A/N
Spoilers for season 3 episode 1 The Empty Hearse
Since I got so good response on my other one-shot Hero I decided to do one more :-)
Hope you enjoy!
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock
Another reunion
An agony filled scream pierced through the air in the crowded room. The whip cut through flesh causing ounces of blood to flood down the already scarred back. The man holding the whip asked his question in a foreign language again, but even though he was in deep pain, the scarred man said nothing. The whip holder shook his head and brought the whip down once more. Dark curls swayed as the man flinched by the impact...
Sherlock woke up drenched in sweat. His body ached and didn't allow him to move.
"I see you're finally awake" said a voice in the other part of the new room he was now in. Though his body screamed, he forced himself to turn his head, so he could see the man.
"Why have you brought me here?" he asked. He had recognised the voice and knew by the fact he was speaking English, that he was back in England. And what other place would Mycroft be than London?
"I need your assistance" his brother said calmly. And thus he begun to explain what he needed Sherlock to do.
...
The doors were opened by a waiter in a tuxedo. Sherlock walked in the restaurant he knew John had a reservation for, now looking like his former self. Even though his back was still in a lot of pain, his pride and eager to meet his old friend kept his straight posture. He saw the all-too-familiar back sit at a table. In his eager he nearly forgot what Mycroft had said about John who might not even want to see him. He randomly stole a butterfly, some glasses and a mascara to make a fake moustache before he went to face his best friend. At first, he behaved like a waiter, silently begging John to turn around and look at him. He was scared, more scared than he had ever been. What if John wouldn't forgive him? His heart beat wildly when John waved him off like the waiter he was pretending to be. Then a blonde woman sat by John's table and Sherlock felt his heart ache. He really has moved on, he thought. He had refused to believe it when Mycroft had said it, but now, it was obvious.
He turned around and looked at the entrance, wondering if he should just leave him be. But then John called for him - well, not him as in Sherlock, but him as in the waiter. Sherlock took a deep breath and pushed away the feelings that were killing him from the inside - just like he had done all his life before he met John.
"Yes?" Sherlock asked in a thick, fake accent as John told him what they needed. Sherlock stood behind his chair and was therefore out of John's sight. He sighed inwardly, took his glasses off and pinched the bridge of his nose. What he didn't notice, until he heard a gasp, was that John had turned to look at the waiter - and with the glasses off, it wasn't hard to see who was behind the disguise. Sherlock blinked surprised a few times, before deciding that he might as well tell the truth.
"Excellent choice" he said keeping his façade for a second. "Oh and by the way: Not. Dead."
His smile would to anyone else seem amusing or patronising, but in fact it was a nervous and insecure smile. His heart clenched when he saw his friend battling for words. He knew how hard it was for him - after all, he felt the same. John stood up in a swift motion, but then put a hand to lean on the table.
"You-" John cleared his throat.
"You are-" a small whimper escaped his lips.
"Do you -hm- have any idea -hm- what I've been going through?" John finally stated with great difficulty. Sherlock looked away for a bit, trying to clear the tears in his eyes so John wouldn't see. He hated to appear weak.
"And now, you just come waltzing back, expecting everything to be alright?" John said his voice reaching a pitifully high note. Sherlock looked intensely at the bush under John's nose.
"Well it can't really be the same with that rat over your lip, can it?" Sherlock said, trying to hide his true feelings behind humour. Hearing the voice John had missed for two years was the trigger. John threw himself at Sherlock, pinning him to the ground, releasing his anger, depression and yet relief and happiness that his friend was alive. He was angry that he had been alive all the while he had grieved over his death. He had been depressed for so long, nearly taking his own life in the progress. And yet, he was relieved that he could see his best friend once again, and he was happy that his request had been heard and answered. But right now, he needed to pay back for all the tears he had shed, and all the times he had caressed the trigger on his gun without pulling it completely. Of course, being in a restaurant, waiters were soon over him, pulling him away from Sherlock. He took a deep breath to calm himself down. But when he turned to scold Sherlock for all he'd done, he saw, that the man was still lying on the floor. He looked pale but refused to have any help. John's heart skipped a beat, when the scene in front of him reminded him too much of the scene two years ago. Sherlock's eyes were open, and he could see his chest rising and falling slowly, but he lay too still, surrounded by people.
"Sherlock?" John whispered in a thin voice. The blood. The paleness. People pushing him away. Sherlock dead in front of him. It was too similar to that time. Except he wasn't dead. He could hear the grunts of pain and he could see him breathing. Yet it was enough to make John panick.
"Sherlock? Sherlock! Oh god, Sherlock! What's wrong? What can I do? Tell me!" John yelled frantically while kneeling next to his too pale friend.
"It's nothing" Sherlock grunted. He forced himself to ignore the pain in his back and stand up.
"I'm fine" he said, doing his best to hide the pain in his voice. John's gaze had turned from angry to concerned in the few minutes they had spent together.
"You're not fine! You're in pain! What is it? What's wrong?" John asked growing angry again. This time, angry at Sherlock for hiding his pain, but mostly angry with himself for attacking a man who was clearly injured. Especially when that man was the most important person to him.
"Sorry for ruining your dinner. I'll go now" Sherlock said not really looking at John or the blonde by his side.
"Wha- Sherlock!" John called as he saw the slim figure walk out of the restaurant as if nothing had occurred. He was about to go after him, when a warm hand grabbed his arm. He turned to see his girlfriend looking at him with knowing eyes.
"Maybe you should let him go. He doesn't seem to want you to see his pain" she said.
"I know that he doesn't want me to. But I have to. He's my friend, Mary" John said and looked in her eyes with an apologising gaze. She nodded.
"I understand. Call me when you have sorted everything out" she said and smiled. He smiled back grateful for her understanding, pecked her lips and hurried out the door to find his friend.
John rushed out of the doors looking to his left and right, searching the area of the dark curls he knew so well. But he could not see them.
He dialled Mycrofts number, thinking that he might have had a visit of Sherlock, just as he had.
"Hello? Mycroft? I was wondering, have you had any visits from a should-be-but-isn't-really-dead brother recently? Oh so you did, huh. Is he there now? Alright, I'm coming over". John cursed to himself by the information just given by Mycroft. Apparently, he had known all the time that Sherlock wasn't dead. He probably lent him a hand too.
He arrived at the given address soon after the call. A man dressed formally showed him the way to a room, where Mycroft would be waiting for him.
"Hello John" he said when said man entered.
"Hello" he answered and looked around the room, noticing that Sherlock was not there.
"Where is he?" John asked, turning his gaze to Mycroft with narrow eyes.
"I'll take you to him. But I must warn you - he is in a bad condition". John swallowed a lump before following Mycroft.
So he isn't just injured, but badly hurt, John stated inwardly. When they reached a white door, John stopped. All colour drained from his face as he heard the screams of his best friend. Mycroft looked at him, silently asking him with his eyes, if he wanted to continue. John swallowed another lump before nodding. Whatever it is, I want to be there for him.
When he walked into the room, it felt as if his heart stopped. Sherlock lay on his stomach on a stretcher with doctors around him. His shirt was off, so John could see the red scars covering all of his back. They were bleeding.
"Oh god" he muttered.
"He is quite persistent, my brother. He only let them bandage his wounds before he went to meet you. He didn't let them stitch them or even stop the bleeding properly. He could barely walk by himself. But he wanted to see you, and nothing I said or did could persuade him otherwise" Mycroft said. John uttered a small whimper. All this time, he had been hurt. He had walked in pain just to see him. And then he had tackled him, which had probably opened his wounds. And yet, he didn't want John to see, so he had just walked out of the doors. How he did it, John didn't know. How could someone put aside so much pain, just for another person's sake?
When the doctors were finally done stitching and cleansing his wounds, Sherlock was drenched in sweat. His back was bandaged once more. He breathed heavily and had his eyes closed. Then, he felt something cool and wet on his forehead. It moved around on his face, cooling him down and drying his sweat away. Being cooled down gave him enough energy to open his eyes. The usual cold green eyes were filled with warmth when they saw the former flat mate wiping his face. John sat on a chair in front of him. The joy of seeing his friend turned upside down when he saw the anger in his eyes. His heart clenched at the sight.
"Why didn't you tell me?" John asked, the anger showing in his tone.
"Moriarty - he was going to kill you" Sherlock gasped in his deep voice. John turned silent for a moment before he spoke again:
"Not that. Why didn't you tell me you were injured?"
Sherlock lifted his head slightly to see John's face better - to see if he was joking. But there was no sign of amusement in the doctors eyes.
"I didn't know if you cared" he said truthfully. John's anger turned in to disappointment.
"Of course I care! You were my best friend for years! I grieved for you! How could I not care?"
Sherlock sighed deeply and looked away.
"You just said the reason I doubted you, yourself" Sherlock said. Getting no answer, he explained further:
"Was your best friend. Past tense. As in is no more"
"Are you stupid?" John asked. By this question Sherlock's head shot up to look at him.
"What?"
"Why the hell would I go through all this trouble of being concerned of you, if you were still not my best friend?"
"But- you said-" Sherlock, for once in his life, did not know what to say. John couldn't help but smile at that fact.
"Yes, well, in the past two years, I must admit, you were not my best friend. I was alone. I had no one. But I do now. So don't you dare go die on me like that again" John said, his humour turning into seriousness at the last part. Sherlock's face softened.
"Alright" he agreed.