#theunbeatableconductoroflight

Hello John. What can I do for you?

The fall had been something inevitable.  It had been intricately planned for weeks before the actual event.  It had been something that tore Sherlock up from the inside out, his entire being becoming hard to handle.  Before meeting John, keeping a secret this deep would have been easy.  It would have been something that stayed planted far beneath the surface and never escaped, but now that his soul had been captured by this former army doctor, he actually /felt/ emotion and guilt.  There were many times when he'd sit back and ask himself, "Is this really what I should be doing?"  Questioning himself was not something that Sherlock Holmes did, he was always right.  But doubt lay heavy on his shoulders as he thought of leaving John alone.  

Recovery had been the hardest part for the detective.  Not in the sense that it was too painful to bear (which at times it was excruciating physically), but in the sense that he knew he had inflicted damage not only to his own body, but to John as well.  The pain that was in John's voice during their last conversation, practically begging him not to jump, was something that echoed through his mind and repeated itself like a broken record.  

A young, brilliant woman named Molly Hooper had been the key to his healing process.  She, of course, was the pathologist of St. Bart's and could easily remove Sherlock's body from his death bed and care from him elsewhere, which is exactly what she did.  After going through the legal paperwork of proclaiming Sherlock's death, she sorted out plans for the funeral.  A young man that had donated his body to science had been put in Sherlock's place, but the service had been ordered as a closed casket due to the fact that his features didn't match Sherlock's unique ones exactly.  He stayed in her care for three months to fully heal (he had initially suffered a few broken ribs, a broken arm, and a skull fracture), and once he was in a suitable condition was moved from a private room in the hospital to a less risky location at Molly's small flat. During this time, too much daytime television was watched and he became rather familiar with the pop culture that he had tried to avoid for so long.

Sherlock didn't dare return to 221B even after he was well enough to be left alone for extended hours at a time.  Not only would it be too expected, but he couldn't dare be surrounded by the flat that he and John had once shared with one another.  Mycroft, whom had been let in on his little secret two weeks after the fall (and wasn't surprised to hear that Sherlock was still alive, he was quite brilliant when it came to sussing out suspicious events), often relayed messages to the detective about his beloved flatmate, telling him that he had left the flat and Baker Street and located himself elsewhere.  That was heartbreaking in itself.  He had left the doctor alone, putting him in the same scenario that both of them had been in when they first met one another. 

He had way too much free time despite trying to keep himself busy with internet browsing on potential leads to Moriarty's web of crime, giving him moments to be able to reflect on the feelings that he had developed during his time with John.  Were they even feelings?  What were they?  Why did he even feel so attached towards him?  He was his best friend, the only friend he'd had in his entire life. Sherlock needed to see John.  Mycroft and Molly had purposely gone out of their way not to tell the detective where his friend was living for this very reason.  They could see through Sherlock's cold demeanor and knew that /one day/ he wouldn't be able to handle it.  They knew that he would need to see his friend.  

And that day he decided he was going to see John.  He'd scoped out his address via the internet with ease, finding out the exact street address.  Dressing in his purple shirt (which was even tighter if at all possible, Molly actually forced Sherlock to eat under her care and in turn had caused him to gain a bit of weight), and black pants, he threw something less "Sherlock Holmes" over it.  It wasn't a trench coat, but a simple black pea coat that would bring less attention to him, along with a stylish hat that Molly had given him.  It wasn't the deerstalker, either.  The hat would be used to effectively shield his eyes and face from those who stared longer than they should have.

After a trek across London by foot (he didn't trust riding in a cab so soon), he found himself standing in front of John Watson's doorstep.  He was breathing hard, hinting that he wasn't exactly in the best shape and would probably need to build himself back up to where he was before his destructive fall.  A rugged cough escaped his lips, and he placed his hands safely in his pockets.  Long legs carried him up the stairs to the door, and just as he raised his hand to knock on the door he started to wonder if this was the correct thing to do.  Just show up at John's door step with no notice.  He'd brought so much pain to the doctor already, should he even bother?