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Description
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Sherlock laughs for the first time in two years (since the fall - has there every been a different time?) on a cold Friday in autumn, but that’s not imporant.

It should be important that he’s tracking down Jules “Slaughterman” Boucher, one of Moriarty’s most important men, and of course that man had to flee to London of all places. It should be but it isn’t.

Not when Sherlock sees John leaving 221b with a grey duffle bag (containing spray cans?!).

And Sherlock swallows as he never felt so nervous and distraught and happy and so very, very desperate at the same time because there is John just fifty meters away from him but he cannot run to him and kiss him senseless, he mustn’t, but it’s been so long since the last warm touch, the last words, too many days and painfully black nights, and it is like Orpheus and Eurydice, forbidden to see each other, touch each other, not until they’ve left the underworld.

Sherlock shakes his head at the ridiculous thought.

This is not a fairy tale. This is not over yet. But this is important. And there will be a day and there will be light and it will be alright.

Soon.

John’s running (though slightly limping) through the streets, and Sherlock’s following him intrigued, because there’s strenght and warmth and a spirit in his movements that Sherlock’s missed so much. Half a year after his death there had been a John on blurry photographs that Sherlock never wished to exist. Empty and vacant and so cruelly faded.

Eventually, John enters a dead end alleyway.

“Evening Jacob, Lucy-“

“Finally!” A bald man, Jacob, drops his cigarette and grinds it under his heels. “It’s bloody cold out here.”

“Oh, stop complaining”, replies a blond woman, Lucy.

John zips open his bag. “I’ll make you some tea when we’re back at Baker Street.”

And they start.

Sherlock presses his hands against his mouth to muffle his giggles, and thankfully the noise of the cans spraying yellow messages onto the walls is loud enough, and he laughs and feels tears dropping onto his benumbed hands, it is a bit too much, “You could” and “I know you’re for real” and “Fantastic!” all over again.

Then, he hears someone shouting “Oi!”, so he quickly hides in the shadows of a house entrance while Lucy and Jacob run off. Just John stays for a moment longer, leans his head against the painted wall and whispers “I miss you so much.”

It takes Sherlock a couple of minutes until he’s calm enough to grab some left cans and contribute something to what his friend (friends?!) has done.

Because I believe in you, too.

Description
***********
Sherlock laughs for the first time in two years (since the fall - has there every been a different time?) on a cold Friday in autumn, but that’s not imporant.

It should be important that he’s tracking down Jules “Slaughterman” Boucher, one of Moriarty’s most important men, and of course that man had to flee to London of all places. It should be but it isn’t.

Not when Sherlock sees John leaving 221b with a grey duffle bag (containing spray cans?!).

And Sherlock swallows as he never felt so nervous and distraught and happy and so very, very desperate at the same time because there is John just fifty meters away from him but he cannot run to him and kiss him senseless, he mustn’t, but it’s been so long since the last warm touch, the last words, too many days and painfully black nights, and it is like Orpheus and Eurydice, forbidden to see each other, touch each other, not until they’ve left the underworld.

Sherlock shakes his head at the ridiculous thought.

This is not a fairy tale. This is not over yet. But this is important. And there will be a day and there will be light and it will be alright.

Soon.

John’s running (though slightly limping) through the streets, and Sherlock’s following him intrigued, because there’s strenght and warmth and a spirit in his movements that Sherlock’s missed so much. Half a year after his death there had been a John on blurry photographs that Sherlock never wished to exist. Empty and vacant and so cruelly faded.

Eventually, John enters a dead end alleyway.

“Evening Jacob, Lucy-“

“Finally!” A bald man, Jacob, drops his cigarette and grinds it under his heels. “It’s bloody cold out here.”

“Oh, stop complaining”, replies a blond woman, Lucy.

John zips open his bag. “I’ll make you some tea when we’re back at Baker Street.”

And they start.

Sherlock presses his hands against his mouth to muffle his giggles, and thankfully the noise of the cans spraying yellow messages onto the walls is loud enough, and he laughs and feels tears dropping onto his benumbed hands, it is a bit too much, “You could” and “I know you’re for real” and “Fantastic!” all over again.

Then, he hears someone shouting “Oi!”, so he quickly hides in the shadows of a house entrance while Lucy and Jacob run off. Just John stays for a moment longer, leans his head against the painted wall and whispers “I miss you so much.”

It takes Sherlock a couple of minutes until he’s calm enough to grab some left cans and contribute something to what his friend (friends?!) has done.

Because I believe in you, too.