Her Return

Sherlock paces the living room of 221B, his gait controlled and careful with his hands held behind his back. His ears perk for the right sound frequency of the water boiling on the stove. It occupies him for now, keeps his mind from wandering to the evening ahead of him. What it doesn't distract him from though, is the garish Christmas decorations Misses Hudson insisted on stringing all over the room...

He’s expecting a guest on this day, the anniversary of her ‘death’ five years previous. Every year, Sherlock has celebrated her rather than the tradition of Christ’s birth, ever since. Only, this particular date is different... she will be here in person, rather than busying around him as the spectre of Christmas’ past.

Sherlock had managed to convince (or rather, almost blackmail) his brother into allowing The Woman temporary pardon to return to London. Mycroft agreed under the condition that Sherlock be her warden of sorts, to keep a close eye on her. The detective jumped at the opportunity, already being thoroughly practiced at making sure the little dominatrix stays out of trouble. That was almost two months ago now, and hardest he tried, Sherlock could not get it out of head since then.

The water comes to a boil just in time... Instead of dwelling on the many things that have been brought to his mind following the rather tense conversation, Sherlock begins gathering glassware to make two cups of tea for himself and his guest.

Sherlock had known the date and time of her flight landing for weeks now. He did all he could to stop himself counting down the days. Even with his efforts, no matter how many extra cases he took on, the number still decreased with every strike of midnight. As the date drew nearer, even the hours and minutes were accounted for.

It won't be long now before she arrives. Sherlock is glad that John Watson opted to nestle himself away in some museum with Mary and little Rosie for the day. This way, the doctor didn't notice Sherlock's fingers drumming anxiously against every surface they found, neither his eyes fluttering lustfully to the clock every few moments, like they do in this one. it taunts him with every tick...

It’s 5:36PM when she arrives, eight minutes out from his original calculations (he forgot to factor in holiday traffic). Sherlock watches as the black government car weaves between the cabs on the street, pulls in, and then comes to a stop in front of Speedies.

Sherlock turns away and walks up to his chair, taking his cup of tea from the end table between the couches where he set the tray. He doesn't need to see the occupant exit the vehicle to know who he will be entertaining. Besides, he has other more personal matters to attend to... like the tremor in his breath.

He sits and sips, letting the soothing warmth of the tea bring him as much calm as it can. He succeeds in lulling his respirations to a reasonable pace. That is, until the front door opens and all his efforts to do so are undone. It's the involuntary flutter in his chest that makes his anticipation bleed through to his fingertips and then into the cup as well, as he taps rhythmically on the porcelain.

The expected "click, clack" sound rings out through the flat as heals approach the stiff wooden stairs leading to the second floor.

Sherlock closes his eyes as the sound increases in volume and her journey up the flight begins. He counts the steps. The numbers become almost deafening in his ears, even though all he does is mouth them.

She reaches the fifth to last step. Sherlock takes a deep and steadying breath.

Four. The tea in his cup starts to tremble with the shake in his hands.

Three. He replaces it in its saucer before the china betrays his nerves by spilling its contents.

Two. He wets his dry lips, his mouth in no better a state.