The night Sherlock returns is a cold, wet one. The wind gushes and the rain drifts in so many directions, it becomes impossible for anyone on the street to avoid getting soaked. The long coat flutters behind him, and even though he buttoned it up, it doesn't present enough protection. He barely feels it, though, and he walks fast. He still has the key to his old flat, but John moved out a long time ago, so Sherlock grabs his old tools and works on the door quietly. There's no need to worry much, because the street is empty and the cars that pass by hurriedly don't pay him any attention. He manages to open the door with a click, and he walks in. The lights are off and he keeps them so.
It takes only a few minutes until John gets home, and he doesn't realise the door is unlocked. He walks in, concerned as he has been for a few weeks. He tries not to think of any of it, but he can't really control his thoughts. He turns the light of the hall on and he walks into the small living room, removing his coat. He senses a shadow and before he can acknowledge to whom it belongs, he jumps forward, grabbing the collars of the intruder.
"John, it's me."
The words come out as a whisper and for the first time in three years, John fears for his own sanity. He has thought about him often, but he had never seen ghosts while awake. He takes the image of his friend – old, but still impossible the same – and he charges. He charges forward, with a closed fist that hits the other man right on the nose. John realises he is real, flesh and bones, more than an ethereal figure. But he can't seem to make himself stop. He punches him once, twice, until his hand his aching, the knuckles bleeding. Or are they? It's impossible to know if the blood belongs to Sherlock or to himself. And he is crying and cursing and next thing he knows, he is sobbing and Sherlock is holding him, grabbing him between his arms. He holds tight, he embraces the reality of what has haunted him for so long.
Sherlock mumbles senseless apologies and John listens to them without a word. It is not fair. It is not fair to have mourned his death in vain. It is not fair that his only wish had come true and it just didn't feel right.
Sherlock holds him in his arms, taking in the scent of his shampoo, feeling against his own the shape of the body he has missed for so long. John is hurt by a lie, but Sherlock is shattered by the reality. He always knew John was at reaching distance, a possible dream, but he couldn't come back and risk putting his life in danger. He had business to take care of, and he had done it. And now he had returned and John hated him. What an unfair world.
John is the one who steps away, still grabbing his collar, still trying to understand. Praying now that it isn't a hallucination, a trick of his mind. To be sure, he pulls Sherlock to him. And Sherlock goes. The kiss isn't much of a wonder, but it's theirs, and it matters. It tastes of iron and salt. It scares the time apart away and it lasts.
Sherlock's nose is throbbing, but the hollow in his chest concerns him more. He was supposed to feel complete, but there's so much left unsaid for so long, he doesn't know if he'll ever be entire again.
John gets away from him, without looking up. Sherlock can see him thinking, looking for answers, for logic. So he helps him sit on the floor, and he sits beside him, holding his hand.
"How much do you know?" John asks.
His voice is hoarse.
"I am sorry about Mary." Sherlock answers.
John nods and looks him right in the eye, as if transmitting a thought, that there is something more pressing, more important to Sherlock that he hasn't acknowledged yet.
But then, Sherlock looks around, facing away from John for the first time. The house is tidy, but it is not that that has crept into his mind and made him uneasy. There was something his brain had gathered that he hadn't yet fully grasped. His hand is still holding John's and he feels the bones under his skin. The evidence is everywhere, but he still looks at John, a silent plea. Instead, John nods to the silent question, confirming Sherlock's deductions. He prays, wishing for the first time that he was wrong. But John nods again. Cancer. Inoperable. Sherlock swallows and gathers the courage to talk, forgetting all the rehearsals of conversations he had had inside his mind for three whole years.
"How long?"
"I can have a year, if I am lucky."
John can see his jaw clenching, the gears moving. He sees the struggle in fighting back the tears, the fear of losing and, most of all, the helplessness, the total and utter desperation of a man who is not used to fight unbeatable enemies.
"I'll make it count." Sherlock says and intertwines his fingers in John's.
John knows he will. That's why it hurts so much.