Chapter Text
John Watson stared at the door. He checked the small piece of thin, delicate paper Mycroft had handed him again, even though he knew he was at the right address. He'd double checked it ten times by now. He just wasn't sure what to do now that he was here.
He'd seen Sherlock's ghost last week. But as it turned out, it wasn't his ghost, but the man himself. Alive and breathing in the doorway of 221B.
He really hadn't meant to punch him. Not hard enough to knock him down. And he definitely didn't expect him to stay down. When Sherlock had stood, he didn't look at John. Instead he'd kept his eyes fixed on the wall behind him. He'd opened his mouth to say something, but stopped himself just before John shouted at him to leave. So he'd left.
And for a week John wasn't sure why he'd said that. Yes, he was angry at Sherlock, but all he'd been hoping, wishing, praying for was that he would come back. What bothered him more was that Sherlock had obeyed the command without protest, taking it a few steps further by not coming back.
Because John had waited. Of course he waited. After sending Sherlock away he could only assume he would return for a second try. Couldn't say he wasn't looking forward to it. No use lying to oneself. Only, when the person knocking on the door proved to be the other Holmes brother, he was left even more confused.
So here he was, outside the flat Sherlock had been put up in since his return. What was he doing here? He'd expected Sherlock to attempt rekindling their friendship (in a very Sherlocky way, of course). He'd been prepared for that.
He knocked. Nothing happened. So he put his ear against the door and, hearing shuffling inside, knocked again, louder now. Then the noise stopped. He guessed Sherlock was deciding if it was worth opening the door, depending on who was on the other side.
Then the latch clicked, and the door swung open only an inch, and the shuffling resumed. John's brow furrowed. He knocked a third time before pushing the door open all the way. "Sherlock?"
He pushed the door open and looked around the apartment. It definitely didn't look like he'd only lived there a week. Sherlock, dressed unusually in a plain white tee and a pair of blue jeans, appeared busy rearranging things. Packing some into boxes, others into luggage. "Sherlock," he said again. But the man didn't stop, didn't turn to look at him. "It's been a week, why haven't you come back?"
Sherlock didn't even pause. He simply swished across the room, opening a filing cabinet and pulling out a bunch of dully colored folders. He looked through each one, sorting them into three piles on the floor. The tallest of the three were thrown into a metal waste bin and then Sherlock pulled something out of his pocket. A packet of matches, one of which he lit and threw into the bin, lighting the files aflame before he placed one of the remaining piles in a suitcase and the other in a small messenger bag sat on a wooden chair.
"Sherlock, Jesus, you can't start a fire like that in here," John scolded. Again there was no response. So he quickly looked around to find the kitchen. He filled a jar with water and rushed back to put the fire out. He thought that would get some kind of response out of him. He was wrong.
"I don't understand, are you ignoring me?" he asked Sherlock. "You must know I'm here, you opened the door for me. So why are you ignoring me?"
Still nothing. One of the luggage bags was now full, so Sherlock zipped it and stood it up, wheeling it over to store it next to the door.
"Are you going somewhere?" He'd just gotten back. Where would he be going? How could he even think of leaving again? Or was he simply moving into another flat? With Mycroft? With John?
A box was folded closed and placed next to the luggage, then a smaller one was placed on top.
John watched the man work. Watched how he moved. He recognised the flourish that accentuated every move, but it was different somehow. More calculated. More careful. He kept his limbs close, rarely bending or stooping unless it was necessary.
"Are you injured?" John asked, trying not to sound angry. Really he was more concerned now rather than angry. Anger could wait. They had plenty of time for that, he hoped.
"Sherlock, will you just say something? Please?"
When all the boxes and suitcases had been filled and left by the door, Sherlock surveyed the room. Most everything was gone in a matter of minutes, only larger furniture still sat out. Sherlock grabbed his coat (a beige windbreaker) from a hook on the back of the door, put it on one arm at a time, and walked out of the apartment.
John's confusion was turning into frustration, but he was trying really hard not to seem angry. He was angry, and Sherlock knew, but he wanted them to work it out. "Will you please just wait a minute?"
Sherlock didn't speak, didn't turn around, but he did pause.
John took a breath and stepped out of the flat. He approached Sherlock, but stayed behind him. He didn't want to scare him away. "Sherlock, I... Mycroft came by after you left the other day. He explained things. A bit. I know why you... why you did why you did. That doesn't mean I'm... okay with everything, but... Sherlock I don't want to lose you again. I asked for one more miracle and I can't just give it up just because I'm angry. Will you please talk to me?"
At that, Sherlock finally turned around. A few steps forward and he was, for the first time since his return, actually looking at John. He studied his face, and he saw it all. The hurt, the fear, and the anger being the most prevalent of emotions displayed there.
He raised a finger to signal for John to wait, which he did, while Sherlock went back into the apartment. He was only in there for a few seconds before he came out again and closed the door behind him, a small brown envelope in his hands. He held it against John's chest.
John glanced down at the envelope and grabbed it. When he looked up again Sherlock was walking away. He had no choice but to accept the fact that Sherlock wasn't in the mood for making up with him today.
He watched him go before exiting the building himself, the envelope tucked safely in his pocket.