Warning: Some swearing
Summary: Sherlock knocks at the door of 221B Baker Street, after 5 years, expecting to find John happily married to Mary Morstan. Instead, he finds a little boy who plunges at Sherlock, in excitement and can recite
Note:I understand the chapters aren't very long, but I'm a little busy with exams so I try to do my best. Also, this is my first fan fic so I'd love some positive criticism. P.S. I'm especially proud of the third chapter :)
Sherlock knocked at the door of 221B Baker Street. As he waited, expecting Mrs. Hudson to open the door, he remembered Mycroft's words, "John needs you, Sherlock. If you would ever listen to me, I hope you do, now."Mycroft hadn't explained anything, further and that was the very reason, Sherlock had doubted his brother's words. After all, the last time Sherlock had seen John, his friend was putting a ring on Ms. Morstans' finger and had the biggest smile on his face. That day, 5 years ago, John had seemed happier than Sherlock had ever seen him before.
"Yes?" Sherlock looked back at door to find a little boy glaring back at him. Though he was taken aback to find a little boy in his flat…well, in what had been his flat, Sherlock was even more surprised at how similar this boy looked to John. He wore an oversized black coat, the collars up, as if trying to hide himself in it.
“I…uh…” Just as Sherlock began, he noticed the boy’s expression change from that of confusion to awe and finally, to joy.
“It’s you!!” he jumped in excitement, “It’s Sherlock Holmes!!” the boy ran to wrap his arms around Sherlock, almost stumbling over the black coat. He looked up at him, grinning, “Daddy’s told me all about you! You’re the best of the best!”
Upon realization of the boy’s identity, Sherlock was overcome with a nostalgic feeling – the kind he got upon coming across an interesting case or upon solving one. Yet, he stood stiff, with arms behind his back, as he had before the door had opened.
“You must be-"
“I’m Sherlock!” the boy exclaimed, his eyes glowing, “Sherlock Watson!”
"Sherlock!" John looked up from the newspaper,towards the stairs. His son had rushed down to open the door, quite a while ago.
"He's probably glaring at someone." Smiling to himself, John got up. He walked to the stairs, jumping over the Cluedo, the plastic test tubes, the broken action figures and barbies. Sometimes, John looked around his flat and wondered if it would've been any different with Sherlock Holmes living here, except of course there would be real body parts lying around instead of those of barbies'.
"Sherlock! who is it?" John stood at the top of the stairs as he heard his son running towards him.
"Dad, look who it is!" Sherlock took his dad's hands in his own and sped downstairs.
John, being dragged down the stairs, noticed how wide Sherlock's grin was. It was as if he had finally won at Cluedo.
"Look!" Sherlock pointed outside the door. There he was. A tall, lean man under a long black coat. He stood straight and stiff, with his arms behind his back, as if he was reporting to his senior. His hair fell over his forehead, just as it used to, but his eyes were different. There was something missing, they were blank, though John could swear he saw the guilt and sorrow in those eyes.
"It's him, isn't it? It's Sherlock Holmes!" His son screamed, jumping in one spot. John Watson knew well enough who this man was, but it was still assuring to hear someone else say it. It confirmed that John wasn't hallucinating or just simply mad. He felt his knees weakening, and held on to the wall, still staring at the man who stood at his door.
"John." Sherlock Holmes smiled at John, most awkwardly, as if, by accident he had met someone he didn't want to see. However, that is all it took for John to gather his strength and fume with anger. He walked up to Sherlock Holmes, and without warning, punched his son's hero in the face.
"Sherlock, bring him upstairs." He turned to his son, whose wide eyes and open mouth described his shocked state, perfectly.
Sherlock sat on the sofa, holding the ice pack to his nose, his eyes watery due to the pain from the sudden jolt. He looked around the flat, noticing the changes. Though, his bookshelf still held his encyclopedias and other texts, there were several additions. On one side, the lowest shelf held children’s books: The mysterious Benedict Society, The Eleventh Hours: A curious mystery, Capital Mysteries: The Skeleton in the Smithsonian; and right above those were a few magazines and novels: The girl with the dragon Tattoo, Gone with the Wind, To kill a mockingbird and Nectar in a Sieve. His possessions on the fireplace, other than the skull, were replaced by photo frames. John and Ms. Morstan at the wedding, the two of them again with Molly, Mycroft, Lestrade, Harry and another young woman, a baby and Ms. Morstan, then, John, Ms. Morstan and Sherlock…Sherlock Watson and finally, a picture of John and Sherlock, himself in the hideous hat– a cutout from a newspaper.
“Good night.” Sherlock heard John close the door upstairs. Sherlock hadn’t known what to say to the boy when he questioned his father’s sudden act of violence, but John had taken him aside and murmured something that had made the boy giggle. John had then reminded him of the hour and taken the boy upstairs to put him to bed.
John walked into the room and stood behind the other sofa. Neither moved nor uttered a word, as they stared at each other. Sherlock noticed John’s hands shaking and his eyes welling up, though barely blinking.
“John - ” Sherlock whispered, putting the ice pack down.
“You….” John cleared his throat, “You were dead,” he walked over and sat on the sofa. He leaned forward, raising his voice a little, “You jumped and…I took your pulse…you were…everybody saw you…you were bleeding…Jesus! Sherlock…”
The tears fell down John’s cheeks, and right away he leaned back into the chair, bringing his hands to his face. He rubbed his eyes, quickly but kept his face hidden behind his trembling hands.
Sherlock hadn’t expected this. He didn’t know what he had expected, perhaps he had thought John would do as he did at the door and then ask him to leave. He sat up, fidgeting a little in his seat. Suddenly, he felt strange, his chest a little heavier, his eyes unable to focus on one thing and his mind scrambled.
“I need to smoke,” He said to himself, forgetting John sat across him
“WHAT?!” John’s hand slammed the arms of the sofa, the anger back on his face, “You fucking bastard! I’m…shocked that you’re breathing, at all and you want to smoke!” He stood up, almost stomping across the room to the window.
“Do you realize…” He turned, glaring at Sherlock “Do you realize that since you’ve arrived, that is the only thing you’ve said, other than…” He lowered the pitch of his voice and made a face, which in Sherlock’s opinion looked nothing like him, “ ‘John.’”
“I don’t know why I thought you would actually have a reasonable explanation for this. You…You bloody…” machine. John held the word on his tongue. The last time John had called his friend a machine, he had lost him…for what he thought was forever. He couldn’t afford the same thing to happen, again.
Link to chapter 4: http://bbcsherlock.livejournal.com/61345