It was late evening when Sherlock came home this night. He had spent longer than expected in autopsy and when he left the room, Molly had already fallen asleep. The sky was already becoming darker when he unlocked his door and entered the silent hallway.
Mrs. Hudson was not at home this weekend and therefore Sherlock went quickly up to see if John had gone out this night or was still writing his ridiculous blog. To his surprise, Sherlock saw immediately that none if this had happened. But nevertheless, he couldn't spot John as both his jacket and shoes were gone, so was his laptop and most of his personal decoration of the living room.
Sherlock turned around twice and then went straight for the envelope he noticed on the kitchen table. He threw his gloves on the counter and hung his black coat onto the chair. He reached for the piece of paper and pulled out the letter. It had been written by hand and before he read the last line, he knew who it was from.
"What have you done now, John?" Sherlock muttered and sat down in the armchair of the living room to read the letter. He did so very quickly and to describe it honestly, his jaw literally dropped open. However, he made his typical face of not understanding something or someone – which happened very rarely, and if so, only because of strange interactions of other people.
He hadn't noticed a tear running down his pronounced cold cheek until it dropped onto the paper. He placed the letter on the table next to him and bent forward, his hands on his knees. He didn't know what to do and leaned back into the armchair. What did John now expect from him? Did he expect anything at all?
What would a normal person be supposed to do – and did John count him as a normal person? Sherlock doubted that.
He walked back into the hallway and checked his friend's room. As expected, it was empty. The cupboard, the wardrobe, the night table and the desk – all as empty as Sherlock hasn't seen it before. And he had always been the one teasing John about the mess in his room. Now, it was tidy and clean. He must have planned this for a long time.
Sherlock sighed and leaned against the door. What now? A bus departed every ten minutes from the close Ouzelstreet to the airport. John could have left hours ago while Sherlock had solved their latest case in the hospital's basement. And there were plenty of flights to the US. There was no way he could be sure that John was even still on the island as he had been certain to be on the plane when Sherlock found the letter.
But it was a chance he had to take. Sherlock ordered a taxi and quickly smoked the very last cigarette of his secret storage while waiting for the cab to arrive. It took him twenty-five minutes to arrive at the main airport, after being nearly completely stuck in the horrific traffic jams all over London.
With one glance on the departure-screen, Sherlock saw that he had luck: There had been a fire in the hangar with the biggest planes and since then, most transatlantic flights have been delayed or cancelled.
The staff was all needed at the airfield and the security checks could only be done later as well. Sherlock hurried through the big halls in hope of spotting a well-known face.
He was nearly desperate enough to give in when he recognized the short and still military haircut of his very best friend. And while walking toward him, Sherlock had never been so sure that he was the man with whom he could become more than only best friends…