Word count: 510
Deep breaths. In and out, in and out, in and out.
He asked for it, he remembers now. Caressing the cold stone, asking for just one more miracle.
Well here it is. His one more.
Sitting in the armchair, plucking away on the violin like nothing is out of the ordinary.
He wants to scream. ’NINE FUCKING MONTHS!’ he wants to yell. He wants to check for injuries, run his hand through the thick curls, looking for the cracks in the skull he knows should be there. He distantly, logically wants to be angry but he can’t, not yet. But happiness isn’t coming either. He just feels… blank. He’s dimly aware that he must be in some kind of shock – blanket, I might need a blanket – but it makes no difference.
So he does what any sane Brit man would do in his situation.
"Tea?" he asks. He asks Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. Because Sherlock is here to be asked. But he can’t think about that, for that way lies madness. So tea it is.
He is not entirely sure how long was he staring before the question, but it couldn’t have been that much ‘cause Sherlock remained silent which can’t be sustained for longer periods of time. The answer comes in the form of an arched eyebrow, which means he managed to surprise Sh.. him. He feels a stab of vicious satisfaction at that while making his way to the kitchen. He puts the kettle on and hangs his coat on the rack – mostly just to occupy his hands. When he can’t find anything to fiddle with he slowly walks to the armchair in front of the other.
He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but for the world of him he can’t think of anything suitable. ‘How have you been?’ sounds a bit blasé, ‘How did you do it?’ just asks for a rapid-fire explanation that he simply does not feel up to right now. Of course there is the very obvious ‘HOW THE FUCK COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?’ but really, it does sound rather selfish. So he closes his mouth and waits for the other to start. It’s the least he could do.
After three or four minutes of silence – not uncomfortable for they are studying each other, checking for changes in the other in their own ways – he puts down the violin and leans forward a bit.
"I’m sorry," he says. Sherlock says. And oooh, now John can find those pesky emotions. He stands up, takes a step forward and punches Sherlock square in the face – not the nose, not the teeth he dimly hears Irene’s words – and sits back.
"I guess I deserved that," comes the soft reply.
"Never, ever do that again," John sayaskspleadsbegs.
"I’ll do my best" Sherlock says with a smirk, and after 278 days John can feel the beginning of a true smile. He can hear the kettle boiling, so he rushes back to the kitchen and takes out two cups from the cabinet.
Yeah, life is good.