The man paused at the door. Did he really want to do this? Did he really want to do this to himself, to Mrs Hudson… to John?
It was too late to turn back now, anyway. He took a deep breath. Pushed the door open. His heart was thudding, every footstep seemed to be heavier than the last. He went to turn back. He couldn't do this. He couldn't do this.
But he had to, he had to see John again. John, his partner in crime. His best friend.
He paused. "John?" he asked hesitantly. Then, louder. "John?"
—-
John recognised the voice. But no… no, it couldn't be. Just his imagination playing tricks on him. Just a figment of a dream that he couldn't remember anymore. He closed his eyes again and tried to slip back into sleep.
But the voice called again. Louder this time. Could it really cause any harm to just look? He picked himself up from the armchair, rubbed his eyes. He didn't allow himself to get his hopes up. It would hurt too much when he realised he wasn't there, as he inevitably would do.
He rounded the stairs. His eyes wouldn't believe, couldn't believe, what they were seeing. Because there, standing in front of him, was…
Was…
And it couldn't be true, it couldn't, because this man was dead…
It was Sherlock Holmes.
—-
Sherlock stared at John. He didn't look well at all. His hair was thinning, his eyes seemed deader, his limp was getting worse. And the scars… the scars…
They laced his arms like some horrifying ladder. He saw the way John tried to cover them but they were obvious. They stood out on his skin, the red against the white, the too-pale white.
"John…" Sherlock whispered. He had done this. It was his fault. He had driven his friend, his best friend, his only friend, to hurt himself like this. He could feel his eyes wetting. "John…"
John's face was blank, horribly blank. No emotions played out on them. This wasn't a man. It was a shell of a man, little more than a zombie. When he spoke, his voice was weak and hoarse. He only uttered one word.
"Sherlock."
—-
They sat in the living room. John didn't know what to say. Too many questions were racing around his head. Where were you where were you where were you why did you leave I thought you were dead why why why did you do that to me why did you put me through that
He shook his head, trying to clear the thoughts. "Why?" was all he could manage.
Sherlock looked down. He seemed to be ashamed. And he had good right to, after all he had put John through…
"They… were going to kill you," he muttered. He looked up. "They were going to kill you. I had to do it, John. Please, understand. It was the only way."
"For three years?" John demanded. "Three bloody years? I had no idea, Sherlock! I thought you… I thought you…" He choked up. "I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD!" he eventually yelled. "DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA? ANY IDEA WHAT THAT FELT LIKE?"
Sherlock shook his head, looked at the floor. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
—-
There was silence for a long while. Sherlock continued to fixate his gaze on the floor, unable to face John. Unable to cause him any more pain. He ran his hands through his hair, and blew out a breath before finally looking at John. "I… I can go. If you want me to. I can be out of your life."
John's eyes filled with tears. He stood up, blocking Sherlock's path to the door. "You're not leaving me again." Then, "I nearly jumped, you know. I nearly jumped too. I was going to do it tonight."
Sherlock stood up as well and walked towards John. "I'm sorry," he whispered as he pulled his best friend into a hug.
"Don't be," John replied, smiling for the first time in three years. "Just… please, just never leave me alone like that again."
Sherlock smiled back. "I won't."