Feet, Groin, Nose

Hey,

In light of the fact they have finally told us when they'll be showing Sherlock, I thought I'd write a short Sherlock-returns after the fall fic... I challenged myself to start and complete the entire thing in on night... In still getting over having flu, so it might be a tiny bit muddled, and a little rambly, but I'll go over and beta it once I'm not ill (:

I planned to write this last year, but I hand wrote it and lost half and then it went all wrong, so I developed it and this is the product.

I really hope you enjoy it, because the most part felt awesome to write (:

like love you all, have a great day (: xxx

Strangely it still shocked John ever time he returned home to his flat, it was always tidy.

Sherlock has been... dead for little over 3 years, it had taken him almost 2 years to even walk back into Mrs Hudson's flat, let alone take the stairs up to where he'd lived with his best friend. But after a lot of coaxing and his therapist telling him more time than he cared to remember, that 'its okay to feel sad about going back', he'd finally agreed to at least go in there and take a few things he hadn't the heart to take the day he moved in with his sister. When he got up there, however, the clutter and mess and thick layer of dust that met him upon entering the living room had taken him over and he decided instead of taking his own stuff, he would move back in and clean up all the crap he'd been forced to live with when Sherlock had live there too. It took him 2 months to completely clear through the rubbish and sort through the stacks upon stacks of book, and rid himself of the array of 'investigative' tools Sherlock used to solve various cases. All of his old stuff was now stored in boxes in a storage unit paid for by Mycroft. The only room he didn't even enter was Sherlocks old bedroom, half because he expected that some how Sherlock had tamed some sort of wild animal and had kept it secretly under his bed, and he'd walk into to see a 2 year old dead carcass, and half because he was worried all the work he'd done to get himself to move back in would be undone by the smell of Sherlocks clothes and his sheets, and whatever still held onto the last tangible part of him.

Johns therapist he repeatedly told him that the fact he still expected Sherlocks mess to be at home was just a part of his coping mechanism. John found this statement stupid, he'd coped and accepted that Sherlock was dead, he moved back into their old flat and he'd began seeing a new girlfriend that Sherlock never had the chance to meet (and immediately insult), the two were planning to get married the following summer, and John felt he could quite openly talk about Sherlock, which must mean he was over it, or as over loosing your best friend as anyone could be. He didn't know what it was that made him shocked about the flat being tidy all the time, maybe it was the simple fact he'd spent so much time in it, where it was cluttered and full of seldom-used objects, that it would take time for his brain to reremember what the room looked like now.

A few times, when John had been in a ratty mood, he told his therapist his own theory as to why his brain seemed to not accept the way the room was now laid out, knowing Johns experience as a doctor, she tried to explain how this could be plausible rather than revert back to her own theory.

"Have you ever heard of schema or schemata?" She'd asked,

"Rings a bell." He'd replied

"Basically your brain and memory stores form templates of how certain things should be. Early on this is normally in establishing relationships, how you connect to your primary parent is the template for how the vast majority of your relationships and attachments form in later life. Maybe what your brain has done is, formed a schema of how the flat should look, and until you change it, it will be convinced that how you currently have the flat it wrong?"

John had told her maybe and then decided he wanted to leave. He did that a lot, and she let him leave unless, he was dodging a specific topic, like when he'd first started seeing her, she'd ask about his week, how Harriet was, how her counselling was going, but as soon as she mentioned Sherlock, John would tell her he was leaving, after 3 weeks of doing this, she told him that he had to listen to her sometime and it would hurt more that longer he left it. He, of course left, but the next week he didn't promptly make a beeline for the door as soon an the first syllables of Sherlocks name were out of her mouth.

Seeing as the flat was now rightfully his, and partly Mary's when she came to stay for a few nights a week, John saw it only right to redecorate as he saw fit. Once he'd saved enough money, John and Mary went to the closet furniture store and ordered some new sofas to replace the yellowing, sagging piles of cotton and leather that were currently inhabiting the living room. John didn't however have the heart to deviate much from the old sofas, so they settled for a pair of green-brown leather arm chairs and a similar colour three-seat sofa. The room had been split into two sections, the living area and the dining area, rather than an amalgamation of the two.

The night the best and worst thing happened, Mary wasn't staying, she had a family funeral to go to, and John had vowed to only go to Sherlocks grave stone, as his penance for leaving Sherlock alone that day. He'd just made himself a microwave cooked curry, and a cup of tea and he planned to spend his night watching The Hobbit, and then perhaps begin rereading the book. He'd just settled in front of the TV, his back to the door, the volume turned up loud because he knew Mrs Hudson was away visiting her sister in hospital, and the curry and drink on the coffee table in front of him, when he heard a voice that he'd spent many a night convincing himself he'd never hear again.

"You've rearranged the furniture, made it too cluttered in here."

John turned around quickly, had it been a normal day he would have perhaps remarked on the fact that the movement was probably the fastest he'd ever made, but at that precise second in time he wasn't concerned with the speed of which he moved.

It took a while for his eyes and ears to catchup with his brain, so for a few seconds he was twisted backward staring dumbfound at the figure stood in the doorway. When the two sensory receptors caught up with his brain Johns first thought was whether he could trust his voice.

"Sh-she-Sherlock?" He took a deep breath, "You fucking asshole," Sherlock was stood, his curly hair ghosting the top of the frame, in the doorway glancing round the room, a faint grimace of disgust was the only emotion his face showed. The brass frame of the mirror had been polished so it was the bronze colour it was supposed to be, on either side of Sherlocks old skull was a short row of pictures of John and Mary, John and Harry and even one of John, Harry, Mary and Mary's sister Julia. The book cases were full of book series, Harry Potter, The Lord of the Rings, 4 shelves of an old book world called Dragonlance, a few shelves stacked with some of Mary's books, all the filing cabinets were in storage, and the table had nothing but a vase of flowers and Johns laptop on it.

Sherlock left the room and went, presumably to his bedroom, John was to stunned to moved any further than sliding back into a sitting position,

"You've not been in my room, and now Hugo's gone." Sherlock stated when he returned a few minutes later. Steadily, John replied,

"Who the fuck is Hugo?" He asked, each word dripped with venom.

"I had a raven, wanted to see if it was just parrots that could be taught to talk, plus needed someone to talk to when you were out, or ignoring me in your bedroom." Sherlock answered.

When he felt he could trust his legs, John stood up, swinging his 'damaged' leg around so he faced the detective,

"You're back then?" He asked bluntly. Sherlock sighed, as if he were already exasperated by Johns lack of perception,

"Even for you, John, that's a very stupid thing to ask. That much is obvious." He replied, his voice patronising, the way he'd once spoken to Anderson whenever he said something dense, which was always. John walked around the sofa so he was stood almost directly in front of Sherlock, who'd grown around an inch in the past 3 years.

John looked Sherlock up and down, the detective presumed he was refamiliarising himself with being near him, in reality however, John was looking for the easiest places to reach the would floor Sherlock in less than 4 hits, he may have only been an army doctor but he was still taught a few things in self defence.

/"Aim for the feet first, then the groin, while they're doubled over, knee them in the face if you want to cause a lot of damage, if not kick them in the stomach or chest."/ So that's exactly what John did.

Hard as he could he stamped down on Sherlocks foot, brought his other foot up between the mans legs, as Sherlock was doubled over, John grasped either side of his hand and met his knee to the taller mans nose. Not especially used to fights, and especially not when he was unprepared, Sherlock crumpled on the floor, his blood making a mess of his pale face.

Once he'd calmed down for his initial rage and his breath had quelled, he extended a hand,

"I'll give you a lift to the hospital. Lestrade will sort it out if you try and arrest me for GBH, he'll understand that you deserve it."

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, nor the original story by Doyle, nor the image of the beautiful actors, and fab sets... I'm only borrowing them for my own moulding (:

AN- The / implies that it should be italicised, but iPad's are dense and don't have that option -_- xxx