#reunion-piece

Even though it was Christmas Eve, it didn’t feel like the holiday season whatsoever. Perhaps it could be deduced that the last eighteen months for Sherlock Holmes had been nothing more than a whirlwind of leads and clues and drugs and hopes and John, John, John. Or, rather, the lack thereof. The snow had been falling heavily – thick layers pouring from the skies above, almost as if they were offering Sherlock the guiding light home. Yes, Sherlock was finally going home. Perhaps it should have been more dramatic, really. A single bullet fired from Mycroft’s gun – not even point blank it should be said – but nonetheless, one dead man was the equivalent to a return ticket to the place Sherlock missed most.

The car ride was long. Longer than before – when Sherlock touched the doorknob and had to turn away. He had never been much of a patient man nor had he been one to work with the correlations of time, but after eighteen months of separation, another fifteen minutes should have been something that had been celebrated. That was not the case though – this was different. Thoughts plagued the consulting detective’s mind as reality set in on the scene. Yes, he was going home – and not just to 221B, because he’s learned not to argue with science or logic over the matter. He was going back to John. But that thought alone was what began a trail of thoughts and perplexities that towered in the detective’s mind. It had been so easy months ago, when he had learned and felt and accepted and hoped for something more with John. It had been so easy – too easy, really – and now, now it was much harder for Sherlock to weave himself out of such thoughts.

He had never been allowed them before.

But John was happy. And Sherlock couldn’t imagine taking that away from him after already taking away so much. He could handle this – he knew he could. He could push aside feelings and thoughts – those hopes – and slowly allow himself to fall back into the lifestyle he lived just a year and a half ago. But that was just it – beyond that existence he led and desired just now, he was unsure of what things were going to change around the corner.

And that’s what his thoughts were on the ride back to 221B – back to the place that he hadn’t even the key for anymore (lost in Venice; anger and drugs and restlessness to be blamed). He’d always had his way with John, battling nothing more than a petty argument to get his way, but he didn’t think he could keep up such an act if John came at to him, explaining (after the reunion, of course) that he was in love and planning to get married and was going to leave. After eighteen months of separation, seeing John smile as elegantly as he had in the last few months was more than enough of an argument for Sherlock to actually let him leave. But these were all just assumptions and educated guesses that had not truth because Sherlock was still three footsteps away from the door of 221B, breathing a little bit too heavily.

It had been a really long time since he had been home. And he was just a little tired.

He slipped his hand into his pocket, fishing out his mobile phone and setting it in the palm of his hand as he fingered out two simple messages.

Happy Christmas, John.

Open the door for me.

Both messages were sent and he waited. He’d waited eighteen months and he had waited a lifetime for a friend like John Watson. It was snowing and while he loved the winter season, it was colder than usual, even for Christmas Eve. But he waited – because they’d both waited long enough and finally after a year and a half – regardless of what was held in their future – it was finally time.

He was home.