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The door barely creaked.
"How did you know I was here?"
"Elementary, my dear Holmes." was the gently whispered reply. Holmes felt a strong hand upon his shoulder, the pressure a comfortable memory.
"I could never leave you. Not really. Not forever. You do know that, don’t you Watson?"
Sherlock forced himself to turn, to see the expression on the other man’s face at the words. The filtered slats of evening light caught utter bewilderment upon his features.
Well. It appeared Watson did not know. He would have to be direct.
He did not like to be so direct in these matters. Matters of the heart. Matters of his own heart.
It had been years since he’d seen his friend, years that had not been kind to either of them. Of course Watson would be angry. He had been a fool to think otherwise. Once the initial elation at his return had faded, the rage had surfaced, fire that he never thought could be directed at him. He tried to imagine their situations reversed, and shuddered at the thought of how dependent he had become on his doctor.
Watson misunderstood, and took his hand from his shoulder, a little flash of hurt in his eyes. Holmes didn’t know exactly what to say in a situation like this, so he simply grabbed the hand and put it back on his shoulder. Then he felt a little ridiculous, so he moved forward and gathered Watson up in a proper hug.
They stayed like that for a while, and Watson’s breaths slowed in order to match the rise and fall of his own chest. One of his hands was gently rubbing Holmes’ back, soothing out the tension there, letting the little sobs Holmes had kept in for so long bleed into his sweater.
“Why come here?” Watson asked after a while.
“My dear fellow, it is your room. I should have thought that the reasoning would have been obvious, considering you knew to look here for me.”
“My old room,” Watson murmured, “ I haven’t stayed here for a very long time. None of my belongings remain, and there’s a layer of dust as thick as you butter your bread.”
Holmes chuckled.
“Which is to say, not as much as one would expect, or require,” Watson continued, poking him in the ribs lightly, “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you have somehow managed to waste away even further in the time we have been apart.”
They were swaying now, almost dancing, arms loose around each other but palms grasping tight.
Holmes leaned in close once more and whispered, “It still carries your ghost my dear.”
Watson frowned at the poor choice of words.
“Well you’d better clean it up. And tell my ghost to move out. It’s got no business wallowing about here when we’re both alive and together.”
A tender kiss was pressed to his forehead, and Holmes marveled to himself at the depth of his forgiveness, and how it was that John just knew, without him having to ask. He laughed, and they danced together for a while longer, the sounds of London the strains of music they waltzed to.