|The Nearly Empty Flat
Author: ACtravels PM
Sherlock Holmes was back. And he needed to focus on the case because god damn it all if Sherlock let sentiment ruin his return as well as dictate his exit. Return-fic. Reworking of The Empty House - as Sherlock would say, obviously.Rated: Fiction T - English - Hurt/Comfort/Crime - Sherlock H. & John W. - Chapters: 9 - Words: 16,468 - Reviews: 43 - Favs: 15 - Follows: 52 - Updated: 08-07-12 - Published: 05-22-12 - id: 8141300
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The more Sherlock thought about John's reaction the more he thought he should have predicted it: John was rather talented at accepting the ridiculous and moving on. Mycroft had once commented on something very similar, in that usual disdainful way of his, in accordance with the first time the two had met – his ability not to panic in admittedly unusual and alarming situations was unrivalled and, although Mycroft had commented on this in a way which suggested it was the only reason John Watson hadn't ran very far away yet, Sherlock was used enough to his brothers way of expressing things to know this marked the fact that he was impressed. As things went, having your dead ex-flatmate turn up at your new flat and knock you out was a slightly more extreme case than being picked up off the street, taken to a disused warehouse and being half threatened and half nearly ending up spying on someone for money – but Sherlock had to admit it was on the same vein of things and John's only reaction to that had been to be slightly nervousness and to tell Sherlock that his life wasn't exactly normal.
"You're answering her texts then." Sherlock deadpanned when they were nearly at their destination.
"Good observation." John muttered in response, glancing between his phone and his window.
Well, if John was going to just avoid reacting and continually talk to him in the strange slightly disdainful way that was just a little less comfortable than the norm (the lacing of affection seemed to be slightly missing, so it seemed more bitter than just the standard sarcastic), Sherlock would take that as permission that he could concentrate on what was supposed to be important at current; the plan.
Although, as far as plans went, this one had involved a significant amount of preparation and little substance towards the end: not exactly Sherlock's favourite way of doing things but it was probably for the best considering now he had an extra person than expected on the scene. Still, it irked him that there was nothing eloquent or smooth about it. An idiot could have thought it up, really, and it was just clumsy and crude and it had taken a great deal of his energy to hide how much this bothered him to Mycroft.
"You brought your gun?" Sherlock asked, "you shouldn't need it, but…"
John shoved his phone back in his pocket, letting the half-finished response to Mary's text fester unsent and risked another glance in Sherlock's direction.
He'd missed the slightly odd feeling of talking about being in possession of firearms in taxis' and wandering whether or not the taxi driver was shaking with fear at the front of the cab, or thinking about turning them into the police (although, John had long since come to the conclusion that it wouldn't matter if anyone did – he technically wasn't allowed a gun but after John had managed to save both his and Sherlock's asses multiple times over thanks to the weapon, he suspected a clearance for it would mysteriously be authorise by someone in the British Government. If John didn't have the gun, he was sure Sherlock would find another way to acquire one – and Mycroft definitely didn't want that). The odd sensation of the bizarre that accompanied walking into crime scenes and breaking into houses and wandering around London with a gun knowing that, actually, he might well need was one he'd never expected to become acquainted with again.
He wanted to voice the fact that he was a bit out of shape and wouldn't be much cop in a fight (particularly after getting bloody knocked out all ready today), before reminding himself that Sherlock could have deduced that even if they hadn't ended up in a fisticuffs situation. Whilst, of course, Sherlock had been wearing a bloody fake moustache.
Honestly, it was no wonder it hadn't really clicked in John's head yet: the whole thing was absolutely bleeding ridiculous.
"We have backup," Sherlock added, "again, the chances of needing it are minimal – but I suppose the Yard is sometimes useful when it comes to actual arrests."
"Lestrade?" John asked, except his voice didn't come out quite as he'd intended too. It took him a few seconds to pinpoint why and then it hit him – the idea that Lestrade might have known that Sherlock wasn't dead before him was… well, insulting. It hurt. Of course, that was petty and stupid and no doubt Sherlock hadn't been considering the emotional side of things (of course he hadn't) but, well, the idea that Sherlock hadn't immediately turned up at his flat doing something ridiculous was… unwelcome. All in all, it was a stupid thing to get upset about but that didn't mean John wasn't irritated by the whole concept – something which Sherlock definitely wouldn't understand and so wasn't worth voicing, in the long run.
"Hmm. We're here." Sherlock said, throwing a fifty pound note at the taxi driver before bursting out onto the street. John was half tempted to stay and wait for change, but decided against it; Sherlock's dramatics had a habit of costing slightly more than fifty pounds on occasions and if he was hell bent on squandering money then it wasn't his responsibility.
"Sherlock," John muttered, following after him with his head spinning slightly (the jury was out on whether that was thanks to the head wound or the sheer state of nonsense that reality seemed to have taken up), "Sherlock, a bit more information would -"
"We're a street away from Baker Street," Sherlock said, pulling out a key from his coat and unlocking one of the doors in front of him, "and we're breaking into this man's house. He's on holiday."
"You've got a key." John pointed out, following him into the house and glancing around the corridor vaguely.
"Mycroft," Sherlock said dismissively, taking to the stairs, "it would be better for us not to be reported to the police, at current."
" – why?"
"Well, I'm supposed to be dead, so -"
"No," John interrupted, pausing in his climb to watch Sherlock throw open a door on the first floor, disappear into a room and then turn off the light on the stairs, plunging John into absolute darkness (bloody typical, really), "I meant, why are we here, Sherlock?"
John had climbed the remaining stairs and stepped into the room after Sherlock before he got his answer. Although, by that point, he hardly needed Sherlock to tell him: the house was directly opposite Baker Street and this room aligned exactly with their old sitting room, giving an eerily perfect view into the room.
"I don't plan on having another gun pointed at me today, thanks," Sherlock muttered as he looked out over Baker Street, with an expression that John might describe as wistful if he didn't know Sherlock any better (or maybe he'd definitely call it as wistful, but knew that would annoy Sherlock enough even if was just internal so discarded the word immediately), "observation."
Not much progress in this one, but I'm fully planning on updating within like the next day or so and that chapter's likely to be a lot more interesting. Thanks for all the reviews on the last chapter! It's lovely to know you don't think I'm way off with this (although, if you do, feel free to let me know that too) and thanks for reading :)