Rating - Pg13/R
Pairing - pre John/Sherlock
Disclaimer - I do not own. I do not make any money off this fan fiction.
A/n - Because I rather prefer post The Great Hiatus fic. :) I know, the term is used for ACD refusing to write more Sherlock stories. I use it to refer to the three years Sherlock was undercover taking down Moriarty's gang because it's easier to remember.
Summary - John and Sherlock meet again. London is still the same.
It was upon a Monday morning; a rather foggy morning in fact; that John H. Watson noticed the little details. He'd left that flat that morning at eight, just before his shift at the London Rose Hospital on High Street. And he came home at five that evening to find that things were different. For one, upon entering the building, he could hear the violin playing.
Vivaldi's Winter Concerto number one. The one Sherlock loved to the play. The starting notes were high and sharp before going into the faster but. John couldn't describe the way Sherlock played. Elegant, flexible...and then, Sherlock played like Sherlock played. There weren't many words in the English Language to describe one Sherlock Holmes. But, John knew as he counted the seventeen steps to the flat, that it was indeed Sherlock that was playing.
Ever so slowly, John pushed the door open. At there, by the fire place, Sherlock stood. His back to the door. The music masked the sound of the door creak open. Sherlock looked immaculate. His suit pressed. He must have showered because his hair was slightly damp still. He must smell the same, John added, because Sherlock smelt like a warm spring afternoon in the country.
John lent against the door jam. Just listening. Wondering when the mirage would disappear and he'd be left alone again. Three years was a long time believing that Sherlock was still alive. His therapist said he wasn't past the denial stage of grief yet. Even though that was the first stage and he'd been angry first and then the denial had set in and never left. There was no reason for the denial. All the clues told him that Sherlock was dead. But, and like Sherlock's fans, he just couldn't believe it.
The music stopped abruptly. Sherlock slowly put his violin down in the case open at his feet. Bare feet. John's mind corrected. Sherlock then turned and they stood in silence. John still waited for Sherlock to dissipate into nothing. But, he didn't. Instead he moved and crossed the room. Soon they were facing each other. Almost eye to eye though John had to look up a bit. It was normal and...and suddenly Sherlock found himself with an arm full of ex-Army Medic who was saying his name over and over again and if his shirt felt damp he didn't say.
Slowly. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John who held him tightly and said as soothingly as he could; "I am so sorry, John. I hope you will understand..."
He and John ordered out of Chinese. Their version of comfort food. And John brought out two bottles of beer from the fridge. Sherlock had explained the whole story. How he didn't have a choice, how he had to fake his death. He made it all make sense. He gave John the answers in his usual way. And John had told Sherlock how amazing and brilliant he was. He couldn't find it within himself to be angry. Though he should have been. But, he had all ready been angry at Sherlock and now there was no need because it'd been one of Sherlock's tricks.
"I'm glad you came back," John said. They'd finished their dinner. Sherlock had grabbed them both a second beer and they were watching crap telly at ten in the evening. There wasn't much to talk about. John had given the run down on Lestrade and his teams lives since Sherlock had "died". And Sherlock promised to let them know he was alive and well as soon as possible.
They stayed up late enough to see the start of BBC News at Midnight. Only several minutes into it, John had sagged against Sherlock's side. The taller man smiled at his friend fondly as he moved them both so they were lying upon the sofa. He wrapped himself around John who muttered his name and gripped back. And only then did Sherlock feel safe enough to fall asleep.
London's criminal element didn't stop their activities just because the only Consulting Detective and his Ex-Army medic were asleep in their flat. In fact, it was during the early morning hours of Tuesday when someone decided to kill a young woman. Hortense Mason was twenty-two years old. She coloured her hair blond, though she was originally a red head since her roots had grown out to the point where she needed to do her hair again. She was a prostitute because her clothing was very provocative and she had three thousand dollars of cash on her.
The motive, obviously, was not robbery. Why kill her and not take the money? So, it had to be personal. So far, there weren't many clues. She lived in the sum's of London and shared her flat with other prostitutes. Her family was rich, but the parent's had cut her off because she refused to marry a boy of her station and instead went for a street artist. Three weeks after leaving her fancy life behind, her boyfriend had dumped her and she couldn't go back. So she turned to the oldest business in the history of the world.
Greg Lestrade and his team were stumped as to who had killed her. The case soon became cold and put into storage as other homicides plagues the H-Division.
"How should we tell them you're alive?" John asked, "Texting is a bit rude, isn't it?" he asked.
Sherlock lay on the couch reading the London Times. He folded the paper enough to glance at John; "Is it?" he asked. John smiled and shook his head.
"Or, I could poke my nose into their business..." Sherlock said. He jumped to his feet and folded the paper before handing it off to John; "Tuesday the body of Hortense Mason was found. Her family is of course friends with my family," he shrugged, "and of course Mummy know's I'm alive and have returned to my old station as a Consulting Detective. She asked Mycroft to make me poke my nose into Hortense's death." he explained.
"So, you're just going to go and march into NSY and demand the case files?" John asked.
"It get's better. I may be hired to only look into Hortense's case, but, there are three other cold cases that are very similar," Sherlock said. He rubbed his hands and smiled at nothing over John's head. John "hummed" and put the paper down on the coffee table.
"A Serial Killer," John stood, "you love those, where are we going?"
"NSY, of course, my dear John," Sherlock winked. He dawned his coat and scarf while John did the same and in seconds they were hailing a cab and on their way to see Lestrade and his staff.