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There it was, that sound he had missed for years, the sound that had fought his nightmares and made him want to bonk his flatmate on the head with something and made him fall in love with classical music. The violin melody was wafting through the door, down the stairs, permeating 221 like the smell of Mrs Hudson's baking or his experiments.
If this was a joke, it was a cruel one.
If this was a kindness, it was a cruel one.
He took the steps slowly. Had to, what with the limp that had returned full-force. It was terrible, a constant reminder that the battlefield was gone. It was dead and buried and no longer steadying his trembling hand. This stilled that hand momentarily as thoughts raced through his head. This wasn't the radio or telly or anything—besides, it was something he had heard…once…before…
No one else knew Irene's song.
Fueled with some wild blend of rage and hope, he flew up the remaining stairs, leaving his cane behind. He barreled though the door, and the violin didn't so much as stumble. Nor did the violinist.
The fucking violinist.
He stood in the doorway, face bloodless, eyes wide, mouth gaping like a fish as he watched him—Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Fucking Holmes—sweep through the melody as though this was perfectly normal. Just an ordinary Tuesday, playing the violin to the flatmate that thought you fucking dead for three years, no big deal.
He wasn't dead.
Sherlock wasn't dead.
It was perfectly logical to assume that it was a hallucination, but John was really all right. Well, as all right as a grieving best friend was able to be. All right enough in the head that hallucinations weren't exactly par for the course. Especially considering—
I watched you jump.
All of this spanned about a minute, from foyer to seething at the front door. John's fists curled and uncurled, his heart galloped, his breath came short.
"Sherlock."
The name came unbidden to his throat, pouring out like acid, or maybe absolution. The man in question halted the bow and turned to face John. The doctor noted the extreme pallor, the way his cheeks were both hollowed and sharper than usual, the sutures, the cast, the broken look of him. But the friend saw the light shining from the fissures, the little smile, the hope.
"Hello, John."
Right. Injured or not, John couldn't stop his fist, watching distantly as it connected with the sharply protruding cheekbone. Then, as the taller man reeled and reached to press his fingers to the site, he was enveloped in a fierce, vise-tight hug that made him squeak. And yes, he did, in fact, squeak.
"Welcome home, you fucker," John said, voice thick with affection and tears. Sherlock smiled more fully and returned the hug.
"I missed you, John."