Disclaimer: I don´t own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making profit by using them. The title belongs to Martha Grimes.

Author´s notes: This is a "Sherlock returns" story set post-Reichenbach, but this time, I wanted to exclude what seems to have become headcanon of a lot of people in the fandom (including myself), namely that John is probably going to punch Sherlock upon his return or show a similar violent reaction, followed by a hug. I love the idea and those of you who have read my other stories dealing with the issue will have noticed. Nevertheless, I challenged myself to write a different version this time. Let me know what you think!

Furthermore, please note that I am no native English speaker and apologize if there are mistakes.

Enjoy!

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A Word, a Space to Fill a Lack

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Sherlock´s back. The impossible has been done, time has been unwound, the world upturned. Only it doesn´t seem like a miracle now that John looks at it. He has been grieving so strongly that he thought he was going mad, refusing to accept the new world without Sherlock in it.

He has been searching for clues, for another truth than the one Sherlock has been trying to impress on him during their last conversation, right before it happened (the inconceivable, the horror). John still doesn´t have a name for it.

He can barely recall the funeral back in May, has repressed the memories save for the feeling of utter emptiness and how the world had seemed to have lost its colour on that day.

He has soldiered on somehow, unhappy, mourning, looking for an explanation which wasn´t forthcoming. There´s been some kind of understanding between him and Lestrade, because the Detective Inspector has had second thoughts about the whole issue and appeared absolutely guilt-ridden when John ran into him for the first time after the funeral.

The doctor had been walking around Hyde Park, aimlessly, but walking was always better than sitting; Lestrade had taken his children to feed the ducks and squirrels. The largest park in London and yet noticing each other had been inevitable, and it had been awkward of course. An inconceivably long way from May to July too, and somehow the warm summer air, satiated with fragrances and colours which were telling of other things than damp soil and flowers on a grave, had seemed inappropriate.

Lestrade had seemed unusually subdued when he had finally opened his mouth to greet John, and immediately continued to talk: "We´re finally ready to look further into the case. I´m going to interview the kids soon. The boy´s out of hospital now."

It had been a small relief to realize that Lestrade was obviously thinking there was more to the case than they originally believed, but it couldn´t replace the bitterness John felt: "Doesn´t matter now, does it," he said flatly, because Sherlock was dead and nothing would bring him back.

Lestrade didn´t reply, didn´t say that it might at least clear Sherlock´s name; the words just wouldn´t come to him in the face of John looking so terribly devastated.

Later, John had sent Lestrade a text: He´d be glad about your support. JW

The answer he had received had been short: I hope so. GL

The children had confirmed what John had suspected all along: they had never met Sherlock. They had been shown pictures of him, by the man who had told them all those fairy stories, and who had pretended to keep them safe from the bogeyman, a.k.a. Sherlock. The media had been all over the story and the new light it was shedding on the whole affair, but John couldn´t have cared less. Too late, anyway. Too late to do much good; for Sherlock, anyway.

And now he is back, a ghost on two legs; John thought he finally had lost his mind indeed when he came home from another aimless walk on a cold January evening and found his friend in his small new flat. He had been sitting on the armrest of John´s sofa but had jumped to his feet when the doctor came in, and then he had been standing there, all spectre and surreal, the last straw.

"No, no, no!" John had stretched out his hands as though wanting to push the apparition away, "No! It can´t be, it c-" his voice had given out and he had had to bend forward, resting his hands on his thighs and taking a few deep breaths before being able to go on. "You are dead. Y-you can´t just be standing here."

"John," the ghost said, turning John´s knees into jelly. "John. I´m sorry."

John shook his head, unable to process the voice in addition to the picture: "I have seen you killing yourself. You have said goodbye, and you were gone. I was at your funeral. You can´t be here."

The ghost took one step into John´s direction, but John flinched: "Don´t."

"John, please. Let me explain."

For a moment, John closed his eyes. It couldn´t be. It simply couldn´t be. Sherlock Holmes, his best friend, the man who had trusted him and whom he had been trusting in return, wouldn´t have left John in the dark. He wouldn´t have kept him believing that he was dead if he wasn´t.

"No." He opened his eyes again, and his expression hardened: "There is nothing you could possibly say."

After an endless moment during which they silently stared at each other, the ghost seemed to sag. "All right," he said, softly. "I- yes."

He made his way to the door without looking at John again, who stepped aside, hands clenching into fists, eyes swimming.

That night, John didn´t find any sleep. He had slept poorly before, haunted by the images of Sherlock before, during and after his suicide, but now he was haunted by the one thing he had kept wishing for.

The rational part of his mind knew that it hadn´t been a ghost but a very real Sherlock Holmes, who had somehow not been dead at all, yet the other part, the part which had been hoping for a miracle, was disappointed, to say the least. He felt as though he had been left out of the picture.

He hasn´t seen Sherlock (the culprit, the perpetrator) since. It´s been three weeks since that fateful evening, and John still doesn´t know what to think. Yet he is very aware that he can´t go on like this, his thoughts reeling around questions and his heart yearning to see Sherlock again, as much as he doesn´t like to admit it.

He wants to see Sherlock and hear his voice, because the image in his head, the one of the ghost, as he still calls him, is beginning to fade again. He isn´t sure whether he is ready to talk to him, but the undeniable truth is slowly sinking in: Sherlock is back. Not so much a miracle, rather a fraud. John frowns at the term, but his disappointment is still strong.

He asked for a miracle because he wanted to have his friend back, but now he isn´t even sure he can. Maybe the discovery that Sherlock´s death was faked is proving to be too much of a challenge for their bond; it feels as though his grief has been ridiculed.

Still, he needs to do something, otherwise he will get mad in the end. He doesn´t want Sherlock to be the bad guy in the picture (culprit, perpetrator. Fraud). The irony´d be too much to bear. The pain. Because if Sherlock had been the bad guy all along, what would that make of John and his faith in his friend? No, no, no. He knows better, just as before. Get a grip, Watson, he tells himself.

With trembling fingers, he dials Sherlock´s number, but a voice informs him that it is no longer in service. Of course.

After deliberating the matter for quite some time, he opens his phone´s directory again and selects another number, wondering whether that really is such a good idea. Mycroft has tried to contact him a few times recently, but John didn´t take any of the calls. He had half expected the familiar black car to wait for him at one point, but it didn´t. Maybe Mycroft didn´t know, after all, and has had other reasons for trying to reach John. He shakes his head; that´s not very likely.

Mycroft answers after the second ring. "John," he says, an unfamiliar tone in his voice. "I was hoping you might call."

John ignores the relief he can hear in the older Holmes´ voice; Mycroft has probably known about the deceit all along, the doctor is determined not to make it too easy for him now.

"Why, so you can convince me that it wasn´t wrong of him to do that? That he had all the right motives, an honourable reason? That it was okay for him to do this to me? To Mrs Hudson?" He is talking himself into a rage, but he isn´t finished yet. "Or that it is absolutely warrantable to just show up at your supposedly best friend´s place after having him believe that you committed suicide, after having him forced to watch? Tell me, Mycroft, how come he suddenly accepts your help. Needs someone to do the taskwork for him, does he?"

"No," Mycroft´s voice is soft. "He is going to tell you in person what you want to know, if you let him. What you deserve to know, in fact. But that´s not why I have tried to call you."

John pinches the bridge of his nose with two fingers, briefly closing his eyes. "I´m listening."

Mycroft sounds hesitant:"I´m worried about him, John."

John gives a short, humourless laugh: "No news there. In fact, I do have a kind of déjà-vu right now, only the last time I didn´t even know who you were, because you didn´t feel so inclined as to introduce yourself."

Mycroft clears his throat: "I am aware of the fact that you are harbouring quite a few resentments," he says, "but now might not be the best time to adhere to them." He pauses. "I think Sherlock may be dying, John."

Half an hour later, John arrives at the door of a hotel room. It´s a rather cheap affair and nothing Mycroft would have chosen, judging from the distaste in his tone when he told John where to find his brother. Apparently, Sherlock refused to stay with his sibling.

John wonders if this does count as having been manipulated, but inevitably, Mycroft knew what to say in order to get him going. He will probably never not worry about Sherlock, one thing they have in common.

Moving closer to the door, he listens intensely, but he can´t hear anything inside and has no idea what to expect.

Clearing his throat, he straightens his jacket and takes a breath. Arrange your face, John.

He knocks, but there´s no answer. John knocks again, at which he hears a muffled "Go away."

"Damn it, Sherlock, I´ll break down the bloody door if I have to!"

He can almost hear a gasp.

The figure which opens the door a breathless moment later does only marginally resemble the ghost and even less the flatmate which John has had.

Sherlock has always been pale and the ghost had been rather white-faced, as far as John recalls it, but this version looks simply unhealthy, a greyish tinge to his skin. He is painfully thin and his eyes are red-rimmed. He steps back from the door now, wordlessly, insecure, unlike his old self (consulting detective, culprit) and lets John in.

It´s almost dark in the room since the curtains are drawn close, even though it´s only four p.m., and there are no lights on. John looks around: no personal effects whatsoever, no change of clothes, no computer. No TV, no radio, no books, no newspapers. Nothing.

"What are you doing here, Sherlock?"

Sherlock sits down on the unmade bed; he is wearing one of his suits, maybe even the one he 'died' in; it´s too loose now, and slightly creased.

He is aware how pathetic he must look. He´s not sure what has brought John here, since he can´t read him for once. John has closed himself off, is the picture of someone on his guard.

"Just so we´re clear," John says, folding his arms in front of his chest, "I am still angry at you. You have no idea just how angry I am. But I can´t get any closure on this if we don´t talk. And Mycroft is worried about you."

Once, it would have been John to be worried. If he is, he doesn´t let it on.

"Why is he worried, Sherlock?" he asks now , his voice strangely detached, sounding like the doctor he is. "Why does he think you might be dying?"

Mycroft has always been rather accurate in his guesses.

"I´m not dying," Sherlock says, nevertheless and a little dismissively, "he´s being overly dramatic."

"Whereas you are not," John says, and now his anger is immediately palpable again, always there, boiling under the calm surface. It becomes clear that he hasn´t forgiven Sherlock and probably never will. No explanations in the world can delete the pictures in his head and the long months full of grief and loneliness.

"I´m sorry, John," Sherlock murmurs, not feeling up to defending himself. "I had to jump, otherwise you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade would have been shot. Moriarty had snipers trained on you. There was no other way."

John remains impassive for an unbearably long time.

"I see," he eventually murmurs, nodding to himself. "Okay. But why didn´t you tell me afterwards? Why didn´t you spare me what came next?" The loss of a life. The draining of colours. The nightmares.

"I couldn´t." Sherlock sounds tired. "There were too many of his people left. Had they realized that you knew..." he doesn´t need to finish the sentence. "The only way to keep you safe was to hurt you." He finally looks up, eyes too large in his haggard face: "I´m so sorry, John." It comes out barely above a whisper. "I couldn´t risk it."

John feels his walls beginning to break at the sight of the utterly defeated looking man in front of him, but he isn´t ready to let it happen. Not like this, not so fast.

"I came to you as soon as possible," Sherlock adds, then falls silent.

Neither of them speaks for a long time. John feels like crying, which he simply can´t allow. He has given too much already, and he needs to get away from the drama of it all.

"I will come back tomorrow," he finally says. "Try to stay alive until then."

He feels cruel even as he hears the words himself, but strangely it also feels good, a little. Petty revenge, he thinks, yet he is too drained to actually feel guilty about it. Sherlock isn´t the only one who can play games, after all.

That night, John does manage to fall asleep, but Sherlock features in his dreams. When John wakes up on the following morning, he can still see his friend´s eyes.

Upon an impulse, he opens the drawer of his nightstand. He keeps a few pictures in there; there have never been many of him and Sherlock, but the few he has found he has put in an envelope and kept it close. He hasn´t looked in there once, has only taken the precaution to have the thing at hand in case the nightmares became too overwhelming and he needed a reminder that once, Sherlock has been real, breathing and alive. Until this morning, he has managed to replace the more dreadful images with others he has got in his mind, but now he wants to look at the small heap.

Sherlock and Mrs Hudson on her birthday, Sherlock frowning at the camera. John can still hear him objecting: "What are you doing?" "Just smile, Sherlock."

John and Sherlock at different occasions, one time with Molly. And then there´s one which John couldn´t bring himself to throw out: Sherlock, realizing that he was being photographed by his friend (who really only wanted to try the camera on his phone), had hidden behind his hand, holding a mug of tea in front of his face.

So it´s basically a picture of Sherlock´s hand, slim fingers wrapped around a piece of china. John can´t turn his gaze away. Those fingers... Sherlock has always appeared strong and independent, as someone who can take care of himself, thank you very much. But his hand looks vulnerable, and all of a sudden, John can feel his throat constricting again.

This is not a game, he thinks, and Sherlock (not a fraud, de-culprited) needs me.

Hell, I needed him too, the more stubborn part of him insisted. Did he take that into account?

Yes, a small voice says, riddled with all the guilt John couldn´t feel on the day before. He did.

John suddenly feels in a hurry. He quickly dresses and makes his way back to the dingy hotel.

Sherlock opens the door after the first knock. The curtains are open this time. In broad daylight, he looks even worse for wear, his skin almost translucent, and John thinks he understands what Mycroft means. He is going to die if he stays here, on his own, withdrawing.

"When have you stopped eating altogether?" John asks by way of a greeting.

Sherlock avoids his gaze, fiddles with nothing in particular, just to keep his hands occupied. Those hands.

John shakes his head: "If we are going to make this work, you have to talk to me."

I want to, Sherlock can´t say, but the words won´t come out. Not unless you´ve forgiven me.

His body aches, his heart aches. He doesn´t want to kill himself, but he has reached a point at which he doesn´t know how to proceed, and food seems superfluous. After all these months of surviving alone while hunting down Moriarty´s associates, he suddenly feels helpless. He is weary; even his mind is exhausted. Thinking has been hard of late, partly because most of his thoughts have been revolving around John.

He has not expected a mild reaction upon revealing himself, but he hasn´t expected John to be so cold either. And the thought of John, of returning to him and Baker Street and the sense of normality which inheres in that was what kept him going, a source of strength.

Maybe Mycroft has been right about sentiment and caring, but the notion actually hurts. Sherlock doesn´t want to return to his old life, the life before John. He sways, staggering a little, and quickly sits down on the bed.

The look on John´s face is still unreadable as he eyes him now. He is waiting for Sherlock to say something.

"I don´t know," he murmurs. "Last week, maybe." His hands are shaking.

John sits down next to him: "Why, Sherlock," he asks, and now his voice is soft and full of sorrow.

"I don´t think I can go on," Sherlock replies, winding his arms around himself because he feels cold. "I have been travelling, destroying Moriarty´s web, always with the prospect that I´d be able to return home afterwards. If I survived. But home´s gone now, and I realize that my own life is destroyed, too."

John´s heart aches at the sight of his friend who is looking so forlorn, and his words hurt.

"You´re not alone," he says, though it is an effort to speak. "You have Mycroft."

Sherlock only tightens the hug around himself.

John swallows: "And you have me. You know you do."

Sherlock shakes his head: "I hurt you too much. My apologies were sincere, John, but I know that I can´t expect you to accept them. What I did..."

John feels near tears again. "Until yesterday I didn´t think I could ever forgive you, and I still don´t understand why you made me watch, or if there really wouldn´t have been a way to tell me the truth," he says around the lump in his throat. "But it seems that you didn´t have a choice at the time."

Sherlock isn´t sure whether he´s heard right. He can feel John´s gaze and is suddenly relieved that he is there.

"Come with me?" John eventually asks, because he wants to get away from this place, from the loneliness (Sherlock in his loneliness) and the whole situation. His new flat is small and nothing like Baker Street, but at least it´s not a hotel, something with a little more private touch.

He remembers the bedsit he was renting when he met Sherlock; it had resembled this room. At that time, it had perfectly mirrored John´s desolate state of mind, which seems to be the same with Sherlock now. That´s why he can´t leave him here. There will be more words, more to talk about, but that can wait a little longer.

Sherlock doesn´t have any luggage apart from a toothbrush. He hangs his coat on the hook next to John´s jacket, a familiar sight, and stands there, obviously unsure as to what next.

"I´m going to make breakfast," John says, "make yourself at home." Sherlock however follows him into the small kitchen. Watching John calms his frayed nerves; this is the closest to normal he´s come in a long time.

Sherlock doesn´t feel like eating, but the ache in his stomach lessens considerably once he has had some tea, fruit juice and toast.

Afterwards, they move into the living room; it does remind Sherlock of a doll´s house, everything is rather small and fitted, mostly IKEA-style. A bachelor´s pad; Sherlock almost smiles at the memory of John´s rather disgusted reaction to being called thus by the press.

There´s one armchair, bentwood frame, springy, comfy, which John sits down in, and a two-seat sofa onto which Sherlock sinks now. It´s also surprisingly snug, reminding him how tired he is. He has not slept last night, and barely has during the past weeks. Too much going round and round in his head, too many thoughts, too many worries. His Mind Palace resembles a labyrinth these days.

John watches as Sherlock tentatively leans back, closing his eyes. The food has made him sleepy, and of course, he must be exhausted judging by the looks of him.

"John," he suddenly says, without opening his eyes. "Don´t you have to go to work?"

"Not today. It´s Sunday and I´m off duty."

"Hm... That new clinic of yours- is it any good?" The words are a little slurred, as Sherlock is on the verge of dozing off. John is considering offering him his bed, but knowing Sherlock, he won´t want that.

"Very good," he replies. "But since you knew about the clinic already, you probably have known that as well."

"Been keeping an eye out on you," Sherlock mutters, slipping out of his shoes and drawing his legs up.

John gets up and spreads a blanket over him: "Of course."

"Always have, John." Barely audible, those last words before Sherlock succumbs to his fatigue, but John has heard them nevertheless.

He sits down on the coffee table (fibreboard, dark brown) and just looks at the other, thinking that it doesn´t matter what will be coming next and how difficult it´s going to be, he´s got Sherlock back. Consulting detective. Living miracle. Friend.

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The End

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