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Standing between the window and the mantel at 221b Baker Street, Sherlock waited. It had been just under three years since he last stood in that spot and he knew he wouldn’t have to wait much longer for his resurrection.
Three years was a long time but, somehow, not long enough. Three years was long enough for him to eliminate Moriarty’s web, but not long enough to cure the guilt that continued to grow inside of him for what he’d done to John; forcing his best, no – only friend – to watch as Sherlock fell to his death.
At the time, he was certain John would be all right. That John would grieve for some time and then continue on a new path. Sherlock knew John was strong and solid. John had friends who would cheer him up and get him out and make him live. But grief can be as strong as steel, as steady as an hour or two or 10. Grief, when given the chance, consumes and it consumed John Watson. And Sherlock could do nothing but watch and wait and wait and wait.
At first, Sherlock was grateful for the texts and images from the few individuals in his homeless network who were certain Sherlock was alive and that he’d want to know about John. But then he dreaded them.
A photo of John walking the streets at night.
A text: hes limpin again
An image of John slumped on a park bench outside of St. Bart’s, the cane clutched in his hands.
Nurse I kno said he shakes so bad he cant work in surgery. Jus clinic now.
And the drinking. At first it was just a few nights out at the pub. Then he was thrown out of pubs. Then he spent every night sitting in the dimly lit living room, the bottles and cans stacking higher in the bins.
With each report, the drop of guilt inside of Sherlock’s gut pooled. The feeling was new and deep and it frightened him. On a train from Paris to Amsterdam he burst awake, shouting John’s name. In a run-down house in Quebec he opened his eyes to find his face soaking wet and his arms clenched around himself. The sudden smell of John’s shampoo in New Mexico had him shaking. He gasped for air in Cairo when he caught a whiff of John’s favorite tea.
Twenty-two months after his fall, Sherlock was told that John was seeing a woman. In photos, even from such a distance, Sherlock could see a smile on John’s face and that lake of guilt started to recede.
Someone’s making plans was the message that came with an image of John exiting a jeweler; a small box in his hand.
Five months later, Sherlock collapsed on the floor of a cafe in Rome when he received the message: its off. hes back in the drink.
That night Sherlock made up his mind to finish his work before the guilt and the grief flooded them both.
Three years was long enough to work out every scenario of his return. Sherlock knew that John could only have so many reactions to his sudden reappearance and the consulting detective developed a kind and considerate response to each of them.
Waiting in his home on Baker Street, he was prepared. But when Sherlock saw John come around the street corner, he knew instantly that none of his planning would do him any good.
John looked…small. As if pieces of his frame, his personality, his spirit, had atrophied and melted away. His limp was so prominent that he nearly dragged the leg. His clothes sagged on his frame. His head hung low, obstructing Sherlock’s view of his face, but he knew that John’s skin was pale and his eyes tired.
No. None of Sherlock’s thinking, none of his genius could prepare him for actually seeing John. The guilt finally took its hold and crushed his meticulous composure. Sherlock’s hands jutted out in front of him, clutching either side of the window frame as he heard the front door open and close. His breath heaved out of his lungs with every heavy step that John took on the stairs. Sherlock’s eyes burned and blurred at the sound of the key in the lock.
The door opened.
“John.” he loudly choked.
A gasp.
The keys fell.
The cane fell.
A heavy step through the doorway.
“Sh…Sherlock?”
He forced himself to turn at the sound of his name, wiping the tears from his face.
“I’m here,” he said, locking eyes with John and waiting for the screaming and the hitting. For questions and accusations.
But he was so wrong.
Mouth agape, John lifted his left hand, took a step and fell, his knees and right fist hitting the floor with the deafening crunch. Sherlock gasped and rushed to him, grabbing John’s raised hand as he sank further to the floor.
“John, breathe. Please. Take a deep breath. John, I’m here. I’m here with you.”
Sherlock put his hand around John’s head and lowered it gently to the floor.
Seeing John so defeated, Sherlock struggled for air.
“John, look at me. I’m sorry. Please. Please. I’m sorry.” he sobbed.
“Tell me what to do. I’m here. I'm here.” John’s hands gripped Sherlock’s wrists as his eyelids fluttered. “Sherlock,” he whispered before his body succumbed to the shock; his limbs resting limply on the floor.
Kneeling beside him, Sherlock ran his hands from John’s neck to his wrists, checking his friend’s pulse. Without a thought, he lay his head on John’s chest and felt the rise and fall of John’s body as his breath slowly began to calm.
“John,” he said, putting a hand to his mouth to stifle the sobs. “John, You have to forgive me. If you push me away I…I can’t…Please.”
As his tears soaked the fabric beneath his face, Sherlock could hear John’s heart beating. It was the sound of loss, pain, confusion and anger but, as he wrapped his arms around his friend, Sherlock knew that if he was good and patient and kind -- all of John's qualities that he had missed so desperately -- that John's heart would eventually again beat with understanding, forgiveness, trust and love.