How We Unfold (SherlockBBC; Johnlock)

Chapter 2: Come Home

Sherlock

The leaves rustle with the gentle Autumn breeze. I hug my coat tighter to my stomach. I shift on my feet. I've been waiting slightly longer than anticipated, but I know he will come. The scent of oak flows from the moist tree next to which I am perched. Just as my patience thins to an intolerable degree, I see him. His small figure trudges across the wet grass.

My discernible eyes detect the faintest of limps. Not something anyone else would notice, but I know every sway of John's walk. I know the exact angle degree at which he shifts his body when changing step. He holds his weight just slightly more to the right now, something he did not do before.

I watch him closely as he approaches. His left hand is stuffed into his coat pocket, his right sways with his walk. He looks down as he walks, looking up occasionally to observe his surroundings. His sandy blonde hair tousles in the breeze, he hasn't combed it. Or gone to the barber, it's an inch longer. He left the flat quickly, his coat is wrinkled, his jeans as well. He must not have work today.

He finally reaches my grave and comes to an almost awkward stop, holding his form a few feet from my gravestone. He takes a breath and shifts, something he often does when struggling to find words. I stand a few yards from him now, within hearing range but out of his line of vision. I scrutinize his gentle face. Bags under his eyes, restless sleep. Slightly more prominent cheekbones, less weight. Not eating. Judging by the looseness of his coat and jeans, approximately two inches more lax than two months ago, I'd guess he's lost about 10 pounds. Hard to tell at this distance. Unshaven, not more than a couple days however.

A part of me wishes I could simply go to him. Bring him within my grasp and fully analyze him. Observe every atom of his being and scold him for his personal neglect. I wish I could help him. But I would be putting him in more danger by revealing my state. Two of the three snipers have been apprehended by Mycroft's men, the last, the one aiming for John, remains free. I must find him. Despite his sights being no longer set on John's head, he cannot go free. He pointed a gun at John with the intent to fire. Carelessly. Without regard. He was going to kill my friend.

I will get him if it's the last thing I do.

So John must wait. But this wait has damaged him. I can see it in his darkened eyes now. He looks weary. Tired. Exhaustion pulls on his features. Something feels heavy inside of me, I feel the weight pulling me down, anchoring me to the earth. It is inexplicable. I blink these thoughts away and focus on John.

He opens his mouth, then closes it. Trying to find the right words. He pulls his hand out of his pocket, and clenches and unclenches his fists, a habit of his when he's nervous. He's never aware he's doing it, but I've always noticed.

"Sherlock." His voice cuts through the space between us, "I know I haven't...visited in a bit." He gestures toward my headstone, "Now don't look at me like that." The corner of my mouth pulls upward, just slightly. His hands fall loosely to his sides, "It's been hard." His voice is quiet. The corner of my mouth falls back down. I don't like the sound in his voice.

"You're supposed to be here." His voice carries weight, a slight hint of anger hidden in a plea. Something forces me to look away from him, I realize it's shame. I am ashamed. But my absence is necessary and being ashamed is nonsensical, I remind myself. John will simply have to do with things as they are. I return my gaze to his diminished form.

"I-" he cuts himself off. Takes a deep breath. "I'm so alone, Sherlock. I thought...that I could do this." I hug my coat even tighter around myself, I feel cold creeping all over my skin. "I'm to go on acting as though things are better- that everything's normal again. But they're not, Sherlock." Frustration shows on his face, "Nothing is alright!" His voice raises slightly. He adjusts himself, perhaps to regain his resolve.