♢Chapter One: I Don’t Have ‘Friends.'♢
The Harrowing and chaotic events of Sherrinford had left everyone feeling emotionally broken and struggling to come to terms with normal life, whatever the fuck a normal life was...Normal didn't exist in their world.
The newly rebuilt 221B felt far too...Ordinary, even after a solid month and no traces of the explosion were visible anywhere; the charred interior of the flat had been gutted and redecorated to look as if the explosion had never happened, everything was more or less as it should be and yet, it still felt vaguely unsettling.
John sat down in his new chair and listened to the muted sounds of Sherlock's violin floating down the hallway, Sherlock's playing was exquisite, so soothing and beautiful, John sighed and sipped at his glass of iced tea.
It was summer in London and the intense heat made him feel slightly drowsy, there was sudden silence and the soft, 'click' of a door opening.
John looked up at the sound of Sherlock’s bedroom door softly opening and closing again; he pretended to read a case file on the side table next to him, He did his best not to look up when he heard Sherlock enter the room.
There was an almost tangible, smouldering tension in the air and John felt his pulse begin to rise as Sherlock turned to face him; his beautiful crystalline eyes met his own with piercing intensity, he exhaled and took a calming sip of Iced tea.
The atmosphere was almost flammable.
‘John, there's something that I need you to know.'
Sherlock’s deep, rich voice ghosted through the room and left no corner untouched, He was very pale and the haunted memories of Sherrinford were fresh in his wide, opalescent eyes.
He was wearing his customary linen sheet, draped like a toga over his thin lithe form, he watched John intently from the door frame and the look on his angular face made John huff out a nervous breath.
‘And what's that Sherlock?’
Sherlock shuffled uncomfortably and gazed at the floor like it was the most interesting thing in the world, he took a deep breath and looked beseechingly at John.
‘When Mycroft was being obnoxious and said that information about Eurus was a family matter...you are family, John ...You came back...After everything that happened...After all the terrible, terrible things that I've done...You came back...'
'And you stayed.'
Sherlock's eyes were shimmering with unshed tears and his face was more open than John had ever seen it.
'Please.... Please don’t leave me again John.'
After a moment John sighed and heaved himself from the comfort of his armchair, It was at this moment that he realized he was rather underdressed.
It was summer and although John enjoyed the hot, dry heat of Afghanistan, he wasn't so fond of the stifling heat here at Baker Street, he had therefore, adopted to wear something other than the usual jumper and jeans.
Sherlock took a step back and let out a breath, the force of it caused the dust motes in the air to swirl in intricate patterns where they touched the light, for someone with Sherlock’s amazing powers of deduction, he really wasn’t being very observant today.
The Desert camouflage trousers were slung low at John's rapidly trimming waist and the battered, white tank top showcased his recently returned upper body, his collarbones were sharp and defined in the hazy sunlight streaming into the room.
Sherlock had been so caught up in staring pleadingly into John’s eyes and forever searing his glorious image into his retinas, that he hadn’t even noticed what he was wearing...
This irritated him, how in the world could he have failed to notice what John was wearing? He couldn’t understand it.
He looked absolutely ravishing.