Hello readers! Welcome to 'Untill we meet again', a collection of one shots about how Sherlock and John could find one another again. This will be my first Sherlock fic. and I hope you like it. And please review! Reviews are virtual chocolate. And I like chocolate! I can't think of what else to say other than let it begin! (And muffins but that's not important right now :)
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock he is the property of the BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. (Which I don't understand because honestly do you think Sherlock would let himself be owned by anyone? ;)
It had been three months since Sherlock died.
And Sherlock felt that an efficient amount of time had past and it was probably save now to do what he had contemplated the three months since his death. It was time to tell John that he was alive. But he couldn't just call him up on the phone and tell him, or just walk up to him on the street and tell him. No. He was still incognito. And he was bored. Completely and utterly bored. He needed a challenge. And he had given himself the perfect challenge. Find the perfect way to tell John. Find a way that would still give himself the satisfaction of suprising and impressing John. But at the same time not scare him too much that it would send him into shock or faint or something. But Sherlock couldn't think. His brain was not working properly. He needed to get somewhere quite so he could think. He needed somewhere familiar. So naturally he chose his favorite thinking place. 221b Backer street.
He waited for a time when he know John wouldn't be home. A time when Mrs. Hudson would be out. Then he slipped in his key and creeped quietly up the stairs. Once he was settled in and was careful not to leave any sign of his entering, he sat down at his favorite spot on the couch, laid down, closed his eyes, and thought. Thinking of the perfect way. The perfect way to inform his friend of his well-being. But he could not think. Each idea had a problem or a tiny flaw would make him cast out the idea completely.
Sherlock was hungry he hadn't eaten in a while and needed something to quench his hunger. He almost called out for Mrs. Hudson, but remembered the circumstances of his being here. He frowned. He would have to make his own food. The thought of it was displeasing but he went about the chore any way. He made himself some toast and tea and sat down at the table. Maybe if he relaxed his mind he would be able to think up a plan more easily. And it worked. Because he was Sherlock of course and Sherlock was completely clever. And his plans always worked. Well most of the time any way. And just as he was buttering his second piece of toast he heard keys jingling and the closing of a door in the hallway below. His eyes widened and he immediately cursed himself. He had been careless. John was home and he had been careless. The door to the kitchen was still a jar. His toast and tea were still sitting there. But most importantly Sherlock was still sitting there. He had to act fast. He flung his mug, with tea still in it, towards the sink but it fell short and the mug crashed to the floor. This was followed by more cursing. He shoved the rest of the toast in his mouth and ran to the window. He could hear John enter the apartment. And he got increasingly worried his plan would fail but those thoughts were immediately shoved aside. Because he was Sherlock of course and Sherlock was completely clever. And his plans always worked. Well most of the time...
John had had a long day. Working at the hospital was becoming increasingly boring, but today had been extremely dull. He wish he was coming home to Sherlock. Sherlock used to always have something exciting for them to do, some new adventure. But ever since Sherlock had...
Any way he was walking up the stairs to the flat when he heard a crash from above. "Mrs. Hudson?" he called. When there was no response he started to charge up the stairs.
He unlocked the door and stumbled into the flat. It appeared empty. And everything looked to be in its place. But he could sense something still in the room. He quietly pulled his gun out of the drawer he had kept it in and snuck his way over to the kitchen. He noticed the door slightly ajar and heard a slight movement from within. He pulled out his gun and held it out in front of him. He shoved the door open.
"Freeze!" he shouted as he entered the room. Only to find the most peculiar sight before him. There were crumbs all over the table and his good mug was now scattered all over the floor with a brown liquid drenched around it. But the most peculiar part of it all was the window. It was open and was carrying a guilty looking Sherlock inside. He had one leg out the window and the other half way over the window sill. He was frozen on the spot, with a 'deer in headlights' appearance. He also sported a wad of what appeared to be toast in his mouth. He slowly swallowed it as John stood there shocked.
"Sherlock?" he gasped.
"Oh, um hello John. I was just going to..." and then Sherlock fell out the window.
"SHERLOCK!" John yelled as ran over to the window. Only to find Sherlock lying on the fire-escape. "Oh, " he said rather awkwardly, "I forgot that we had one of those."
"So did I." Sherlock confessed.
"This is awkward"
"Yes John. Yes, it is indeed."