Hey guys! It's been a while, hasn't it? I'm taking a temporary break from my hiatus to post this one BBC Sherlock story. I really, really love this show. It is ridiculous. So I decided to try my own hand a writing a Reichenbach Fall return ficlet (so yeah, spoilers) and I actually like how it turned out. I surprised myself with this one. I don't think anyone's tried this idea of Sherlock returning before (I'm probably wrong) but it's meant to be a slightly more humorous reunion. Hopefully it's slightly true to the characters. If not, I apologize.

And for those who missed it, spoilers for Season 3, Episode 3. And slight JohnLock. Unestablished, but definitely there.

Slight Miscalculations

When Sherlock Holmes decided to finally reveal himself to dear Mrs. Hudson after three years of hunting and killing, he was honestly unprepared for her reaction. He had known Mrs. Hudson for a long time and had cared for her almost just as long. Add that to his considerable genius and deducting skills, and he truly believed that Mrs. Hudson would cry, probably faint, but most likely hug him tight and just thank God for bringing him home. That was not what happened.

She was hunched over his gravestone, shoulders shaking as she cried. She had just dropped off a bouquet of white roses. Sherlock steadied himself before taking a deep breath and stepping forward. "Hello, Mrs. Hudson."

She stiffened with a sharp intake of breath. It took a moment for her to move, to acknowledge his voice and to get over her initial shock. Then she turned around.

Sherlock took in her shock, signs of mourning, and obvious association with John in two seconds. She had eaten next to nothing this morning and had drank a cup of coffee before leaving to buy the bouquet. The stain on her jacket showed that she had cried soon afterwards and had spilled her coffee when her hand shook. She had lost some weight and had black bags under her eyes, but her hands still showed signs of care taking, most likely that of John. It hurt him to see her in such a state- though he would never admit it- and he hoped that his return would help her soon recover.

"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson whispered, jaw slack and eyes filled with a strange mixture of hope and disbelief. She almost dropped her empty coffee cup. "Is that really you?"

Sherlock couldn't help but smirk. He took another step forward and stretched out a single hand, palm upturned so she could take it with her own if she wished. He could almost see the tears forming in her eyes. It would take three seconds for her to break down. He ticked them off mentally, smile growing. One. Two. Three-

Warning sirens went off in Sherlock's head as Mrs. Hudson's eyes narrowed and her fists clenched and suddenly she was pelting him with objects. First with her coffee cup, and then with everything else in reach.

"How dare you!" she yelled, full of indignant anger. The bouquet of roses hit him next, then a shoe.

"Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson, please-! Ow!" he cried as the shoe hit his head. She attacked him vengefully with the other, whacking him with it over and over.

"You. Left. Him. Like. That! Do. You. Even. Know. How. Hurt-" each word was punctuated with a blow. They weren't particularly hard blows, and so Sherlock resigned himself to being beaten, covering his face automatically with his hands.

"-He. Was? He would have rather died! I should kill you myself!" she finished with a final exclamation, throwing her last shoe so it clocked him in the head.

Sherlock paused for a moment, waiting to see if she would hit him again. His arms and face stung terribly. When he looked up, she was finally crying, tears flowing down her face and into her sleeve as she tried to cover up her sobs. He tentatively reached out before pulling her close to give her a tight hug.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson. I truly am," he said softly, stomach clenching painfully.

She sniffled into his coat and mumbled out something he couldn't make out through the clothing. Then she stepped out of his arms and wiped her nose, When she had finally collected herself enough to keep from bursting into tears, she said, "It's not me you should be apologizing to."

It was almost enough to make him flinch, but he was Sherlock Holmes and he wasn't supposed to feel such emotions so he didn't move; he didn't so much as twitch. Despite that, he had to pause before replying so he didn't show how much the small sentence tore at him. "I know."

Mrs. Hudson's chin stopped wobbling and her mouth firmed, eyes gleaming in determination as she said, "Then you also know what you need to do. Or should I hit you with my shoe again?"

Sherlock smiled but it was bitter. Though he would rather die than admit it, he was scared at the thought of facing his best friend and flat mate. "I know."

They left the graveyard arm in arm. Mrs. Hudson didn't quiz him about how he had done it, she was just ecstatic that he had returned, and he was happy to see her, even though it had resulted in the shoe-sized bruise forming on the side of his face. That didn't matter much anyway.

The door to 221b Baker Street was covering in scratch marks. It made Sherlock feel sick as he took the sight. They were obviously key marks- the result of drunken escapades and failure to reach the lock without fumbling. They spoke of heavy drinking and many lovers and the thought of what must have caused-

Mrs. Hudson opened the door and led him into the apartment. The downstairs was as clean as always. His death hadn't affected Mrs. Hudson's cleaning habits a bit. Sherlock took a deep breath, letting the familiar smells of home and John wash over him. Mrs. Hudson patted his arm and gave him a reassuring smile before yelling up into the flat, "John! You have a visitor!"

Sherlock involuntarily felt terror rise within him and he swallowed hard. He wanted to see John again. God how he wanted to. But the question wasn't his desires; it was whether or not John would take him back. The thought of going through the rest of his life in boredom and exile without his best friend and only companion by his side was unbearable. And so Sherlock was afraid. That fear only solidified as he made his way up the stairs. The smell of alcohol threaded through the air. It was barely detectable thanks to Mrs. Hudson's cleaning habits, but he picked it up immediately just like he picked up everything else. It grew stronger the farther he ventured into his and John's living space. The apartment was a wreck, strewn with empty bottles and bits of food and the blinds were drawn, casting darkness across everything. It had to be a recent mess because there was no way that Mrs. Hudson would ever let it stay this way; his deduction was confirmed when he picked up a nearby bottle of liquor to find that it was only partially empty.

After a quick glance around the apartment that told him everything that had happened in the past three years, Sherlock continued up the stairs to John's room. He stopped right before the door, fists clenching as a fear even more intense than what he had experienced when jumping to his death flooded him. The sound of light but steady breathing indicated that John was in light slumber, the slight snore that he always got after he had some type of alcohol slipping in between the breaths. With one last deep inhale, Sherlock stepped into John's room.

The curtains were also drawn except for a tiny crack that cast a thin strip of light on the middle of John's sleeping figure. Sherlock slowly made his way over to the bed, each step cautious as he weaved between the piles of dirty laundry and trash. John's face was haggard, brow furrowed even in sleep. He looked ten years older than he had the day Sherlock had died, and he, like Mrs. Hudson, had bags under his eyes. Sherlock could see even through the sheets that he had also lost a scary amount of weight and was painfully thin.

Sherlock's throat constricted painfully and he swallowed hard. John stirred, letting out a tiny moan and shifted until his hair, which had been allowed to grow longer, covered up most of his face. Unthinkingly, Sherlock extended a hand to gently brush the locks away so they didn't obstruct his view. And once the deed was done, his hand refused to move. Three years without looking or speaking or even existing to John had taken it's toll, and Sherlock did not want to stop touching his John. His John.

With a start, John's bright blue eyes snapped open and his hand darted out to grab Sherlock's, which was still on his cheek. Sherlock froze, heart thundering in his chest. John froze also, a look of absolute shock on his face. For a few seconds, there was only silence as Sherlock took in every ounce of the man he had left behind and John tried to understand what was happening. Suddenly, without warning, John shoved Sherlock away violently. He rolled out of the bed and scrambled to his feet, eyes wide and lips parted as he stared at Sherlock. He opened his mouth before closing it and opening it again. Then he was stumbling out the door and down the stairs.

Sherlock started after him. "John!" he shouted. "John, wait!"

Once he reached the main living area, John tried to continue to go downstairs, but he slipped and fell onto the floor. Sherlock was there immediately, trying to help him up. John let Sherlock help him without difficulty, almost as if his common sense had returned, but the man had taken too much for too long and as soon as Sherlock touched him he began to shake his head back and forth violently, eyes squeezed shut tightly. "I'm going crazy," he said as Sherlock lifted him to his feet. He didn't run but instead just stood there, looking like he was about to cry. "Sherlock, I'm finally going crazy. Are you happy, you bloody git? Have you come back to haunt me some more? Are my dreams not good enough for you anymore, you bastard?"

Sherlock had run through every possible reuniting scenario in his mind based on both John and Mrs. Hudson's personality before he had actually revealed himself to them, but just as he had been wrong with Mrs. Hudson, he was wrong with John. He had expected a breakdown. Maybe a punch, maybe forgiveness. Maybe John would kick him out with a simple "to hell with you!" That's not what happened.

With a cry, John grabbed a book from a pile of junk on a nearby counter type and hurled it at Sherlock.

"John!" Sherlock yelled, covering his face with his hands as he was pelted by more flying objects. "You're not going crazy, John! I'm alive! I'm alive! Please John- ow- stop!"

But the poor former army doctor was not done. He shouted and shouted and shouted. He continued to throw books and experimental equipment. Sherlock was just accepting the fact that he was going to be knocked out by a heavy, four-inch-thick scientific textbook when John came to a sudden stop halfway through throwing the object. The textbook dropped to the floor with a muffled thump, John's hands dropping to his sides with it.

The soldier looked at him with the oddest expression before swallowing. "I'm not going crazy?" he croaked. "You're here? You swear it?"

Sherlock winced slightly as he straightened, noting that he had collected more bruises today than he had in the past three years. "Considering you just beat me half to death my own lab equipment, I would hazard the deduction that I'm not dead."

"Not dead," John repeated, voice wobbling. "Not. Dead. You- you bloody arsehole."

Sherlock watched with dread as two tears ran down John's cheeks. Looking back on it now, he would rather be beat then have John cry.

Sherlock wanted to reach out and encircle John with his arms more than he had ever wanted anything else in the world, but he wasn't sure that was appropriate nor was he sure that John would even accept it. So unable to do anything else, he watched as John cried quietly. "I'm sorry. I know you probably don't want to hear it, but I truly am."

"You're right. I don't want to hear it," John said, reaching up to wipe the tears from his face. He took a step forward and stretched out an arm, fingers straining to grasp at Sherlock's coat. The relief that shown in John eyes made Sherlock's fear loosen it's grip on his throat. Then there was a tug and before Sherlock could even make sense of what was happening, he was wrapped tightly around John.

The doctor had his head buried in Sherlock neck. Mind racing, Sherlock froze. What was he supposed to do? What was John doing? Why did he not want to move? Why did he not want to move?

John smelled faintly of alcohol, but that was mostly covered by his natural scent. A scent that Sherlock knew and loved and had missed all too much. "I'm sorry," he whispered one last time into John's hair. John looked up and smiled at him, face much too close for comfort. They were only centimeters apart.

Then with a sudden burst of pain, Sherlock was knocked over as an object hit the side of his face, John going down with him. Mrs. Hudson stood barefoot in the doorway, face slightly red. She waved her second shoe in the air and then pointed it at him. "You'd better be sorry! You don't deserve a bloody kiss! And shame on you John Watson for being so forgiving!" she huffed before storming back down the stairs.

"Bloody hell," Sherlock cursed, rubbing his head. John, who was on top of him, just laughed before shifting slightly to get more comfortable.

"You're not moving."

"I'm not moving."

"Right." And Sherlock found that, for the moment, he didn't really mind.