Prologue
John Watson leaned back in the cab, his mind drifting off as it did often these days. His body breaking on the pavement. The ringing in his ears. The silence in the flat. Blood. Oh god, so much blood. He had seen it all, felt it all, heard it all in Afghanistan, but none of it could have prepared him for that very moment.
The moment he watched his best friend die.
John shifted uncomfortably under the gaze of his therapist. She waited patiently for the question that was plaguing his mind since day one. "Why am I here?" He asked her, folding his hands in his lap.
"John, you stopped coming for eighteen months, told me the news about Sherlock, and then brushed me off again. I need you to come so you can let your feelings out. I can't have something drastic happen under my eye." He suddenly became very fascinated with his shoes, a lump forming in his throat at the very mention of his dear friend's name. "Now then, tell me what's going through your mind." Many words came forward; devastated, angry, disappointed, maybe even- heartbroken? He was his friend, despite how irrational, egotistic, and pessimistic he is.. John coughed. Was.
"John?"
He looked up, but he wasn't really there. "Uh, well.. it's getting a bit better." He almost whispered, not meeting her eyes.
"Mhm." She sighed. "Since it's obvious I won't be getting anything out of you today, we'll cut this session short. See you next week."
He walked out slowly, his leg bothering him. His limp hadn't come to mind in awhile, and the swift pain brought the reminder of recent events. He tried to shake it off as he called the cab over. As soon as he entered, John lost all thought of heading to his flat. He had to go there, one last time.
One last time to 221 B, Baker Street.
There he stood, gripping at the door handle like a madman, and probably frightening off the whole street with his evident glares. He took a deep breath, and turned the handle. The figure on the other side was not who he was hoping for.
"Oh! Hello John, dear." Ms. Hudson said, clutching her hip and moving slightly so she could allow him room to come inside. "You haven't visited in a while." Her tone was weary, but she still managed a small smile. He nodded slightly and headed up the steps, practically rushing through the door and into the familiar kitchen. John walked- no, ran to the fridge, silently praying there'd be a limb of some sort or a deformed cornea to restore some sense into his head. His words at the grave site echoed in his skull. "Please, just one more thing, one more miracle Sherlock, for me. Don't..be..dead. Would you do the just for me? Stop it. Stop this." He braced himself against the hardwood table, squeezing his eyes so the tears wouldn't fall. Man up, Watson. If he were here he'd probably make some smart remark and try to act like he was above all these feelings. "Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side, John." He wondered honestly, how he would have felt if John himself had been the one to fall. God help me, why am I thinking this way? What's done is..done. He's not coming back, not now, not ever. Yet, here he was, turning around to face the open room, just willing his late friend to pop up.
And just when he thought he couldn't get any crazier, there he was, sprawled upside down across his leather chair. Sherlock, his Sherlock was here, in the flesh. His dark curls falling forward, with his hands placed gingerly under his chin. He looked just as he had before he left. His eyes glanced up to meet John's questioning eyes. "Hello John" He said simply. "Can I borrow your phone? I seemed to have misplaced mine."
John stood there, dumbfounded. He rubbed his eyes to make sure it was real. How could he act so casual with him after being gone for so long? "You want to..borrow my phone?" He growled, stuffing his hands into his pockets before he did something drastic.
"Yes, is that so hard?" Sherlock's eyes fell closed and he sighed.
"You bloody bastard. What the hell do you think you're doing? You want my PHONE? You've been gone for so long off to God knows where, and you expect me to just act like nothing's wrong? You know what.." He reached into his left pocket, and tossed him his phone. "Here. Use the damn thing. I'm going out." He turned his back on his friend, muttering expletives under his breath. When his foot touched the first step, Sherlock called out.
"John."
He stood his ground, not moving an inch. Oh, this better be good.
"I can see you're upset with me-"
"Really, any prat could deduce that."
"I don't have to. I know you, John."
He swallowed hard at those words and stepped back through the foyer. "I missed you, you know." John whispered. "This is the first time I've been to the flat in a long time. I couldn't take it. All I could think of when I saw this room, was your broken body in a pool of blood. Do you know how I FELT Sherlock? It wasn't exactly a day in the park."
"I-"
"And another thing, how did you do it? You were carried away by the ambulance, I SAW you fall. Your skull cracked on the pavement." He wiped his eyes. "I didn't know what to do. I admit, our friendship in the beginning was a little awkward.."
"John-"
"And you weren't exactly the sanest man I've ever met, but you were certainly a good one. Despite your lack of respect for people's personal boundaries-"
"John, I-"
"And the fact that you're crazy, deeply and utterly crazy. But how you do these things that manage to make me laugh, or how you've cared for me since we've known eachother I just-"
"John!"
"WHAT?" He glared.
"I'm sorry." Sherlock's lips weren't pulled into that significant smirk, nor did he look cold and unfeeling.
"Don't li-"
"I'm not."
He stood up and strode towards John, watching him carefully as if unsure of himself. As he stood in front of him, he placed a hand on his former friend's shoulder and looked him up and down just to make sure this was all real. When he looked up, Sherlock's cerulean orbs gazed back, burning holes into John's skin. "As you know," He said, clearing his throat. "I'm not one for emotions. I find them tedious and distracting. But, you are also very distracting." His eyes flickered to his lips.
John grumbled. "What's that supposed to-"
His taller companion leaned over him, pressing their lips together swiftly. Before he could even think of how to react, Sherlock pulled away.
"Well, now that I've another memory of you to add to my mind palace, why don't you give me a proper welcome back?" He wore that infamous crooked smirk now, falling back into his chair. He grabbed the paper off the top of the telly, opening it to page one. Headlines screamed "Suicide of Fake Genius." John grinned and headed to the kitchen to make some tea. He couldn't possibly stay mad at him, regardless of how much of an arse he'd been. He glanced over his shoulder at his dear friend, whispering "Welcome home, Sherlock."
"Welcome home."