Merry Reunions [Sherlock] [#Yuletide]

Creaking Trains and Raven Curls

The staff at the station had looked at me like I was insane.

"The next train leaves in two minutes," the woman behind the desk had told me as she handed me my ticket, pointing down a long hallway. "If you can make it, you're on your way."

I'd caught the train as the conductor made his last call. The car was empty - even during the holiday season, people had more sense than to catch a train that left near midnight. I took a seat, checked my watch. I had seven hours to sleep before we ended up in London.

Rocked gently by the train, its creaks and murmurs as lullabies, I slipped away into a world overwhelmed by dreams of the beautiful Sherlock Holmes.

--

The familiar screech of the stopping train woke me. I could already hear the hustling, the shouts and conversations of Paddington Station, its liveliness overwhelming at the early hour of six.

I left the train car, feet landing shakily on the tile. Duffle bag slung over my shoulder, purple half-moons beneath my eyes - I didn't exactly look like a hero returning home from war. And as I began my 20-minute walk to 221B Baker Street, I didn't feel like one, either.

As I walked, cold December air nipping at my cheeks, the seeds of regret planted themselves within my stomach. What kind of madman took off at midnight, suddenly leaving his city to go see a man who didn't love him in return? I hadn't even called into work - not that they'd really notice I was missing. Still, I felt ridiculous, trudging against the tides of the city's inhabitants.

These streets were familiar, each of them feeding memories to my mind like fluid through an IV. Here, I chased Moriarty through the home of a reporter. Here, I was cuffed to Sherlock as we raced through the streets. Here, Sherlock jumped.

I shut my eyes as I passed St. Bart's. That was the very last thing I needed to think about now.

Too quickly, the settings familiarized themselves further. The corner store I'd pick up our groceries at, our favorite spot for coffee, the houses of our neighbors. I was tracing paths I'd walked countless times, each step filling me with further anxiety and dread.

And then I stopped.

My heart rate slowed as I stared at the golden numbers, hammered onto the door's sleek black surface. 221B. Suddenly, I wasn't nervous or uncomfortable. I was just... Home.

I pulled something out of my pocket that I hadn't realized I'd taken along with me. The key was a worn copper, moving steadily into the lock, turning smoothly, producing a familiar click. The black surface of the door was smooth as I pressed it, pushing away the door and stepping into the threshold I'd once known so well.

I checked my watch: nearly 7 o'clock in the morning. Far too early to barge in. I soaked in the same green wallpaper, the stairs I longed to bound up - all was unchanged despite the years I'd been away. It was so lovely that it was stifling, I was choking, I was out the door.

I wasn't ready yet.

--

It took me about ten hours of aimlessly wandering around London for me to reach any state of readiness. A café here, a shop there. It was no secret that London was gorgeous around Christmastime, and my way was lit by Christmas lights as I returned to 221B.

A deep breath, a quick push, a few leaps up the creaking stairs. I didn't stop, moving quickly and knocking twice firmly, knowing that if I paused for so much as a second, I'd wimp out and return to the safety of the street.

Mrs. Hudson opened the door almost immediately, face lighting up as brightly as the Christmas tree behind her. She wrapped me in an impressively large hug for a woman her size before ushering me into the flat.

The room was far merrier than I'd expected; Mrs. Hudson must have convinced Sherlock to go all-out. Garland had been strung around the perimeter of the room, laced with fairy lights and twinkling silver. Candles were lit here and there, pillows with stitched designs were sat on the couch, a Santa figurine had found its home next to Sherlock's favorite skull.

Despite the near-overwhelming merriness, it was the 221B I remembered. Not a single piece of furniture had been moved or replaced. Piles of paper were still about (although they'd been straightened a little for the event), and the books on the shelves were still crooked and dusty.

More impressive were the people I found inside. Molly Hooper, drinking a cup of tea and standing a bit awkwardly next to Philip Anderson, Greg Lestrade leaning back on the grey couch, Mycroft snuggled up against him.

I stood near the door as I greeted my old friends. They asked me about Manchester, whether or not I liked my work, how I was getting on, but I only half-paid attention. I was happy to see them all, of course, but my mind was somewhere else, repeating the same question that crescendoed in panic: Where is Sherlock?

Suddenly, it was answered. The room practically froze under his ice-blue gaze. He stood at the edge of the room, just having walked in from the hall that led to our- his bedrooms. His posture was just as straight as I remembered, his hair just as dark and wild. And his eyes- God. Had they always been that exact shade of teal?

The others in the room looked at the two of us in silence, from me to Sherlock and back again. The raven-haired man had a glint in his eye as he soaked up the room's attention.

"Hello, John," he said, voice quiet and low. "Merry Christmas."