John sat in his chair as usual, staring at nothing, the telly blank. He had nothing to watch, it was all crap. He barely ate or slept, and only Molly could get him to talk. It was that time of year again. For the third attempt. He started to stand up, but suddenly, the door was kicked in and in came... Sherlock.
"WATSON, I'M HOLMES." He shouted, running in and grabbing the nearest thing he could see: John's cane. "Hey! I actually need that!" John shouted. He wasn't freaking out because he knew this was all a dream. He always had dreams about Sherlock coming back.
"NOT NOW, JOHN. THE WEB IS ALMOST DESTROYED, TWO MORE LEFT. YOU MAY WANT TO HIDE." Sherlock yelled as big feet thundered up the stairs. John stayed right where he was. It's a dream. He thought, a tear running down his cheek. Nothing can hurt me because... nothing here is real.
There was a crash as the door blasted off its hinges and two men with swords walked in.
"Swords are a bit old fashioned, don't you think?" Sherlock asked, hitting one on the head. He was immediatly knocked out, and the other attempted to swing his sword but Sherlok caught him off guard ad it flew out of his hand, hitting the glass window.
"Ow!" John yelled as a piece of glass punctured his skin. And it hurt,
"Sh...Sherlock?" John asked, turning around to view the big fight scene.
"I know, John. But now is not the best time." The consultant detective grunted, his back on the table, holding his cane up horizontally so that the soward couldn't come down on him vertically. John's eyes widened, tears brimming. "N... Not the TIME?! It's been THREE YEARS, Sherlock! Three years I waited for you, three years I rarely left this chair, three years of bloody sympathy that I didn't want, three years of HELL, Sherlock! Three years of-" The doctor's voice cracked as he pulled back the sleeve of his jumper to reveal multiple scars.
Sherlock stopped. He stared at John's cuts in shock, even fear.
His attacker attempted to lunge at him with the pointy silver weapon more commonly known as the sword, but Sherlock pulled a gun out of his pocket and shot him in the forehead.
"J-John..." The seemingly dead man said, looking truly guilty.
"Three years." John whispered. "Three attempts. First was gun. Mrs. Hudson took it away from me. Second, I tried jumping. Off Bart's. Like you... did. Molly stopped that. Third... well, I was going to go get the pills right before you came."
Sherlock sat down at the table. "No, no, no... I'm so sorry, John... I'm so, so sorry."
Suddenly the doctor in the jumper moved towards Sherlock and punched him in the face. "That's for making me think you were dead." He muttered through clenched cheek, then repeated his action. "That's for taking three years to tell me you were alive, and that's-" He punched his friend one last time- "for that horribly lame pun you made when you kicked in my bloody door!"
Sherlock grinned. "What? I thought it was funny." He said, rubbing his face, where a rapidly-forming bruise was starting. John suddenly pulled his friend into a loving hug. No, not the kind of love you guys are hoping for, but the love of a brother, of a best friend- of someone he couldn't live without.
And he would never have to live without him again.