John sat in his flat. That still sounded odd. It was their flat, his and Sherlock's. The flat that they had rented the day after they had met. It had seemed absolutely mental at the time, but Sherlock had become his best friend. But now the flat was just his, and soon it wouldn't even be that. Mrs Hudson had been very understanding, but he just couldn't afford the rent on his own. John drummed his fingers absently against the handle of his walking stick. He sighed, staring vacantly at the coffee table in front of him. His eyes fixed on his phone. Without quite knowing why, he picked it up and scrolled through his contacts until he got to Sherlock's name. Thinking for a moment, he began to type out a message.
I don't know why I'm doing this. You're dead Sherlock; I was at your funeral. Lestrade took your phone as evidence. But this still feels like the right thing to do. Please Sherlock, come back. –JW John reread the message, wondering whether or not to send it. After a minute of contemplation, he decided it couldn't hurt, and pressed send. He set his phone back down on the coffee table in front of him. He nearly jumped out of his skin when his phone buzzed. He picked it up with shaking hands.
I'm not dead John. –SH John stared, completely shocked. There was absolutely no way that it was really Sherlock. Yet he still felt the need to check.
Sherlock? Is that actually you? –JW John pressed send with shaking fingers. He clutched his phone in his hand, waiting anxiously for a response. When he got one, he was almost too afraid to open it. What if it said no? Taking a deep breath, he opened the message, Well obviously –SH John grinned for the first time since Sherlock jumped. Sherlock was alive. He didn't doubt that it was him. Only Sherlock would be condescending under circumstances like this. John almost couldn't contain the elation bubbling up inside him. But there was still the question of how exactly Sherlock managed to survive jumping off a roof.
How? –JW John honestly didn't know what to expect when he opened the message.
Too long for a text. –SH John found that incredibly frustrating, but he had to concede that Sherlock had a point. The explanation would certainly take a long time.
Come home and explain it to me then. –JW John knew that Sherlock might refuse to come back. Or he might not be able to. He waited impatiently for Sherlock's response.
Very well then. –SH John stared, wide eyed, at the phone. Sherlock was coming home. Sherlock was going to walk through that door for the first time in three months.
How long before you get here? –JW He waited anxiously for the response, drumming his fingers on his walking stick. He opened the reply before his phone had stopped buzzing.
20 minutes –SH John stared for a moment, unable to quite process it. Twenty minutes. Sherlock would walk through that door in twenty minutes. John sat in a state of disbelief. He wasn't quite able to wrap his head around the idea that Sherlock would be home soon. It had taken him weeks to adjust to not having Sherlock in the flat, and now he had twenty minutes to get used to the idea of Sherlock coming home again. He sat, wondering what on earth he could possibly say. "So you're not dead," just wasn't something you said. Although now he came to think about it, Sherlock probably didn't know that. John's anxious train of thought was interrupted by the sound feet on the stairs, followed by a knock at the door. John hurriedly got up to open it, leaving his walking stick next to the chair. He walked quickly to the door. He paused, his hand resting on the doorknob, almost afraid to open it. He took a deep breath, gathering his courage. He opened the door to see Sherlock looking back at him.
"Hello John," he said, and John could swear he sounded nervous,
"Hello Sherlock." John watched as Sherlock stepped inside and closed the door behind him. John was almost scared to look away, worried that if he did, Sherlock would vanish. He stared at him, not bothering to hide it.
"Are you angry?" asked Sherlock. That one threw John a little. He wasn't expecting the first question out of Sherlock's mouth to be about his emotional state. If anything, he had expected Sherlock to launch straight into some detailed explanation of how he had survived the fall,
"I was," John answered, "I was furious. But then I had to explain to Mrs Hudson, and I had to go to your funeral. After that it was just grief. I missed you Sherlock. I missed you and your violin and I missed the cases and the danger and I even missed opening the fridge door and finding a bloody head in it." It came out in a rush, words nearly tangling themselves on John's tongue. Sherlock smiled his odd little smile.
"I missed you too." John was waging internal war. He wanted to simply hug Sherlock, but he could list at least six reasons why that would be weird, Sherlock's dislike of being touched aside. When he and Sherlock had been living together, he had spent a fair bit of time denying that he was gay. He stopped after Sherlock's death. He had stopped lying to himself. He loved Sherlock, and that was all there was to it. Other people's opinion be damned.
"How have you been?" asked Sherlock hesitantly. That surprised John. Sherlock was acting a lot more… normal was the only way he could describe it.
"I won't bore you with the details," John answered, "But I've been limping again since your funeral." He saw that Sherlock understood exactly what that meant. Hell, he was the only one who would.
"I'm sorry John." John hugged Sherlock fiercely, finding to his surprise that it wasn't weird at all. It was warm and safe and smelled of wool and soap and something that was distinctly Sherlock. He felt truly at peace for the first time since Sherlock jumped. John began to pull away from Sherlock. His eyes widened as Sherlock pressed his lips against John's. He froze for a second. This was definitely new. But it felt right. He found himself kissing Sherlock back, one hand reaching up to tangle in his dark curly hair. John gasped as Sherlock pushed him up against the wall, kissing him deeply. John wondered briefly where the hell Sherlock learnt to kiss like that, but he was soon distracted. When they finally broke for air, John leaned his head against Sherlock's chest, panting slightly.
"I love you," John whispered,
"I know," said Sherlock, "I love you too." John felt as if he was on top of the world.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock said again. John remembered why Sherlock had come home. Grabbing his hand, he pulled Sherlock into the living room.
"Sit down and explain to me how you're here."
Author's Note: Thank you for reading! I would love to know what you thought, so please leave a review.