John sat at the table, poking absently at his laptop. His progress had been negligible, distracted, as he was, by the man at the window. Sherlock (right there) was immersed in Paganini, and seemed unaffected by John's watchful gaze. He was swaying, half-shadowed, half-sunlit, his bow moving over the strings.
Blogging away, lulled by the music, John was content to be blithely ignored (because Sherlock was there, undeniably there, his wanderings confined to his own brilliant head). He had missed this — god, how he’d missed it (right there). Together again, like the good old days (though John was a guest now, at 221b).
Noise drifted up from the street below: an idling car, the slam of its door. Ordinary sounds, to ordinary ears, yet compelling enough to still Sherlock's bow. Deductions were clearly forthcoming. John readied himself to be awed.
But Sherlock was staring down at the pavement, the weight of the past two years in his face. He looked lost, displaced -- untethered, somehow. As if, in his heart, he had never come home.
The expression dissolved in an instant. Later, John doubted he'd seen it at all.
Footsteps rang out in the stairwell, a distinctly feminine clatter of heels. Sherlock re-shouldered the violin, keeping his back to the door.
“Perhaps some Wagner,” said Sherlock. “Listen, John. Here comes the bride.”