AN: Hey guys! I really hope you enjoy this, it's my first attempt at fanfiction so go easy on me :L
Many thanks to ArtsyChick for her insightful beta-ing :)
If you get a chance, a review would be wonderful!
"Hello, John."
John stands and blinks. Surely his eyes are deceiving him again? Hadn't he swallowed his medication like a good boy this morning? But there is no other explanation for the fact that his late best friend, the great Sherlock Holmes, is standing in his flat, looking at him expectantly. John does the only thing he can think of. He punches the bastard.
Hard.
Sherlock reels a little, rubbing his cheek – it'll bruise in a day or two, but he's had worse.
"You punch like a girl, John."
John stammers, half-formed questions spinning through his mind. All of a sudden the door opens and in bustles Mrs Hudson, hands burdened with shopping bags. That is, until she turns around, takes in the apparition standing in the room, and the bags escape her grip to hit the floor with a thud.
Her mouth opens and closes comically for a few seconds before her eyes roll skyward and she slumps. And then she's certain she's dreaming, because the arms stopping her fall are too slender to to be John's.
When she returns to her senses, she catches a whiff of tobacco. As she is set on her feet, she speaks before she can stop herself:
"Sherlock, have you been smoking again?"
A small, amused smile graces the tall man's features. "Yes, and it's lovely to see you too, Mrs Hudson."
Having made sure that Mrs Hudson was quite all right, Sherlock turns to John, who has yet to say a word and is looking a tad misty-eyed. Frowning in confusion, he asks, "Are you all right, John?"
A small chuckle escapes John even as tears begin to trickle down his cheeks. "For someone so smart, you can be so thick sometimes"
If you asked the two of them what happened after that, you can be sure they would vehemently deny that John stepped up to his friend and hugged him. And the genius sociopath would never admit to wrapping his arms around him, never mind owning up to the few stray tears that dampened the top of John's head.
Mrs Hudson tactfully disappears into the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with a tray. "Sweet tea is good for shock, so drink up – I think we all need it!" When nobody moves, she tuts and makes a shooing gesture with her hand. "Don't just stand there making the place look untidy. Sit down!" she admonishes fondly.
John limps over to the sofa, Sherlock following him, disorientated despite the familiar setting. He casts his analytical gaze over the room. He notices that his armchair still stands in the corner, dust-free despite being untouched for months. In fact, nothing seems to have changed except the deep imprint of John's shape in the armchair opposite on his own, which fills him with a strange sadness as an image comes unbidden to his mind of John staring at his chair, waiting for him to reclaim it.
He'd been quiet for longer than he realised.
John and Mrs Hudson sit watching him, occasionally glancing at one another. Sherlock's slender frame has grown wirier in his… absence, and his hair is a little longer, but he is still clean-shaven.
Eventually, Mrs Hudson clears her throat quietly, but this small noise brings Sherlock to his senses with a start.
"Tea, Sherlock?" she asks. "I made a fresh pot while you were off in your own little world." She smiles.
An answering smile pulls at the corner of his lips as he accepts the offered cup. He clasps it close as if for warmth before taking a sip, grimacing at the sweetness but still drinking uncomplainingly. John takes a gulp from his own cup before tactfully replacing it on the tray and taking a biscuit instead, despite his lack of appetite.
The clock on the mantelpiece ticks away the minutes as Sherlock finishes his tea in silence, and an awkward tension descends.
Another few minutes tick by, until Sherlock breaks the silence when he notices John wince as he shifts in his seat. "What's wrong with your leg?" he asks. "I noticed you limping earlier." His piercing gaze sweeps John's face: sagging skin around more pronounced cheekbones – he's lost weight, and quite a bit of it. Frown lines more defined, dark purple bags circling under tired blue eyes – hasn't slept soundly in months. Sherlock barely conceals a wince at the state he has found John in after all this time. He knew it would be painful for him, but this man sitting here is a shadow of his best friend.
"Can't be certain, but the doctor thinks the stress of the few weeks after your… accident made it worse." John shrugs. "Could've gone to physio, but I didn't really see the point."
"Oh."
Mrs Hudson inwardly rolls her eyes at the tangible tension between her boys. "How did you pull it off then?" she asks.
"I'm sorry?"
"Well, you know…" She gestures helplessly at him.
Nodding in understanding, Sherlock says, "I didn't work alone – Molly's help was invaluable."
"Why did you do it?" John cuts in suddenly. "Why did you let us all believe you were dead?"
"I had to," is the smooth, slightly frosty reply. "If I hadn't been seen falling from Bart's rooftop, then the two of you and Lestrade would be the dead ones."
A sharp gasp is heard from Mrs Hudson's seat, but both men ignore her, attention focussed solely on each other.
"What do you mean?" John retorts, nonplussed.
"Moriarty had snipers trained on the three of you, and only he could have called them off. As you will have heard…" He Sherlock mimes putting a gun in his mouth. He doesn't think it relevant to mention that he himself put the bullet that really killed Moriarty through his skull.
John nods thoughtfully as he digests this information. He opens his mouth to speak again, but is interrupted by the rumbling of Sherlock's stomach.
An uneasy, tight-lipped smile crosses Sherlock's face as he glances almost apologetically at Mrs Hudson and John. Suspicion flashes across their faces.
"Sherlock…" John growls.
"Yes, John?"
"When did you last eat?"
Sherlock's eyes flicker as he thinks for a moment before answering dismissively. "Oh, a few days."
John's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly – Sherlock knows he's always hated being lied to. Before he has chance to say a word, Sherlock reads the warning in his hardened gaze.
"Oh, all right, a week" he mutters.
Mrs Hudson stands up abruptly. "That settles it. This interrogation can wait, you need to eat."
He opens his mouth to protest but is quieted by her determined expression. She moves off into the kitchen to check the fridge, which in Sherlock's absence has remained free of body parts.
The two men shuffle awkwardly in their seats, unsure of what to say. Sherlock steeples his long, thin fingers in front of his face as his slate-grey eyes roam over his friend's face, cataloguing the changes wrought by time. John takes advantage of his detached concentration to conduct a little observation of his own. He notices the skin drawn even tighter over the angular cheekbones; the bags heavy and dark under eyes dimmed by lack of sleep; and the straggly curls sticking out all over as if they've been mussed, which they probably have – John knows Sherlock was – well, is – prone to tugging at his hair when stressed. He is suddenly overwhelmed with sadness as it dawns on him how physically and emotionally exhausted his friend is. He tries to fight the urge to hug him, but in a moment of impulse thinks "bugger it" and moves across to the sofa to pull the younger man close. He feels Sherlock stiffen momentarily before he hesitantly relaxes into the hold and wraps his arms around John's shoulders, a sigh rumbling in his chest.
"I'm so, so sorry John," he begins, somewhat muffled by the jumper-clad shoulder pressed against his face.
"It doesn't matter, you're home now."
Pulling apart, the two men share a genuine smile, all awkwardness gone, and Mrs Hudson pokes her head around the door. "Food's ready, boys!" she says. "Come and get it!"
Sherlock's stomach gurgles in anticipation and the three of them chuckle as they settle down at the kitchen table, which is sure to be a rarity now that the mad detective is back under the roof of 221B.
After dinner, Mrs Hudson leaves the boys bickering good-naturedly over who is washing up and who drying, knowing that John will eventually give up and do both, and heads downstairs. She hears the melodious strains of the violin for the first time in months and smiles fondly as she closes her door.
John makes short work of the dishes and brews two cups of tea a few minutes later. Sherlock looks up from lovingly retuning his violin and smiles warmly as a cup is left just within his reach before John settles himself on the sofa. It's almost as if the last months never happened as Sherlock plays one of his own compositions he knows is John's favourite. His supposedly nonexistent heart swells with happiness to finally be home and to see his best friend, his loyal blogger, half-focused on the newspaper in front of him as he listens contentedly, toes tapping to the beautiful melodies he never thought he'd hear again.
After a while, the two of them end up curled up on opposite ends of the sofa, feet tangling comfortably in the middle, and they talk for hours, revelling in the simple pleasure of each other's voices, of laughing together after so much time apart. When they've exhausted every possible topic of conversation, they sit in comfortable silence for a moment before Sherlock gets bored and starts fidgeting. John rolls his eyes and flicks on the TV, entertaining himself by listening to Sherlock's mutterings instead of watching whatever drivel is on at this hour.
Eventually the pair fall asleep: Sherlock with his head resting on the back of the sofa, snoring gently, and John smiling contentedly at the other end, his chin dropped down onto his chest. He sleeps soundly for the first time in months – he's finally gotten his miracle.