*art privately commissioned from Stefanie* 9:00 am: 221B Baker Street, Westminster London - The Morn

*art privately commissioned from Stefanie* 9:00 am: 221B Baker Street, Westminster London - The Morning After the Return -  Sherlock Holmes stood atop the roof of St. Bart’s looking at London that was laid out beneath him. Many would admit, though begrudgingly, that Sherlock Holmes was a god among men. He saw things beyond the visible. He himself treaded beyond the lines of what people would call normal. The world’s only consulting detective, both hated and revered. Yet, at this very moment those things didn’t matter. John Watson, companion to Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock’s assistant, or “that short guy with that detective” as some would call him, only saw one thing. His best friend. Two words that were far more simplistic and rudimentary than all those other titles Sherlock held, yet it meant more to the world to him than anything. John Watson was looking to the heavens, desperately trying to stop the inevitable. The phone in his hand felt like a heavy weight he struggled to hold up. His feet were firmly held in place by the fear that gripped his heart. He watched as the world unraveled before him, like an out of control train speeding towards its impending doom. The events that unfolded before his eyes were eerily familiar, yet he could not draw away from its clutches. And each and every time it ended in the same way: death. And so John ran. Ran towards his best friend. Yet with each step he took, his best friend went further away from him, until eventually he was out of John’s reach. Sherlock had gone to a place where John could not follow. “Sherlock!” John woke up with a start, his breathes coming in staggered and haggard gasps, sweat trickling down his brow. The panic in his chest rose as he recognized the ceiling above him. It wasn’t the cream colored ceiling he was used to at Charring Cross road. It was the dirtied ceiling of his old flat: 221B Baker Street. John closed his eyes, willing the nightmare to go away; for nothing good came out of his mind’s dwelling on 221B. Too many hurtful things had happened here. With each moment that passed, the more he began to realize he wasn’t dreaming. Then he noticed other things that didn’t seem quite right, or rather, things that felt right but didn’t make sense. There was a heavy weight upon his chest and a warm body pressed against him. It wasn’t Helen’s he knew, but whoever it was felt familiar enough.  His disorientation turned into confusion and surprise as he tore his eyes away from the ceiling above and gazed at the sight before him. Time seemed to slow and eventually freeze in that very instant. Sherlock Holmes was lying on John’s chest. Both of them were splayed out in the couch, falling asleep in each other’s arms. And then, the events of last night came back to him in a rush. Broken images of last night’s reunion flashed in his mind, one moment after the next. Yet, in the scattered memories one surfaced above the rest.  Sherlock Holmes leaned towards John’s and placed soft lips unto his own. John raised a hand towards his lips, almost expecting the warmth of Sherlock’s lips there. The tension left John’s body as one thought finally dawned on him. He was home. He was finally home. Home with Sherlock. The breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding was finally released. Yet, John felt a different release altogether. Invisible shackles of grief that have been slowly constricting him the past few months now slacked their hold. Shaking himself out of his stupor, he stared hungrily at the consulting detective committing to memory what laid before him. The light that flitted through the curtain drawn windows illuminated Sherlock’s face. John took in the way the black as night curls cascaded down Sherlock’s pale chiseled face, the way his cheekbones prominently shown in his shallow skin, the way his shallow breathes made his chest rise and fall ever so slowly, the way Sherlock’s hands clutched at John’s jumper possessively. John regarded the sight, warmth spreading through his chest. He didn’t know how long he sat there, observing the consulting detective and thinking of how the impossible had finally become possible. The one miracle he had been waiting for had finally come to be. “Sherlock.” John said softly, raising his hand to brush his fingertips slightly on the other’s check. A wave of emotions came over John as the contact brought sparks of electricity with it. The warmth he found there was both familiar and comforting. His body shook as the tears came and he trembled slightly. He placed his head in his hand and a mirthful laugh escaped his lips, coated with a tinge of the insanity that had threatened to engulf him months before. Slowly his breaths became more leveled, and the spots that came before his eyes ceased and he allowed to be consumed by the tears. Nowadays he only cried for one person, and that was Sherlock Holmes. But for the first time in months they were tears of joy, more than anything. No longer was John wracked by the anguish of the past. A different feeling had come over him. It was something that could not easily be found but defined by such a simplistic label: love. The detective stirred from his place on John’s chest. The head that was resting on the doctor’s torso lifted slowly. Blue eyes came into contact with brown ones. For a fleeting second, John saw the confusion that he himself felt moments before being replaced by a rather different emotion. Relief and contentment laced Sherlock’s features as he looked at John Watson. John knew Sherlock had been thinking the exact same thing he had been. Not a dream. Or perhaps it was, a dream that had finally come into fruition, a reality that the both of them could share together. The sallowness and emptiness of his deep blue eyes were still there, but a certain spark had returned to them, as if what was once lost had been returned. They just sat there, taking the sight of each other in and relishing each minute that passed by in their silence. Words weren’t needed here now.  There would be more time for things such as talking, explaining, catching up, blaming but for now there was simply Sherlock and John and nothing else. The silence was profound, filled with things that only the both of them could understand. The ticking of the clock in the background was the only thing that denoted the passage of time. Sherlock released his grip from John’s jumpers and slowly brought his hands up to the retired army doctor’s face. They stalled moments before the long slender digits came into contact with John’s face. A silence question passed between them as Sherlock observed the fresh tears that had fallen from John’s eyes, and the haunted look he found there.   A sadness tinged with regret passed through Sherlock’s features. An apology almost graced his lips before he felt John’s finger press tenderly against them. He blinked once, and then blinked again. The contact shook away whatever cobwebs plagued Sherlock’s mind. The slender hands hanging in the air finally came into contact with John’s face. Sherlock caressed john, wiping the tear tracks away with a gentle stroke of his thumb. The Sherlock that he knew had never been this vulnerable and open to displaying sentiments and emotions but the Sherlock Holmes of nineteen months ago had never had to deal with the aftermath of faking his own death in Moriarty’s sick twisted game. In the same way, John Watson had never been so withdrawn and uneasy with expressing what he truly felt for the John Watson of nineteen months ago did not experience being torn to pieces repeatedly until nothing but a shell of his former self was left. Both of them were learning from their mistakes. Both of them were broken. Yet it is in their brokenness that they could be whole again. Sherlock raised himself until he was level with John. He placed their foreheads together. Again, a silent conversation passed between, this time a silent plea for permission. John nodded ever so slightly, before the detective leaned close to place a chaste kiss on John’s lips.  It was more of an affirmation that all of this had transpired, that both of them were here now in each other’s arm’s and not separated by circumstance placed upon them by a long dead man.  A heartbeat passed before they separated, Sherlock’s fingers lingering on John’s face. “John.” The silence was broken by one word that fell sweetly from the younger man’s lips.  It was laced with concern and affection. “It’s alright Sherlock.” John replied, answering Sherlock’s silent question. A soft smile formed on John’s lips.  He placed a hand on the crook of Sherlock’s neck, feeling the tickle of the curls of Sherlock’s hair against his skin. He drew Sherlock close until the detective was resting on his chest once again. “It’s alright now.” John whispered softly into Sherlock’s ear. Now that we’re home remained unsaid but in that silence they understood. They stayed there in each other’s embrace, relishing their quiet alcove as time and the world passed them by. The silence was enough for them both.  The only sound that could be heard was their heartbeats resonating together.  -- source link

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