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Sherlock unlocked the door to 221b. He looked up at the gold letters contrasted against their black background, and they drove him back. Back to the first day he met John Watson, back to the very moment and place he shook hands with his soon-to-be best friend. It was the beginning of an era.
Possibly the greatest miracle in Sherlock’s life was that John chose to stay, despite everything that Sherlock was- rude, crazy, ridiculous- because together, in and out of this flat, they created memories that Sherlock would forever be fond of. How Sherlock ever deserved John was beyond him.
He opened the door and stepped inside. The flat was empty as ever, nothing new, but this time, it felt bittersweet, and he couldn’t shake the feeling away. John was happy, and that was important to Sherlock, but returning to an empty flat didn’t feel happy at all, not even relaxing.
Maybe one cigarette wouldn’t hurt.
He climbed the stairs and went to his room to change. Coat, followed by suspenders and trousers. Sherlock looked down at his bare legs and considered spending the night in his pants. No need for decency really, and nudity was always more comfortable. He smiled to himself at the thought of Mrs. Hudson’s reaction, assuming she would walk in on him.
On second thought, pajamas would be the better option.
He chose his maroon housecoat to top it off, then he bent down in front of his bed to pull out a box. Inside was another box, his secret stash, his favorite cigarettes. He tossed the smaller box upward and caught it, then played with it in his hand for a while. A very small part of him, the angel on his shoulder was telling him not to do it, but the devil spoke a little louder tonight.
"One just to calm the head," he told himself as he opened the box for the first time. A few rows looked up at him. He selected one from the center and slowly pulled it out, the little white stick that could be the death of him.
"You were doing so well."
Sherlock shook his head. John’s voice again. Always there, inescapable. But John wasn’t there, so really, he had no say. Sherlock popped the cigarette into his mouth and went out into the sitting room to find his lighter.
He kept it beneath his skull, where John had once successfully hidden Sherlock’s cigarettes. It hadn’t seen much recent use as Sherlock had spent the near entirety of the last week helping to finalize wedding plans. Otherwise, he’d be using it to burn fabric and body parts and sometimes his own skin just to see how he reacted to it. He brought it to the window and held it to the cigarette between his lips. The street was busy as ever, nothing had changed.
Life goes on.
He lit the cigarette and took his first breath of it. Immediately he felt at ease, the weight of his body evaporating to cloud.
"You’re ruining everything you’ve worked for."
"Go away," Sherlock groaned. John spoke to him at the most inconvenient of times.
"Sherlock,"
Sherlock slapped himself. “Aghh!” He couldn’t get rid of it.
"Sherlock, what are you doing? Look at me."
It took only that for Sherlock to realize that that voice was no longer coming from his head. He calmed himself.
"You left early," he said, eyes focused on the street below.
"The company was getting old," said John.
Sherlock blew out a cloud of smoke. “Didn’t hear you come in.” He looked at the cigarette in his hand, and suddenly the taste in his mouth was bitter. If guilt or regret had a flavor, then it was strong enough to take over all his senses, blinding him and dulling him in the wake of his now-realized mistake. He shook his head to wash it all away, then pressed the cigarette into the ashtray. He didn't want it anymore. He slowly turned around and caught John’s disapproving glare. He stumbled for an excuse.
"Just celebrating," he said with a forced smile.
"Where are the rest?" asked John.
"The rest of what?"
John tapped his foot. “You know what. Give them to me.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he said, stalking to the fireplace where a slipper was buried under a mess of papers and files. They weren’t very quality cigarettes, but he kept them around for this exact reason. He knew some other occasion might arise in the future where his hidden stash may be useful or desperately wanted, so they would remain a secret.
"Thanks," said John as Sherlock grumpily handed them over. He stuffed them into his pocket and smiled up at his friend.
"People were starting to wonder why you’d left," said John.
Sherlock smiled halfheartedly. “People,” he said. “Not really my thing.”
John laughed. No, Sherlock was never comfortable around large crowds, which is why John was particularly surprised and elated that Sherlock kept his cool for as long as he did during the whole of the day.
Sherlock smiled down at him warmly. He was no longer cloud, but he felt at ease being on Earth now, with John, laughing. John pulled him back, kept him grounded.
"Does Mary know-"
“‘Yes,” said John. “Most people know where I am, so I can’t stay too long or they'll get suspicious," he laughed. "But we do have enough time to do what I came here for.”
“And what’s that?” asked Sherlock.
John looked to the music player. Sherlock’s phone was in it, playlist pulled up with a few Classical pieces. John chose the one titled, “The Doctor and the Detective.”
The sound of Sherlock’s violin filled the room, and John held Sherlock just as Sherlock had taught him.
"You never got your dance," he said.
"Oh Doctor, you always have the perfect remedy."
They twirled around the room, bodies close, one arm around each other, hands held on the other side. The music was more fast-paced than that of John and Mary’s song, more energetic, but with a subtle air of romance that remained throughout.
John dipped Sherlock down in front of Sherlock’s chair, held their faces close, and smiled.
"This is where we would kiss," he said.
Sherlock returned the smile. “You do need the practice,” he joked.
So John dipped down and filled the space between Sherlock’s parted lips. He tasted heavily of cigarette smoke, but it was not enough to mask the way he naturally tasted, and it certainly was no detriment to Sherlock’s skill as a kisser.
When he pulled back away, Sherlock stared in awe, and John lifted him back up into the dance. “Ihave been practicing,” he said, eyelids low, a grin playing at the sides of his lips.
"I noticed," said Sherlock.
As the song neared to an end, they simply rocked side to side, John’s head on Sherlock’s chest.
"Thank you for everything you did today," he said. "It was more than I could ever ask for."
Sherlock rested his chin to the top of John’s head and squeezed his hand. “You’re welcome.”
After the end of the song, Sherlock led John downstairs and stood with him at the door.
They agreed at that moment, that nothing would ever change between them, and Sherlock did his best to believe it, but as always, he would rather see it happen.
Before John closed the door, Sherlock had a thought. If John hadn’t come, he would not be in a good place. He would have fallen apart and against himself, so he took John’s hand to keep him there, for only a moment more.
John looked into his searching eyes, curious about the words behind Sherlock’s lips.
But then Sherlock let him go, told him to have fun at the reception and to have a lovely “sex holiday,” as he preferred to call it. The words went unsaid, but they were no less true.
John saved him again.