Sherlock belongs to the BBC, and this text is in no way affiliated with the writers or actors.
Hello, everyone! Well, this is my idea of what happens when John finds out Sherlock's alive (basically, a lot of swearing). The theories into his survival are various ones I've seen on Tumblr, not my own. I'm making my way slowly into Johnlock, so I'm pretty excited. Let me know what you think.
It had been three years since that immortal day. Dr John Watson had not "moved on" nor had he "gotten over it". The memories had stuck to his skull, spawning terrible nightmares every damn night, crawling under the arm that guarded his head and creeping into his brain. Most nights, he would wake up slick with sweat, the duvet in a discarded heap on the carpet. With a pounding head, John would abandon his room and sit in the ever empty leather chair in the sitting room, staring at that yellow smile on the wallpaper. It was mocking him.
John's limp had returned, but he adamantly refused to use his old stick. He relished the pain; it was such a welcome break from the ache everywhere else. And so he kept the dusty cane hidden away, under Sherlock's carefully made bed; where he knew he would not venture. Mrs Hudson had made the bed, tidied the room, washed the beakers filled with dubious substances, held John's hand on the drive to the funeral, and made no comment when John had ripped his hand from her grasp. She was wonderfully helpful. It was her who called Harry and informed her of their situation, and it was her who prevented Harry from taking the train down to stay at Baker Street, to which John was most grateful.
It had been three years of restless nights and mundane days at the surgery; three years of pitying looks and barely concealed whispers.
It was a Wednesday, 18:38, when John saw the familiar dark curls for the second time. The first occurred only a few weeks after the fall; a visit to Sherlock's grave left John in a crazed panic after spotting the curls and the tall, slender figure from a distance. Returning home, he confided to Mrs Hudson who looked at him with such sadness and pity, John wanted to throw his mug of tea at the wall in frustration. It was a Wednesday in October; John was marching down Baker Street eager to return to the comfort and familiarity of 221B, yet dreading the blatant emptiness of the flat, when he saw the messy mane of hair, no more than fifty metres ahead of him. John stopped short. The figure turned. He narrowed his eyes, and squinted but there was no mistake; he was looking into the face of Sherlock Holmes.
"Sherlock?" John spoke in bewilderment, his voice barely travelled to where the other man stood. Sherlock gave a small smile and strode down the street, reaching John in a few seconds. Those few seconds were enough time for John to think two thoughts which flickered over and over in his head; Sherlock. Alive.
"Hello, John." Sherlock watched John seriously, Sherlock's eyes boring into his, drinking in his features. John's jaw clenched, his brows knotted together in anger and suddenly he exploded in a fit of rage.
"What the fuck is wrong with you? I'm serious, are you insane? You're bloody mad? Three years you've been gone, Sherlock! Three fucking years! And all you can say is hello?" John was fuming, waving his arms so wildly he almost slapped Sherlock's alarmed face. "Where were you?" John's arms dropped to his side, his voice softened, "Why couldn't you tell me?"
"I think we should continue this conversation inside, don't you?" Sherlock muttered, "It is highly probable that there are certain people listening." Sherlock turned on his heel, and walked the last couple of paces to the front door of 221B. John shook his head in disgust, but followed him all the same. Once inside, Sherlock turned to John.
"Is Mrs Hudson in?" He asked.
"She's staying with her sister for the week." John could barely keep his voice under control. Sherlock leapt up the stairs, two at a time, entering the sitting room. He glanced around, noticing that none of his books had been touched since he had been gone. The skull, however, had been removed, by Mrs Hudson he suspected. An unsavoury reminder, she would have called it. Sherlock twisted around to face John, finding him leaning against the doorframe, expressionless. Then he opened his mouth.
"How did you do it?" Sherlock paused for a moment before replying.
"It was fairly simple, although the timing had to be exact, naturally. You'll remember a van was blocking your view of the pavement? Placed behind the van was an inflatable landing mat, I landed on the foam quite safely, and whilst you had been knocked over by the cyclist, the mat was loaded into the van which was then driven away. Then it was merely a case of carefully applied donated blood, which Molly was able to supply, and the overall effect, as you well know, was evidently convincing." Sherlock glanced at John's face, which was still confused.
"But…but your pulse!" He exclaimed, "I held your hand, I checked for a pulse." Sherlock smiled.
"Now this is where it gets interesting." John glared at him, "You see, if someone were to roll a small ball along the wrist and lower arm for an extended period of time, the blood flow would slow considerably and the pulse would be almost undetectable. You remember how my arm was laying on the pavement, closest to where you would inevitably approach?" John nodded slowly. "This was to ensure you would not move my arm so that the blood flow was restored to normal."
John lifted his own arm to his face, and pitched his eyes together.
"But why couldn't you tell me?" He inquired wearily.
"It was for your own good." Was the quiet reply.
"My own good?" Erupted John, "My own good? How can you possibly say that? Do you have any idea what I went through? Do you? I was in hell, Sherlock. I thought you were dead for three years." John's voice wobbled slightly but he ignored and plundered on.
"You made my life a misery. Are you happy? Are you fucking happy?" Sherlock took a step towards him.
"No, don't you dare come near me. I can't stand you." John spat, "Get out." Sherlock blinked. "Please. Just leave."
Sherlock marched across the room but, before he could pass John, an arm shot out and grabbed a fistful of his shirt, pulling him close. John clung to Sherlock's shirt, his forehead resting against his chest whilst hot tears streamed down his face. Sherlock immediately wrapped his own arms around John, holding him tightly. After a few minutes, John noticed Sherlock mumbling something over and over. I am sorry. I am so, so sorry. Pulling away slowly, Sherlock reluctant to release him, John spoke quietly.
"Thank you." Sherlock frowned slightly.
"For what?" John watched Sherlock seriously, John's eyes boring into his, drinking in his features.
"For coming home."