docwithablog

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[ A year after ending his community service with them, he's still working with the Barbican Homeless Centre's Emergency Response Team. He's really only scheduled to clock in for the odd weekend night shifts, but on busy (read: awful) days during the week, he'll show up for their evening briefings and ask to be put to use. Fortunately -- or perhaps, not so fortunately, they're always a couple of hands short and he's always got a pair to lend, so no one asks questions, least of all John. He takes whatever assignments land on their table, waits for Hugh to drive them to the scene and does what it takes to get things under control. Oh, but it's a lovely little illusion, isn't it? That things can actually get under control again.

Well, maybe they can. For some people.

Tonight's been a busy one. They'd already had two code orange calls when someone alerted them to a man in Regent's Park who's definitely passed out, possibly under the influence and could they check that he isn't, what do they know, choking on his own vomit, please. They had looked at each other knowingly, because the man's vomit is probably the least of his worries currently, before packing their things and gathering in the van. Halfway there, a second call cut through, a code red from the other end of town involving a mass fight, broken bottles, the circus, so in the end -- well, they'd dropped John off at Regent's Park with his kit, although they normally never work alone, the rest of the team heading for Neasden.

The sun's beginning to set. The sky's blushing. It's all very -- yes, very pretty and John Watson has a homeless person to save, doesn't he? North end, drinking fountain, they'd said. Stupid sod's better not actually tried to move. ]

[ He's managed to frighten off the two passerbyers who tried to shake him awake (being, apparently, incapable of discerning between the breathing pattern of a sleeping person and a resting person, how perfectly ordinary) and now, the park feels quiet around him, this particular corner by the drinking fountain for the most part deserted, save for the odd pigeon or duck passing by, dropping in, taking off. He's lying on his left side, ribs still sore on the right, back turned away from the walking path.

He keeps thinking about 221B. The relative emptiness of it, the seemingly random traces of John still left here and there, somehow enhancing the feeling of departure. His. Sherlock watches the wooden back of the bench, the lines in the wood. Blinks at it, uselessly, and shifts. He's propped his head up onto his elbow and it's a bit awkward, the posture straining his shoulder and upper arm.

John's saved at least one person today, he knows. Somehow, the thought makes his chest feel heavy, like something inside of him is dragging him down, towards the dirt beneath the bench and further yet. He stays where he is, for now. Tomorrow, perhaps. Tomorrow, he'll find a way for them to meet, something properly dramatic. Something that'll feel more like before, something that'll make them both forget that John's been continuously digging himself out of a hole roughly the size and shape of Sherlock's bloody imprints on the pavement next to Barts two years prior. ]

[ Since no one else seems to be around this corner of it on a Wednesday night, he finds the man relatively easily, despite Regent's Park's immense size. The bench looks small in comparison to his long frame and he obviously has to huddle to fit onto it, the way he's lying down with his back to the path -- apparently not very interested in being disturbed by passerbyers or so they claimed when calling. He'd been rude to them (my wife was shocked, I tell you) and hadn't made a lot of sense after that, but honestly -- would you like your Tuesday binge comedown to get interrupted by nosy strangers who have very nice, very comfy homes they could easily return to instead? No. John doesn't think so.

Shifting the weight of his bag over one shoulder, he heads for the bench in a calm, measured stride. Judging by his hair and the state of his sweatpants, the man's recently been in contact with someone who could give him a bath and a change of clothes. Still looking rather unkempt, though, so he hasn't stayed long enough to let them, say, give him a haircut. They see a fair number of his kind on the streets, don't they? People who have network, but don't know how to use it. Or who don't want to. Either, or. Sometimes a little bit of both. John clears his throat and makes sure not to lean to far in over the other man, in case he should prove violent. He knows basic self defense, naturally, but first pointer is to at least try and stay out of trouble, yes? The bag lands on the pavement with a thud. ]

Okay, good, you're breathing. [ His breathing's even relatively level. Probably not dead drunk, then. Or high. Still -- ] Can you hear me?

[ He's noted the footsteps, of course, and correctly anticipated the newcomer's course and destination. Steady footsteps, intentional, the person - most probably a man, short stature - is here for him. Did they actually call someone on him, just for lying on a bench? Londoners. In Eastern Europe, no one would have batted an eye. Sherlock doesn't turn, though his back tenses at the sound of a bag, dropping onto the pavement (a bag? relatively heavy, made from - nylon, easy to clean, practical; packed with several small and medium-sized objects, some of them soft, some of them harder, glass-like; first-aid) and he realises that they've alerted a medic. Ugh. He's had enough of those by far, courtesy of Mycroft.

He draws in a breath. Stills (Ralph Lauren, Polo, aftershave, how --).

Then, the man talks and he freezes completely, hands curling into fists automatically. Can you hear me? He's wondered the same thing, hasn't he, several times over the past months, thinking about the small trinkets he's had his people deliver to John at irregular intervals. Can you hear me? All signs pointed to no. The man, for all his cleverness, truly can be frightfully unobservant. He swallows heavily.

Time's up, John Watson.

Managing not to wince at the movement, his shoulders aching along with most of his torso, he turn slowly onto his back, turns his face first upwards, then sideways. Meets John's eyes for the first time in over two years, a sense of unreality settling in his body. For a moment, he feels afloat. His voice, when he speaks, is carefully even. ]

Crystal clear.

[ Slowly and John allows him to take his time, the man turns over onto his back, his gaze routinely scanning his features for any sign that he's under stress, the man's bluish-green eyes (more blue than green in this light, yeah, he remembers) showing perfectly normally-sized pupils, his mess of bouncy curls framing in his face, weirdly familiar -- weirdly... And John's eyes widen, his entire posture frozen, halfway bent in over Sherlock -- because it is Sherlock, isn't it? You can't... no, that voice... It's Sherlock posing as a bloody hobo, because what else would you expect him to do, when in fact he should be dead and gone and past, so John can get his God damn life back, thank you. Thank you. Oh, God, thank you.

He accidentally steps aside, kicking his bag over, pill bottles and syringes clinking inside.

Then, he just -- stops, really. He just stands there, gawking down at the other man at a slightly less overwhelming distance, hands hanging by his sides, curled into fists and his fingers flexing at intervals -- mostly to feel the blood still running through his system, his entire system, his brain feeling quite out of the loop currently. Repeatedly, he thinks: but you're dead, interchangeably with I'm going to kill you and a single, desperately meek, I'm so glad you're here, though. After thirty seconds of that kind of awkwardness, he manages to get a grip of himself, straightening up slowly, his posture turning ramrod straight more by instinct than choice, shoulders squared and the weight distribution in his legs feeling off, favour more on his right side and isn't that wonderful, absolutely fantastic, back to scratch, aren't they? Back to -- ]

So, that fall you took didn't pop your eardrums. I'd have expected that. [ Long look at the other man, noting nothing in particular and everything at once. He's too thin. Much, much too thin. John's voice is shaking. ] I hadn't expected this, Sherlock.

[ It's not the grand reveal he was planning, obviously, but John's looking... quite taken aback, regardless - taken aback and on the verge of a heart attack, to be honest, but only briefly. It takes him seconds to gather his wits, to straighten up and find that near-perfect military posture, favouring his right side because that's how it's been, right? Sherlock's thrown him right back to the beginning, before crazy runs through inner London, before dinner at Angelo's, before the cane that got left behind and the cabbie who got shot in the head.

Odd, the workings of time.

He sits up gingerly, attempting not to pull at the wounds still littering his back, and faces John more fully, pushing his hair out of his face and trying not to think about the way he must look. He could have shaved, at least. He could have made an attempt. John's voice is shaking audibly and Sherlock's lips draw upwards very slightly, an attempt at normalcy. ]

That much is evident. [ Pause. His smile drains away. ] I left you a trail, John, to follow. But I think - [ He grimaces. Keeps his gaze locked on John, drinking him in because he's greedy like that, it's been too long, it's been ages... ] - I think maybe you had other things on your mind.

[ What do you even say when your friend -- who was supposed to be dead going on the second year, mind you, shows up on a bench in Regent's Park looking like a bum with double the amount of hair as normal and none of the explanations? John shakes his head slightly, licking his lips and looking around. The sun has dropped lower to the horizon now, the pinks and purples of the sky having intensified. Beautiful evening, really. No people around, no, they get their reunion entirely to themselves. How wonderful, how utterly -- great, yes, how appropriate. Just the two of them, against the rest of the world. As always. Fixing his gaze on the other man once more, he clears his throat, trying to suppress the lump that's gathered there, thick and uncomfortable. I think maybe you had other things on your mind, Sherlock says. ]

Good, um -- [ Pause. He clears his throat again. ] -- good deduction. [ Suddenly, he can't stop thinking about the DVD Greg left at his place, the uncut version, right, many happy returns. Eyes running over Sherlock's face, halfway tearing into and halfway drinking up his features, he thinks about the weird trinkets that his patients (the homeless ones, of course, of course) kept leaving him, a coin from Nepal, an ugly as fuck paperweight from India, souvenirs from across the world. Well, then, Sherlock left him a trail that he didn't observe, that's grandly typical, isn't it?

Maybe you had other things on your mind.

Which means that Sherlock knows, that must be the logical conclusion. Sherlock has somehow managed to stick around in some shape or form and knows what John's gone through, the hell, the six feet holes he's had to dig himself out of and that's not exactly fair, dead people aren't supposed to be there for the -- grief of their loved ones, they're supposed to be God damn dead, they're supposed to be gone. However, if the man knows, he'll also know why John's asking. No elaborations required and that's good, that's very good. He isn't sure he'd be able to get the words out, this one is hard enough. ] Why?

[ He stares at John for a long moment, thinking over his options mostly because that's what he'd do, if he truly had any. It's an instinctual reaction, to consider all scenarios, to turn them in his head and discover their connections, like cells of a tesseract. But to be really, brutally frank, there aren't -- this is what it is. John, looking (and sounding) equal parts betrayed and hopeful, maybe, it's hard to know for certain; and Sherlock, finally here to give him answers and having no idea how to word them to his - or to John's - advantage. He exhales, thinking about cigarettes. None left, as it were.

He'd expect John to ask why. He's inquisitive, he wants to know how things fit together. He hadn't expected the density of emotions associated with the question, nor the sight of John's features, looking older and worn, like he's aged more and beyond their two years of absence. There's always something. ]

Moriarty threatened to kill you if I hadn't. [ He keeps his voice mostly unaffected by the hollowness in his chest. This is factual. He closes his eyes for a moment, thinking back. That day on the rooftop - feels like it happened ages ago. He re-focuses, meets John's gaze once more. ] He's had a sniper on you until approximately six months ago, at which point I finally managed to terminate the hit.

[ They're just kind of looking at each other for a while, eyes locked and the space between them loaded with a hundred million unsaid things that John can't even begin to name, because they're mostly -- yes, well, sentiment and surely, Sherlock and him aren't starting in on that mess now, right? Shit. Lips pressed together in a tight line, he just tries joining the dots, making the pieces fit together. Moriarty had threatened, what, to kill him? You'd think the great Sherlock Holmes with his great, bloody brain could find another way around that than to swan-dive off Bart's rooftop -- though, obviously, it was all staged and only looked so incredibly convincing that John still has nightmares about it some nights, the bad ones, when he hasn't -- had enough to drink, presumably.

With a low groan, he reaches up and runs his palm down over his face, feeling suddenly exhausted enough to sleep on his feet. A long, exasperated exhalation and he bends down to pick up his bag, tumbled over from before and looks up at Sherlock, pretty much crouching at his feet. The man looks very tall and very thin and very real like that, doesn't he? Like you might actually be able to reach out and touch him. If you wanted to. John refrains, thank you very much. ]

So, everything basically went on as if nothing had changed, I was still in constant peril and you still managed to save my life, from beyond the bloody grave, too. [ A cock of his head as he gets up again, looking down at Sherlock sitting on the bench, bag slung over one shoulder. The gesture is followed by a slight scoff. ] That's impressive, Sherlock, very impressive. This might be your best one yet.

[ This might be your worst one yet, you idiot, don't ever do anything like it again, his eyes are saying, because everything changed. Sometimes, really, John Watson is too expressive for his own good and one such time is now, it seems. ]

Edited 2019-09-16 15:04 (UTC)

[ He watches John's face, trying to gauge his reaction while he waits for him to respond in words. The thing with John Watson is, in general his emotions tend to be written all over his face and in his body language. Disappointment, anger, happiness, excitement - he's a very transparent sort of person, for all the darkness he keeps hidden away from the world. During the past two years, he's stored the facts of John safely in his mind palace, trying to keep the memory of his face and his voice as distinctive as he could, as clear and realistic. All the same, watching him now is almost jarring.

There are so many nuances.

Expression softening a fraction, he tests out his weight against the ground, one foot, then the other. Steeling himself, he rises slowly to his feet, feeling every inch of his abused upper body as he straightens up. Though he doesn't quite manage his usual fluidity, the movement isn't as stiff as it could be. Sherlock is nothing if not stubborn. ]

I did what I had to do. [ He doesn't add, to keep you safe because John already knows, it's irrelevant. Besides, considering the self-abuse John's been indulging in for the better part of the first year following his fake suicide, it's hard to say exactly how well he's managed, isn't it? Instead, he pushes his hands inside his pockets and looks the other man over, eyes narrowed very slightly in thought. ] You moved out.

Yeah -- [ A bit preoccupied watching Sherlock getting to his feet, he only half-registers the comment. Although it's not something that would stand out to most people, probably, he has been fine-tuning his professional skills for the past year and a half, hasn't he, and so he notices. Even if things were ever rarely obvious around Sherlock and this certainly isn't either, John can tell. There's a stiffness to his movements, different from his usual, fluid transitions -- the other man was nothing if not all limbs in all directions before, yes? He remembers. And he thinks he remembers correctly, actually. He knows he does. However, once Sherlock's observation (obvious) settles, John abandons his own in favour of looking to the side, shifting his bag to the other shoulder and feeling suddenly -- what, shameful? Seriously? For God's sake. He licks his lips, only by sheer willpower keeping from clearing his throat again. ] Yeah, I -- Right after the funeral, I couldn't...

[ A shrug. Squaring his shoulders, he straightens up fully which isn't helping much now when Sherlock's also standing. Their eyes meet and he blinks a couple of times. He couldn't stand it there, all right. The smell of it, all Sherlock's things, the utter lack of -- yes, well, everything that made it more than a place before. He couldn't stand its four walls, he couldn't stand breathing the air, the feel of his mattress, the silence at night, the nightmares. He couldn't. It was like coming home from the war all over, wasn't it? When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. But as Mycroft was undoubtedly in on it as well, he ought to just shut the fuck up.

John swallows. ]

You've dropped by, then. [ A slight pause, hesitant. Hopeful. Jesus, he hates himself. ] Here to stay?

[ He only just manages not to shrug in response. Best not. Instead, he lets his gaze glide away, taking in their surroundings with what's amounting to a chronic sense of hyper-alertness. Sebastian Moran was, supposedly, the last of the lot. All the same, you can never be too sure - Moriarty's network, he's learned, was more than a spider's web, much, much more. It was a seemingly endless labyrinth of twists and turns, most of them illogical, created that way to prevent chain destruction. ]

Yep. [ He pops the 'p', then pauses, brain collecting data and discarding it, uselessly, because there's really nothing here of interest, apart from the man standing a few feet away from him. Huffing out his next exhalation, slightly irritated, he re-focuses. ] Mrs. Hudson might very well murder me herself if I don't. You should have heard her when she...

[ He trails off. Waves a hand in the air, mostly because it isn't very funny, is it? That she saw him and fainted, quite promptly, banging her head against the hallway floor. She'd been furious with him but surprisingly (shockingly), more so with herself. He'd been mostly concerned about the way her gaze had wavered for a moment, thinking that he'd managed to give her a concussion. No laughing matter, at her age. Her hip, fortunately, had survived the encounter undamaged. ]

Edited 2019-09-16 17:45 (UTC)

[ The idea of Mrs Hudson threatening Sherlock with fire and brimstone, were he to ever leave her household again is actually a rather amusing one and John feels the corner of his mouth quirk while he nods in understanding, yeah, he gets it. The picture. Not in full, but if Sherlock's staying put -- well, there might be time to connect the remaining dots at some point when they're not standing in Regent's Park on the brink of bloody dusk, dew falling all around them, Sherlock looking like a hobo and John looking like he needs a drink, which he quite frankly does. His daily tumbler of Scotch would be in order now. He could offer to cut his shift short, take Sherlock with him home to his new place or he could -- supposedly... he could...

With a frown, he turns the words over in his head for a couple of seconds, not really coming up with any satisfactory phrasings that don't sound halfway like he's coming on to the man, but hey. That would just bring them back to their first night at Angelo's and maybe that's really the best kind of beginning they could strive for, if they really are to revisit anything of what's happened between them before these two years of bloody hell. One eyebrow going up slightly, the quirk of his lip turns into something that would have been a smile in another day and time. ]

Do you think me following you home would give her a heart attack? Because, trust me, you're not sleeping on this bench tonight.

[ He watches John's face change, from that altogether terrible, tired hesitancy to something a little lighter, a little more familiar. The sight alone makes something inside him relax a fraction, a tension that he's been carrying around ever since getting back to London and being presented with John's file - thick, bursting with papers. He'd read it all, of course, read it carefully, once he realised the gravity of it. Of the consequences. He never thought -- but then again, he'd figured that death would be easy. A fact of life, little more.

He never thought.

At John's comment, he raises one eyebrow slightly in turn. You're not sleeping on this bench, he says, and there's something so incredibly complicated about it, about someone giving a damn after two years of nothing but his own company, his own priorities. Of getting by primarily for the sake of something else, something external to his own needs - to take down the next criminal cell, the next, the next. He swallows. ]

Well then. [ A nod down the path. ] Doctor's orders, yes?

[ With that, he sets off. He's carrying nothing at all, just the clothes on his back. He resists the urge to glance over his shoulder, though he can't quite help himself from listening for a set of familiar footsteps, following along. ]

Edited 2019-09-16 18:23 (UTC)

[ Doctor's orders, Sherlock says, reminding John -- perhaps in due time that he's actually here for professional purposes. Allowing the man to set off and get a head start only reluctantly, he fishes his work phone out of his pocket and texts Hugh, letting the team know that his job in Regent's Park's done, no issues to report and that he'll have to abandon shift (sorry, personal stuff, will explain later), planning to drop by with the bag the following evening.

Only once he's pocketed the phone again, does he look up, finding Sherlock a good stretch away, all back (no coat) and too-long hair and there's a slight hesitancy to the roll of his upper body with every step, so he's definitely in some pain. All things they'll have to deal with at some point, he foresees, knows. There are things you simply can't leave behind in whatever war zone you've been deployed to, especially if your body's bearing the brunt of it.

John's got a left shoulder, ask his old gunshot wound if you don't believe him.

Still, the sight of Sherlock walking away is so bloody familiar that it makes his stomach drop a little and he has to breathe deeply, really filling his lungs, before he shifts his bag a bit and breaks into a quick march in order to not -- what, get left behind? In that case today would just be the continuation of the past two years, wouldn't it, no change, same difference. Same damn difference.

No, he's not about to let that happen. ]

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the first.

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