’t go in. He should ask someone to restock his bags for him, probably Murray.
Sherlock dished himself a small portion. Smaller than John would’ve liked.
“If Angelo finds out the first meal you had back in Baker street was hardly any of his best pasta, he’ll be cross.”
“This isn’t pasta, John.”
John shrugged. “It’s Italian noodles. Pasta.”
Sherlock shook his head and smirked. “You never could pick up the art of deduction.”
“Oh piss off you great berk.” John grinned.
“Lestrade showed me that daft birthday video you filmed for me. The behind the scenes one. You played him for a fool.”
Sherlock shrugged. “His fault for thinking you didn’t know why I wasn’t at the party.”
“You were.”
“All the same.”
John rolled his eyes.
“You rearranged my books.”
“I moved most of your things. That’s what happens when you- you know.”
“You got a new tattoo.”
Glancing up John peered across at Sherlock. “Alright. How?”
“I imagine a tattoo gun of-”
“No!” John threw garlic bread at Sherlock. “Prick. How did you know I got a new tattoo?”
“Second skin in the bathroom.”
“Of course.”
“Where is it?”
“Can’t deduce it?”
Sherlock leaned closer. “Not anywhere visible. You already had a remembrance poppy on your right shoulder blade. Recent tattoo, so a recent commemoration. Oh. You decided a month ago. Of course. It’s a violin. Just under your left collarbone.”
“Tricky placement, with the scar tissue, but it seems to be healing well.”
“Bad timing.”
“Yeah, you should’ve come home two years ago.”
Sherlock’s shoulders released just a touch and he took a few bites of food.
“Is there a case?” John asked as he was packing the food away.
“No.”
“So it’s all dealt with then?”
“No. There’s still Moran, but it was deemed safe to return for now.”
“So you’re waiting and recovering?”
deleted it, I’ll call Mycroft.”
Sherlock scowled, but proffered the information readily.
“John, don’t think I swanned off on vacation. I was on the run, in hiding. Moriarty had a vast criminal network. He killed himself to prove his legacy.”
John cringed at the reminder. He pressed his thumb into the palm of his hand until he felt a radiating pain. Clean up protocols carried him forward as Sherlock put his dressing gown on over the bandages.
Murray had sent a text
Can do. All good?
John didn’t reply.
rded John. “Yes?”
“Could I-” John stared at the window behind Sherlock “-hug you?”
His best friend was home. His best friend was home and letting John help. Sherlock Holmes was home.
Sherlock stood up and slowly walked toward John. They embraced standing in their flat together. John held Sherlock so carefully and Sherlock pulled John close.
“Thank you.” John whispered into Sherlock’s shoulder.
“For what?”
“For coming home. For not being dead.”
Sherlock breathed out. John held him. All was right in the world.Sherlock grunted and grabbed an ice cream.
“Why do you have a CD player?”
“I stitched someone up while they railed against mega tech corporations and their hold on our media. Guess something stuck, so I got a CD player.”
“You have a dreadful stereo setup.”
“I don’t have a stereo setup, I have a CD player.”
A CD was slotted in and John grinned as the soundtrack to the first Star Wars movie began to play.
With his own ice cream, John settled into his chair. Sherlock was cradling his violin as he lay across the sofa.
“You’re going to get ice cream all over you if you eat it like that.”
“Yes, mother.” Still Sherlock remained as he was.
Eventually John got up to throw away their trash and when he returned with teas Sherlock was playing along to the soundtrack. When the CD stopped Sherlock filled the empty air. Seated in his armchair John fought sleep. He shook his head and got up to pace. Eventually though he sat back down, drooping too much to continue pacing.
“See you tomorrow.” John mumbled as he drifted off. It was more a demand than anything.
He woke up hours later with a crick in his neck and saw Sherlock sleeping on the couch. It had been some time since he’d slept on the armchair. After some deliberation John dashed upstairs, changed into sleep clothes and grabbed the cot he had gotten for when guests came. He had to shift the furniture to set the cot within eyesight of Sherlock, but it was far more comfortable than the chair.
The next morning John opened his eyes and was prepared to not see Sherlock. He’d prepped himself to not panic. That Sherlock tended to not sleep. Now, in a flat he hadn’t been in for years after some type of trauma, Sherlock probably would wake up early. John had a whole list of places Sherlock might be. Things Sherlock might be doing. But most importantly John knew that there deleted it, I’ll call Mycroft.”
Sherlock scowled, but proffered the information readily.
“John, don’t think I swanned off on vacation. I was on the run, in hiding. Moriarty had a vast criminal network. He killed himself to prove his legacy.”
John cringed at the reminder. He pressed his thumb into the palm of his hand until he felt a radiating pain. Clean up protocols carried him forward as Sherlock put his dressing gown on over the bandages.
Murray had sent a text
Can do. All good?
John didn’t reply.
“Sherlock.” John said as they left the bathroom.
Sherlock settled into his armchair and regarded John. “Yes?”
“Could I-” John stared at the window behind Sherlock “-hug you?”
His best friend was home. His best friend was home and letting John help. Sherlock Holmes was home.deleted it, I’ll call Mycroft.”
Sherlock scowled, but proffered the information readily.
“John, don’t think I swanned off on vacation. I was on the run, in hiding. Moriarty had a vast criminal network. He killed himself to prove his legacy.”
John cringed at the reminder. He pressed his thumb into the palm of his hand until he felt a radiating pain. Clean up protocols carried him forward as Sherlock put his dressing gown on over the bandages.
Murray had sent a text
Can do. All good?
John didn’t reply.
“Sherlock.” John said as they left the bathroom.
Sherlock settled into his armchair and regarded John. “Yes?”
“Could I-” John stared at the window behind Sherlock “-hug you?”
His best friend was home. His best friend was home and letting John help. Sherlock Holmes was home.
Sherlock stood up and slowly walked toward John. They embraced standing in their flat together. John held Sherlock so carefully and Sherlock pulled John close.
“Thank you.” John whispered into Sherlock’s shoulder.
“For what?”
“For coming home. For not being dead.”
Sherlock breathed out. John held him. All was right in the world.
Sherlock stood up and slowly walked toward John. They embraced standing in their flat together. John held Sherlock so carefully and Sherlock pulled John close.
“Thank you.” John whispered into Sherlock’s shoulder.
“For what?”
“For coming home. For not being dead.”
Sherlock breathed out. John held him. All was right in the world.would be two plates in the sink. Two mugs of tea on the side table. A Star Wars CD in the CD player and Sherlock’s violin propped somewhere about.
Except John opened his eyes and saw Sherlock asleep on the sofa. Still laying there with the blanket that John had carefully placed over him last night. John glanced at his phone and noted the time. He sent Murray a text about restocking the med bags and another saying he wouldn’t be in. An email was sent out to the team detailing the time off John was taking. It would be a few days for a family emergency. Not to worry.
Then he watched Sherlock sleep till he fell asleep again. John dozed on and off like this for some time. Eventually Sherlock sat up. John blinked several times and sat up as well. Sherlock hadn’t shifted or stirred, he’d been asleep one moment and awake the next.
deleted it, I’ll call Mycroft.”
Sherlock scowled, but proffered the information readily.
“John, don’t think I swanned off on vacation. I was on the run, in hiding. Moriarty had a vast criminal network. He killed himself to prove his legacy.”
John cringed at the reminder. He pressed his thumb into the palm of his hand until he felt a radiating pain. Clean up protocols carried him forward as Sherlock put his dressing gown on over the bandages.
Murray had sent a text
Can do. All good?
John didn’t reply.
“Sherlock.” John said as they left the bathroom.
Sherlock settled into his armchair and regarded John. “Yes?”
“Could I-” John stared at the window behind Sherlock “-hug you?”
His best friend was home. His best friend was home and letting John help. Sherlock Holmes was home.
Sherlock stood up and slowly walked toward John. They embraced standing in their flat together. John held Sherlock so carefully and Sherlock pulled John close.
“Thank you.” John whispered into Sherlock’s shoulder.
“For what?”
“For coming home. For not being dead.”
Sherlock breathed out. John held him. All was right in the world.“John.” Sherlock said. Voice barely impacted by sleep. Bastard.
“Morning.”
“Tea.”
“I’d love some.” John said, knowing Sherlock meant it as a demand. Indeed Sherlock glared at John’s response. He grumbled a bit as he got up, just for fun, and began to make tea.
Grabbing out the tray, John got out toast and jam. He fried up some eggs and sausages. Sherlock had taken over the cot upon John’s return. Rude. After setting the tray down, John took up his customary armchair.
“Put on the next CD.” Sherlock said.
“What?”
“The next one. In the stack.”
“Fine. Fine.”
John’s CD collection, slim that it was, had been rearranged. He had it alphabetically by artist then title, a classic system. Sherlock had decided this was incorrect and arranged it by who knows what. The next CD up was another soundtrack, but this one was from Star Trek 4: The Voyage Home.
Breakfast was accompanied by Sherlock’s commentary on the tracks. When the CD stopped John deleted it, I’ll call Mycroft.”
Sherlock scowled, but proffered the information readily.
“John, don’t think I swanned off on vacation. I was on the run, in hiding. Moriarty had a vast criminal network. He killed himself to prove his legacy.”
John cringed at the reminder. He pressed his thumb into the palm of his hand until he felt a radiating pain. Clean up protocols carried him forward as Sherlock put his dressing gown on over the bandages.
Murray had sent a text
Can do. All good?
John didn’t reply.
“Sherlock.” John said as they left the bathroom.
Sherlock settled into his armchair and regarded John. “Yes?”
“Could I-” John stared at the window behind Sherlock “-hug you?”
His best friend was home. His best friend was home and letting John help. Sherlock Holmes was home.
Sherlock stood up and slowly walked toward John. They embraced standing in their flat together. John held Sherlock so carefully and Sherlock pulled John close.
“Thank you.” John whispered into Sherlock’s shoulder.
“For what?”
“For coming home. For not being dead.”
Sherlock breathed out. John held him. All was right in the world.asked, “Next one?” and got up dutifully after Sherlock nodded.
John’s minimal CD collection was odd and lasted only long enough for breakfast, washing up, and a fresh cup of tea.
At the end of the final CD, Sherlock declared that John needs to check his bandages and ‘et cetera’.
John set up the bathroom to his standards. It took some time and Sherlock watched perched on the toilet seat. His eyes tracking John’s every move.
“Can I see it?” Sherlock asked as John put on his gloves.
“See what?”
“The tattoo.”
John considered. It had been for Sherlock in a way. There had been a time when John and Sherlock were so intermixed that Sherlock probably knew everything there was to know about John. Down to the last freckle. It used to be that John would balk at this. He had felt he deserved a few secrets. Now though, two years without the man John had long since begged and offered Sherlock anything if it meant Sherlock would come home. He used to sit with his back against Sherlock’s bedroom door and whisper pleas into the air.
“Okay. After this. What did your doctor tell you, exactly? Down to the word, Sherlock. If you’ve deleted it, I’ll call Mycroft.”
Sherlock scowled, but proffered the information readily.
“John, don’t think I swanned off on vacation. I was on the run, in hiding. Moriarty had a vast criminal network. He killed himself to prove his legacy.”
John cringed at the reminder. He pressed his thumb into the palm of his hand until he felt a radiating pain. Clean up protocols carried him forward as Sherlock put his dressing gown on over the bandages.
Murray had sent a text
Can do. All good?
John didn’t reply.
“Sherlock.” John said as they left the bathroom.
Sherlock settled into his armchair and regarded John. “Yes?”
“Could I-” John stared at the window behind Sherlock “-hug you?”
His best friend was home. His best friend was home and letting John help. Sherlock Holmes was home.
Sherlock stood up and slowly walked toward John. They embraced standing in their flat together. John held Sherlock so carefully and Sherlock pulled John close.
“Thank you.” John whispered into Sherlock’s shoulder.
“For what?”
“For coming home. For not being dead.”
Sherlock breathed out. John held him. All was right in the world.
“Sherlock.” John said as they left the bathroom.
Sherlock settled into his armchair and regarded John. “Yes?”
“Could I-” John stared at the window behind Sherlock “-hug you?”
His best friend was home. His best friend was home and letting John help. Sherlock Holmes was home.
Sherlock stood up and slowly walked toward John. They embraced standing in their flat together. John held Sherlock so carefully and Sherlock pulled John close.
“Thank you.” John whispered into Sherlock’s shoulder.
“For what?”
“For coming home. For not being dead.”
Sherlock breathed out. John held him. All was right in the world.Sherlock grunted and grabbed an ice cream.
“Why do you have a CD player?”
“I stitched someone up while they railed against mega tech corporations and their hold on our media. Guess something stuck, so I got a CD player.”
“You have a dreadful stereo setup.”
“I don’t have a stereo setup, I have a CD player.”
A CD was slotted in and John grinned as the soundtrack to the first Star Wars movie began to play.
With his own ice cream, John settled into his chair. Sherlock was cradling his violin as he lay across the sofa.
“You’re going to get ice cream all over you if you eat it like that.”
“Yes, mother.” Still Sherlock remained as he was.
Eventually John got up to throw away their trash and when he returned with teas Sherlock was playing along to the soundtrack. When the CD stopped Sherlock filled the empty air. Seated in his armchair John fought sleep. He shook his head and got up to pace. Eventually though he sat back down, drooping too much to continue pacing.
“See you tomorrow.” John mumbled as he drifted off. It was more a demand than anything.
He woke up hours later with a crick in his neck and saw Sherlock sleeping on the couch. It had been some time since he’d slept on the armchair. After some deliberation John dashed upstairs, changed into sleep clothes and grabbed the cot he had gotten for when guests came. He had to shift the furniture to set the cot within eyesight of Sherlock, but it was far more comfortable than the chair.
The next morning John opened his eyes and was prepared to not see Sherlock. He’d prepped himself to not panic. That Sherlock tended to not sleep. Now, in a flat he hadn’t been in for years after some type of trauma, Sherlock probably would wake up early. John had a whole list of places Sherlock might be. Things Sherlock might be doing. But most importantly John knew that there deleted it, I’ll call Mycroft.”
Sherlock scowled, but proffered the information readily.
“John, don’t think I swanned off on vacation. I was on the run, in hiding. Moriarty had a vast criminal network. He killed himself to prove his legacy.”
John cringed at the reminder. He pressed his thumb into the palm of his hand until he felt a radiating pain. Clean up protocols carried him forward as Sherlock put his dressing gown on over the bandages.
Murray had sent a text
Can do. All good?
John didn’t reply.
“Sherlock.” John said as they left the bathroom.
Sherlock settled into his armchair and regarded John. “Yes?”
“Could I-” John stared at the window behind Sherlock “-hug you?”
His best friend was home. His best friend was home and letting John help. Sherlock Holmes was home.deleted it, I’ll call Mycroft.”
Sherlock scowled, but proffered the information readily.
“John, don’t think I swanned off on vacation. I was on the run, in hiding. Moriarty had a vast criminal network. He killed himself to prove his legacy.”
John cringed at the reminder. He pressed his thumb into the palm of his hand until he felt a radiating pain. Clean up protocols carried him forward as Sherlock put his dressing gown on over the bandages.
Murray had sent a text
Can do. All good?
John didn’t reply.
“Sherlock.” John said as they left the bathroom.
Sherlock settled into his armchair and regarded John. “Yes?”
“Could I-” John stared at the window behind Sherlock “-hug you?”
His best friend was home. His best friend was home and letting John help. Sherlock Holmes was home.
Sherlock stood up and slowly walked toward John. They embraced standing in their flat together. John held Sherlock so carefully and Sherlock pulled John close.
“Thank you.” John whispered into Sherlock’s shoulder.
“For what?”
“For coming home. For not being dead.”
Sherlock breathed out. John held him. All was right in the world.
Sherlock stood up and slowly walked toward John. They embraced standing in their flat together. John held Sherlock so carefully and Sherlock pulled John close.
“Thank you.” John whispered into Sherlock’s shoulder.
“For what?”
“For coming home. For not being dead.”
Sherlock breathed out. John held him. All was right in the world.would be two plates in the sink. Two mugs of tea on the side table. A Star Wars CD in the CD player and Sherlock’s violin propped somewhere about.
Except John opened his eyes and saw Sherlock asleep on the sofa. Still laying there with the blanket that John had carefully placed over him last night. John glanced at his phone and noted the time. He sent Murray a text about restocking the med bags and another saying he wouldn’t be in. An email was sent out to the team detailing the time off John was taking. It would be a few days for a family emergency. Not to worry.
Then he watched Sherlock sleep till he fell asleep again. John dozed on and off like this for some time. Eventually Sherlock sat up. John blinked several times and sat up as well. Sherlock hadn’t shifted or stirred, he’d been asleep one moment and awake the next.
deleted it, I’ll call Mycroft.”
Sherlock scowled, but proffered the information readily.
“John, don’t think I swanned off on vacation. I was on the run, in hiding. Moriarty had a vast criminal network. He killed himself to prove his legacy.”
John cringed at the reminder. He pressed his thumb into the palm of his hand until he felt a radiating pain. Clean up protocols carried him forward as Sherlock put his dressing gown on over the bandages.
Murray had sent a text
Can do. All good?
John didn’t reply.
“Sherlock.” John said as they left the bathroom.
Sherlock settled into his armchair and regarded John. “Yes?”
“Could I-” John stared at the window behind Sherlock “-hug you?”
His best friend was home. His best friend was home and letting John help. Sherlock Holmes was home.
Sherlock stood up and slowly walked toward John. They embraced standing in their flat together. John held Sherlock so carefully and Sherlock pulled John close.
“Thank you.” John whispered into Sherlock’s shoulder.
“For what?”
“For coming home. For not being dead.”
Sherlock breathed out. John held him. All was right in the world.“John.” Sherlock said. Voice barely impacted by sleep. Bastard.
“Morning.”
“Tea.”
“I’d love some.” John said, knowing Sherlock meant it as a demand. Indeed Sherlock glared at John’s response. He grumbled a bit as he got up, just for fun, and began to make tea.
Grabbing out the tray, John got out toast and jam. He fried up some eggs and sausages. Sherlock had taken over the cot upon John’s return. Rude. After setting the tray down, John took up his customary armchair.
“Put on the next CD.” Sherlock said.
“What?”
“The next one. In the stack.”
“Fine. Fine.”
John’s CD collection, slim that it was, had been rearranged. He had it alphabetically by artist then title, a classic system. Sherlock had decided this was incorrect and arranged it by who knows what. The next CD up was another soundtrack, but this one was from Star Trek 4: The Voyage Home.
Breakfast was accompanied by Sherlock’s commentary on the tracks. When the CD stopped John deleted it, I’ll call Mycroft.”
Sherlock scowled, but proffered the information readily.
“John, don’t think I swanned off on vacation. I was on the run, in hiding. Moriarty had a vast criminal network. He killed himself to prove his legacy.”
John cringed at the reminder. He pressed his thumb into the palm of his hand until he felt a radiating pain. Clean up protocols carried him forward as Sherlock put his dressing gown on over the bandages.
Murray had sent a text
Can do. All good?
John didn’t reply.
“Sherlock.” John said as they left the bathroom.
Sherlock settled into his armchair and regarded John. “Yes?”
“Could I-” John stared at the window behind Sherlock “-hug you?”
His best friend was home. His best friend was home and letting John help. Sherlock Holmes was home.
Sherlock stood up and slowly walked toward John. They embraced standing in their flat together. John held Sherlock so carefully and Sherlock pulled John close.
“Thank you.” John whispered into Sherlock’s shoulder.
“For what?”
“For coming home. For not being dead.”
Sherlock breathed out. John held him. All was right in the world.asked, “Next one?” and got up dutifully after Sherlock nodded.
John’s minimal CD collection was odd and lasted only long enough for breakfast, washing up, and a fresh cup of tea.
At the end of the final CD, Sherlock declared that John needs to check his bandages and ‘et cetera’.
John set up the bathroom to his standards. It took some time and Sherlock watched perched on the toilet seat. His eyes tracking John’s every move.
“Can I see it?” Sherlock asked as John put on his gloves.
“See what?”
“The tattoo.”
John considered. It had been for Sherlock in a way. There had been a time when John and Sherlock were so intermixed that Sherlock probably knew everything there was to know about John. Down to the last freckle. It used to be that John would balk at this. He had felt he deserved a few secrets. Now though, two years without the man John had long since begged and offered Sherlock anything if it meant Sherlock would come home. He used to sit with his back against Sherlock’s bedroom door and whisper pleas into the air.
“Okay. After this. What did your doctor tell you, exactly? Down to the word, Sherlock. If you’ve deleted it, I’ll call Mycroft.”
Sherlock scowled, but proffered the information readily.
“John, don’t think I swanned off on vacation. I was on the run, in hiding. Moriarty had a vast criminal network. He killed himself to prove his legacy.”
John cringed at the reminder. He pressed his thumb into the palm of his hand until he felt a radiating pain. Clean up protocols carried him forward as Sherlock put his dressing gown on over the bandages.
Murray had sent a text
Can do. All good?
John didn’t reply.
“Sherlock.” John said as they left the bathroom.
Sherlock settled into his armchair and regarded John. “Yes?”
“Could I-” John stared at the window behind Sherlock “-hug you?”
His best friend was home. His best friend was home and letting John help. Sherlock Holmes was home.
Sherlock stood up and slowly walked toward John. They embraced standing in their flat together. John held Sherlock so carefully and Sherlock pulled John close.
“Thank you.” John whispered into Sherlock’s shoulder.
“For what?”
“For coming home. For not being dead.”
Sherlock breathed out. John held him. All was right in the world.