Day One: The word is 'beginning.'
John blinked at the sight of Sherlock Holmes, living and breathing, in the eerie, tomb-like silence of 221B Baker Street. Surely he was imagining it. Sherlock was dead. Gone. Never coming back. He blinked again, expecting the vision to disappear. It didn't. John focused on the unkempt, gaunt man standing in front of him.
"Sherlock," the name fell from John's lips on a breath. The aching grip that had constricted his heart since the day Sherlock jumped loosened, allowing John to feel for the first time in months.
Disbelief, confusion, joy, betrayal, fury; waves of emotion pummeled him overwhelmingly.
"You bastard!" There was the distinct sound of knuckles to flesh and bone as John, compelled by the surge of anger, slammed his fist into Sherlock's face.
Sherlock staggered back and cupped his bleeding cheek. He watched John warily.
John clenched and unclenched his hand and cursed at the sting of his scraped knuckles. His breathing was labored and his faced was turning a rather alarming shade of red.
"I suppose I deserved that," Sherlock tried for a wry smile and winced at the twinge of pain. He stepped forward. "John, I—"
John held up a hand. "You were dead. I saw it, Sherlock! You jumped off a building, dammit! You had no pulse and Jesus, the blood. Don't make light of this! God," he pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. Released it. He leveled a look at Sherlock and studied him. Little had changed about Sherlock in the months since the Fall. Tired shadows ringed his eyes and stubble darkened his jaw. His razor-sharp cheekbones were startlingly prominent, evidence of weight loss. There was a newfound weariness in Sherlock's face and, if possible, his eyes were harder, icier. But he still wore his dramatic black coat with an air of aloof arrogance and he still seemed to take in every detail around him. Some things never changed.
Sherlock gazed back at John with a look of—was that trepidation?—masked by cool indifference. He's anxious, John realized. He doesn't know how to handle this any better than I do.
A weary sigh escaped John's lips. He scrubbed his hands over his face as if to remove evidence of his feelings.
"You're angry," Sherlock observed quietly.
"Excellent deduction," the corner of John's mouth quirked. The chuckle that escaped sounded foreign to him. He shook his head and turned away. "Come on, then." John gestured for Sherlock to follow him.
In doctor mode, John dug up his first aid kit—never moved from its place in the bathroom cabinet—and gathered the necessary items. Sherlock slipped through the door behind him with a quiet, cat-like grace that never failed to impress John.
John almost smiled when he saw that Sherlock hadn't yet removed his coat. "Take that off," he nodded to the jacket.
He sucked in a breath when Sherlock obliged, taking in the prominent clavicle and rail-like frame. Sherlock had always been thin but this bordered on emaciated. The once fitted shirt no longer strained at the buttons but instead hung loosely around Sherlock's chest.
"Jesus, did you eat at all while you were—" John paused. Dead? Gone? "—away?" he settled on as he quickly but thoroughly washed his hands.
Sherlock cleared his throat. "I didn't have my blogger there to take care of me," a tiny smirk pulled at his lips.
John swallowed thickly over the swell of emotion threatening to choke him. He hated that he wasn't there. "That didn't answer my question," he muttered hoarsely, unable to meet Sherlock's gaze. He focused on preparing the antiseptic and bandage for Sherlock's face.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, of course I ate. But you know eating slows me down on a case." He winced when John probed lightly at the cut high on his bruised cheekbone. Sherlock closed his eyes and lost himself in the feel of John's gentle touch and his nearness. He'd missed this. London. Home. John.
If Sherlock didn't look too closely at the situation, it wasn't different than all the times they'd come back to the flat, giddy from adrenaline and the thrill of the chase. John would patch Sherlock up from whatever injury he had surely obtained and they would settle down in the sitting room with tea, still too wired to consider sleep.
Of course, this wasn't like that at all, was it? Sherlock resented his uncertainty. Was John happy to see him? Would he bandage Sherlock up and demand he leave? This was maddening.
The sting of antiseptic jolted Sherlock from his thoughts.
"Sorry," John mumbled when Sherlock flinched slightly.
"No you aren't," he was matter-of-fact. "You acted in anger and you didn't intend to hit me. But you don't regret it. You wanted to hurt me," Sherlock realized. "Maybe inflict a fraction of the pain I've caused you."
John's eyes flicked up to meet Sherlock's unearthly blue stare. "Fair enough," he stuck a bandage over Sherlock's cut and let his hand rest there, thumb lightly stroking over the bruised skin. "How am I supposed to react? I'm angry, Sherlock. I don't know how to handle my best friend coming back from the dead." He continued before Sherlock could inform him that he had not, in fact, actually died. "But I am happy. Confused, pissed, shocked but…happy." John dropped his hand and grasped Sherlock by the shoulders, pulling him into a tight hug.
John felt Sherlock tense before relaxing and wrapping his arms around John. Heat radiated between them and John took a moment to revel in the feeling of Sherlock, warm and breathing, close to him. Safe. Alive.
"I'm still furious, you know," John murmured into Sherlock's neck.
Sherlock hummed, "If you'd give me the opportunity to explain…" his breath rustled John's hair.
John sighed and pulled away. He nudged Sherlock to the sitting room.
"Maybe you should start at the beginning…"