Chapter Text
It was raining when John unlocked the door to 221B. It looked just like it had when he had left it weeks ago: dim, red, and cluttered with the odds and ends of a case in progress. He shed his coat and set it on the back of his chair, the one his laptop should have been sitting in front of, had he not moved out.
John sighed when he caught no sight of Sherlock. He should not have expected him to be here. John had not told him that he would be visiting, and according to Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock hardly saw the inside of his flat anymore.
John’s shoes tapped on the floor as he strode into the kitchen and peaked in the fridge. He did not know what he was expecting; maybe the usual anatomy and a bagel or two, something that told him that Sherlock was consuming food in his absence but John found neither. He closed the fridge, glancing around the flat. He saw an empty teacup sitting next to what looked like a partially eaten biscuit. He could not tell how old they were but it erased some of his worry.
John leaned against the kitchen table, scanning the objects that littered it for a clue to what Sherlock had been up to in his absence. According to Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock had been up to exactly what he has always been up to, but the look the she had given him when he had ran into her the other day… she had almost looked desperate when she handed him, what used to be, his key to the flat.
It had taken John several nights of deliberation before he had actually considered coming back here. Several nights of wondering if he would be welcome. Several nights of putting his head in his hands and recounting what exactly had made him leave. And despite the fact that Sherlock wasn’t there, John refused to leave, because he knew if he did, he would not be coming back.
Somewhere in his thoughts, John had moved into the sitting room and perched himself on a chair, from which he could see the window, and a bit of sunshine peaking out from behind the clouds. He could also see his cane, which he hadn’t a need for in years, resting on the floor, behind the other chair. John could not remember the last time he had seen in, and as he took a closer look at the flat, he realized that most items of his that he had not seen in a while were lying in their usual spots. He could have sworn that he had packed all of his possessions and brought them with him, but there they were, all sitting in Sherlock’s flat. The mug John had bought to replace the one Sherlock had broken in one of his sparks of insanity, was sitting on the table to his right. A medical journal John had just purchased while working on a rather gruesome case, rested on the mantle next to a skull. His slippers lay under the table by the chair he had set his coat down on.
John was rather puzzled by their sudden appearance but before he could really start asking questions, before he could wonder about the whys and the hows, the man he had come to see appeared in the doorway.
“Hello, John.”