The Inevitable: Johnlock Fanfiction

Reichenbach

 POV: Watson

Three weeks passed and Sherlock solved ten more cases since then; each and everyone without my help.

His excitement for each grotesque murder is amusing, and each time his face lights up; I couldn't help but wish that was me making him so happy, that it was me that made his face light up into an ecstatic grin. Almost always when I come back from a long day at the clinic, I come back to an empty flat, and it makes my stomach hurt with the loneliness of it. In the past several months, I had gotten so used to Sherlock's constant presence, and his almost right out refusal to leave me alone.

The flat is always empty now. The only times I see him are for a few minutes in the morning before I leave for work. Past midnight when I occasionally stay up late, Sherlock comes in the flat, almost glowering with annoyance. On the weekends, I often sleep in, and Sherlock always leaves early.

On the third week of this torturous avoidance, Sherlock finally stays home on one lazy Sunday afternoon, with the first signs of life in the apartment. Waking up to the screeching sounds of his violin, I've never felt happier. A warm feeling starts in the bottom of my stomach, relishing in the horrible screeching-cats dying-sounds coming out of his violin. Over the free time, I've gotten pretty good at the violin, since I often practiced it when I was alone. Sherlock and I may not have been on good terms ever since my mistake, but he knew I wanted to practice. He often left music pieces taped to my violin case with his notes and instructions written in his spidery handwriting.

Hearing another violin that wasn't mine woke me up cheerily, and I practically ran to the bathroom to get ready. Quickly I dress in jeans and a button-up with a wool jumper, and a look in the mirror tells me my face looks too excited. Calming myself down, I try to not bounce down the stairs to the flat.

Sherlock is standing in the middle of the room, in his signature blue dressing gown with a purple button-up and trousers. He's obviously stressed with a case, since he's roughly scratching the violin with the bow, with no grace whatsoever. My uneven steps alert him, and he swirls around with his hair ruffled and eyes wild. He eyes my leg and sees that I'm slightly leaning towards my right one. Narrowing his eyes, he scrutinizes me, making me feel incredibly self-conscious. The boredom and dullness of civilian life have slowly started to eat away at me without stimulation from the detective, and so I can feel my old limp slowly start to return. Everything's too peaceful, too calm and utterly stable and boring. There isn't crushing grief to keep me on my toes anymore, and now everything's just started to numb, almost like I'm back to the beginning; a soldier just back from Afghanistan.

"Your limp's back," Sherlock states, and then whirls around to fall lazily onto his armchair.

"Yes, it's psychosomatic, and I'm bored." I joke, trying to break the obvious tension in, and a small smile forms on my lips. "As a mad genius once told me, I am irrationally attracted to danger."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but I can see the flicker of amusement in his eyes. A small chuckle escapes him, and he shakes his head slowly. "I just can't leave you alone can I? Last time you sported a truly horrendous mustache, and now you can't walk."

I laugh loudly, and using my now-not so pained legs, I walk briskly over to the surprisingly clean kitchen to make a cup of tea.

"Hey, careful about my mustache. Last time you made fun of it, you got punched in the face."

A snort comes out from Sherlock, and he rubs his eye. "It wasn't the first time either, Mr. I-see-punch-me-in-the-face-when-you-talk." He smiles, his usually serious voice suddenly turning playful.

Suddenly suspiciously, I turn around to gawk at the laughing figure of what used to be Sherlock Holmes. "Are you okay Sherlock?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" He replies with a grin too large for my liking.