For a prompt on tumblr. Only short. Enjoy!
When Sherlock Holmes had decided, three years after his alleged 'death', to come back into John's life, he had never expected what had happened the day he knocked on the door to 221B Baker Street.
His knuckles rapped on the door once, twice, three times, and he noticed the greyish pallor of his skin. He'd not eaten right, nor had he had good quality tea without John around, and it was depressing him awfully. The door crept open an inch or three and Sherlock's still-vibrant eyes found John's seemingly dead ones, void of the light they had when their work had filled their lives with glee (Homicide investigations weren't really a gleeful subject, but it brought them closer together, and he knew John would never argue with that).
Frown lines, but no laugh lines. He frowns, but doesn't smile. Pity that. John always had a lovely smile.
Cracked lips, obviously not looking after his health, then.
No ring. Good. Didn't work out with that girl he was dating.
Lip creases… Caused by long term drinking. Damn.
Pyjamas. He sniffed, winced slightly at how disgusting they smelled. Not showering. Lovely. How hygienic.
Sherlock was so busy deducing; he didn't notice John's continually vacant expression until he turned around, sighing tiredly;
"Why did you bother knocking, nutter?" It was barely a mumble. A grumpy mumble at that. Sherlock had been gone for three years and that's the greeting he got. Brilliant. So he wasn't angry with him.
Sherlock slipped into the room and noticed it was also like John's pyjamas.
Disgusting.
He picked up some of the newspaper's that were strewn across the room and placed them on the cluttered table. His clutter. Bloody John kept a shrine of him. He continued to tidy up the room, trying to make it like the respectable flat it had once been. Where was Mrs Hudson? Didn't she usually tidy up? No matter how many times she used to yell that she wasn't their housekeeper, she'd be there… Housekeeping. Just the way Sherlock liked things. This wasn't apart of the plan. John was supposed to greet him happily, or perhaps angrily, but he was completely indifferent. Miserable, even. He didn't understand. He turned towards John and perched on the arm of the chair opposite, just watching.
"What are you thinking, John?"
"I'm thinking…" John looked furious all of a sudden, and he picked up his coffee mug and threw it to the ground before Sherlock, screaming loudly,
"I THINK YOU SHOULD PISS OFF!"
With that, Sherlock stood up and walked out of the room, walking into his own to find everything covered in white sheets. Ghostly. Probably Mycroft's idea, he probably wanted to pawn everything off once John didn't want it anymore. That seemed like a Mycrofty thing to do. He glanced at his phone and sent a message to Lestrade (Whom he'd only just told earlier that day about his life having not ended three years previously);
Any cases? – SH
"Get up, get up! We have a case, John! A case!"
It had been two weeks. The only reason why John got off the (Sherlock's) chair in the living area was to piss, grab a beer (Or ten) from the fridge, or to turn on the television. Seemed he'd lost the remote. That was a nuisance, made it awfully hard to watch three soap operas at once. It seemed to Sherlock that John had been broken. So broken that he wasn't getting out of that "Oh no Sherlock's dead" funk. Twelve cases, He'd been offered, and he had to go to them all-alone, because John wouldn't get off the bloody arm chair.
Life with John was proving difficult. He threw one of John's favourite jumpers at him, urging him to get off the couch with pleading looks and tugs on his pyjama shirt. Still nothing. He picked up John's limp arm and pulled him up, shoving the jumper into his arms. He gave John a push, snarling as the smaller man tried to punch him, with no avail.
"Go get dressed, John, or I will leave and never come back." It was an empty threat, there was no way even Sherlock could leave John in such a mess. Yet the threat seemed to work, John looked stricken, and hurried, stumbling several times, to his bedroom to get dressed.
Sherlock was acting weird lately. He wasn't fading away when John got too drunk or when he threw something; it was like he was solid. And now they were sitting in a cab, going god knows where. With a bloody ghost.
How long was this stupid man going to haunt him for? Almost every day for three years, he'd been appearing at the window, silently playing the violin, and John felt like he'd gone deaf to everything beautiful, blind to everything that he appreciated. Mrs Hudson had tried to help, but he would just yell at her, telling her how Sherlock just wouldn't leave him alone. Yet here he was, going along because ghost-Sherlock said he'd leave. The same with Lestrade. They all gave up eventually. Trying to fix him. It was impossible.
Bloody Sherlock.
He felt the tears sting at his eyes and he couldn't hold them back. Damn Sherlock Holmes, for being so dead, for leaving him. Falling of a fucking building! Damn him, for making John so hopelessly in love with him, so that everything, everything falls apart when he does said dying. And then Damn him for reappearing, every day, only for a while, so he couldn't ever get over him. It was probably his mental brain pining for his mental friend.
"Sherlock. I love you. I never told you that before the fall. I just… Want you to know it." He swallowed hard. It was easy saying it to the ghost. But then again, the ghost had never reacted like this before, frowning deeply, as if he were trying to say something incredibly difficult.
"It's come to my… acknowledgement that I return those feelings." Ghost Sherlock, went a rosy colour along his ears, and John couldn't take it anymore.
"Stop the cab!" And as soon as it did, John was out. Kicking pots over and swearing at the air as he walked,
"YOU'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO SAY IT BACK!"
He'd expected ghost Sherlock to disappear, like he always did when he admitted his love, but he was just stalking behind him, looking as intimidating as always. Sherlock grabbed his arm and turned him around, and without another word, a hesitant kiss was pressed to his lips. John wrenched himself away, why the fuck did that feel so real? His brain was torturing him. He turned away and started to stalk away, but he slammed right into Lestrade.
Wait… There was an actual case?
"John, finally, good to see you're back!"
Lestrade was grinning at him; not noticing his inner turmoil, before he walked around him to where ghost Sherlock was;
"Sherlock, we've got no idea what's happened, but it seems th-"
"Greg." John was watching on astonished, blinking hard, his head spinning. Lestrade was talking to Sherlock. His Sherlock. Ghostly pale, dead Sherlock. But he wasn't. He seemed so very alive. To everyone, in fact. Even Sally gave him a quick "Hi Freak" as she zipped past.
"Y-You can see him too?" With that, he stalked over to Sherlock and gave him one big, firm punch in the nose.
"WHY WOULDN'T YOU FUCKING TELL ME YOU WERE REAL YOU IDIOT!" He let out a half sob and half manic laugh, shoving the taller man, who was looking completely confused. John grabbed the collar of Sherlock's trench coat and pulled him close, pressing a firm kiss to his lips, it was short, and hardly returned by the surprised consulting detective, but that's all John needed.
"You're real."