Work Text:
John was gone, and 221B became a tomb. Sherlock lay coiled on the sofa in yesterday’s clothes, his dressing gown a shroud, watching rain streak the windows. His phone was dead weight. Three cases blurred into a grey mass of human folly. Dust dulled the violin. Even nicotine repulsed him.
Mrs Hudson brought tea at eleven and soup at half-two. Both cooled untouched. The flat smelled of unwashed skin and stale air. Sherlock hadn’t showered. What was the point? The world had narrowed to John’s absence.
“Sherlock, darling, you really must—”
“Get out!” he roared, the words scraping his throat. Her footsteps faltered, then descended. Shame curdled in his stomach, another unbearable feeling.
Dusk filled the room. Sherlock knelt beside John’s chair and pressed his face into the cushion, searching for his scent.
The downstairs latch clicked.
Sherlock lurched upright, muscles protesting. John had barely crossed the threshold when Sherlock collided with him, clutched him and buried his face in the hollow of John’s neck. He inhaled until his vision spotted, kissing John’s throat, jaw and stubbled cheek.
John staggered, then chuckled, arms closing around Sherlock’s trembling frame, and kissed his curls. “I only went to work, Sherlock. Is this going to happen every day now we’re together?”
Sherlock grumbled against his skin and held on as if for life itself.