the small assasssin

strawberrybeatle:

At first there was nothing but the drip-drip-dripping of milk spilled from the bag of shopping, now slumped and forgotten on the floor. Sherlock did not wait for others to speak, as a rule, but this was John. John who had saved him. John who had run beside him. John who had defended him, put up with him, marveled at him. John who had befriended him.

John who he hadn’t seen in years.

“Sher—” John tried. “Sherlock?” He seemed to start forward, then changed his mind and planted his feet once more. Sherlock was fixated upon the unreadable churning in his eyes. Unreadable. That was new.

“But you— I mean… it’s been three years.”

“John…”

“Three years.”

Sherlock shifted nervously. “John, I am so…”

“Three bloody years!”

The anger in his old friend’s voice sent a thrill up Sherlock’s spine. It was as if he had once again neglected the shopping, or mussed the kitchen so thoroughly that John could no longer take it. Hearing that snap, he could almost pretend that nothing had changed, that nothing more had happened than the usual domestic trifle. However, such a pretense could never hold.

“I fear any apology I could make would be insufficient.” He could barely meet John’s eye; he would look away if he weren’t so afraid that if he did, the scene would disappear entirely. “Shout, if you like. Or punch me. Hard as you can, I won’t blame you.” He was prepared for this eventuality.

John approached him with something like caution; perhaps he thought it all to be some vicious trap. He raised a hand and Sherlock steeled himself for the blow, but it did not come. John’s palm pressed against Sherlock’s chest for just a moment. The weary detective’s heart skipped into it as John’s storming eyes flooded. His voice came again without a hint of the edge it had held before.

“I missed you.”