A/N: Also known as the fic that started it all! This was the first fanfic I ever wrote, and I owe it all to sherlockian-of-the-shire over on tumblr for her support of me and my writing. She convinced me to write this, and, well, here it is!
Blackness.
Complete and utter blackness.
A rock collided with a shin. A shoulder hit a rough wall.
Then he was falling.
Falling, falling, falling, arms outstretched, reaching for something, something lost, someone missing...
Sherlock!
John gasps upward, struggling with his sheets that have enslaved his legs from the knees down. It was just a dream. He is not falling. He is in bed, in his flat, in London. He is not...John shakes his head. He is missing someone, but that's not something he wants to think about at- he checks the clock- 2:47 in the bloody morning. John swipes a hand across his face and gets out of bed. No use trying to sleep now; another nightmare will come, which isn't exactly a comforting thought. Tea it is.
At precisely 7:30 am, John leaves his flat and walks the two blocks to his job at the clinic. There's a pronounced limp in his step, a reminder of the battlefield in Lon-Afghanistan, that wasn't there two years ago. His right hand rests upon a black cane. He stands away from it, as though distancing himself from the device, but doesn't entirely avoid leaning on it. At the clinic a young woman with blonde hair and a worried brow comes out to meet him and helps him inside.
He doesn't walk back out of the building until 4:00 pm. He turns left to go to the Tube, where he catches a train to Tesco and buys milk, eggs, tea, and apples, and goes back to his flat. The eggs and milk go in the refrigerator (he resists the desire to inform the world at large that he got the bloody milk again, don't fret, Sh-), the tea goes in the cupboard, and the apples are lined up in a row across the back of the counter. Water begins to boil for tea; he pulls two teacups down from the cabinet without thinking. There's a crash of sound and blood on his hands before he blinks, the second teacup lying in shatters next to the wall across the kitchen. He turns back to his cup, pours the water and puts the teabag in, and adds a dash of milk. He waits two minutes before gingerly lifting the cup and carrying it to the living room. There's nothing good on the telly. Then again, that's better than the days when he would turn on the news just to see his frie-deceased flatmate's face plastered everywhere and vicious attacks on his character by jealous reporters. He stares at the grey wall for five hours while his tea grows cold, then dumps the untouched tea out in to the sink and goes upstairs.
He undresses in the near darkness and pads to the sparsely made bed. He lies down and stares at the ceiling. What is the point in living if there's no pleasure in it anymore? Because there hasn't been, not since Sher...
Sherlock lies down and stares at the ceiling of a nondescript apartment somewhere in a nameless town in Mexico. Sleep won't come easy tonight. He can't, won't, stop thinking about London, and Mycroft, and Moriarty and his next move and J-
He wakes up after a fitful half hour of sleep. No matter- he's used to not sleeping. Today he has work to do, bringing down Moriarty's web, and he has to succeed if he ever wants to see his Jo-London, ever again. A black car pulls up to the curb outside and he steps in. He won't be returning to Mexico tonight.
One year later, John Watson returns to his previous flat on Baker Street to pack up the belongings of his once-flatmate. It's been three years and an odd number of hours since...that day, and it's time for him to move on. The door opens with a subtle creak (he makes a mental note to oil those hinges later) and he freezes, one foot in the doorway. The tall figure at the window turns around slowly, the long, familiar black coat shifting as he moves, and looks at John with more pain than John has ever seen on this man show, even during those last few days before Sherlock jumped off that infernal hospital building (and he saw the fall, felt his non-existent pulse, so why was that same man standing in front of him now, very much alive, if thinner than before?). The figure takes a step towards the door, and John Watson, Surgeon and Army Doctor in Afghanistan, previously of Her Majesty's Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, for the first and only time in his life, faints.
When he comes to a minute and a half later, it's to see a dark, curly head bending over the counter in the kitchen, stirring milk in to tea. He's been moved on to the sofa, probably by Sherlock- Sherlock's apparition, maybe? He saw him jump off St. Bart's. He's a doctor; he knows a dead man when he sees one. Is this how insanity begins, imagining your dead flatmate?- and he chokes back a sob. Sherlock jumps halfway through the kitchen at the sound before picking up John's tea and carefully walking to the side of the sofa.
John looks up at his friend, his best friend who has been dead for three years, and realizes he has no idea what the hell is going on. He reaches out and grabs the cuff of that coat that he remembers so well ("Your cheekbones, and turning your coat collar up so you look cool...") and strokes it reverently until Sherlock clears his throat. John, startled out of his reverie, glances up and hastily lets go of the sleeve.
"Sorry," he stutters. "It's just...I, well...I had to make sure you were real. Not a ghost or a product of my haywire imagination or some other rubbish." He sits up and rubs his hand over his face before looking back up at his friend. "Speaking of which, where the HELL have you been for three years, Sherlock? You made me watch you jump! I watched you DIE, Sherlock! In case your brilliant mind hasn't noticed yet, I've moved out of Baker Street, I've brought flowers to your grave once a month for three whole years, and I've had to deal with the press fallout from Moriarty's last scheme and your idiotic leap! Do you have any idea, any inkling, of the pain you've put me through, Sherlock? Or do you not care?" By the end John is standing, his nose mere inches from Sherlock's shoulder, and his hands curled in twin fists. Sherlock is lucky John hadn't needed to punch anyone in a while.
All the same, when the punch comes it knocks Sherlock backwards, sending him careening into the table. No lasting harm is done to his face- the nose and mouth had been successfully avoided- but there'll be a nasty bruise for a day or two. John immediately reaches for his med kit before remembering that it is no longer at Baker Street, so he runs to the sink and wets a towel with cold water instead and gives it to Sherlock, who nods his thanks. The pain still isn't gone from his eye, but he looks freer now than he did before the violence, almost as though he believes he deserves anything and everything John gives him.
For Sherlock, the past five minutes seem like something out of a dream world. He had known that John moved to a new flat (Mycroft was an invaluable resource, regrettably) and that John had not gone through Sherlock's things at Baker Street yet, which gave him an inexplicable warm feeling, but he had not expected to see him. Not today, not now, maybe not ever, and he's not under any illusions that John should be happy he's alive. On the contrary. The past three years had been absolute hell for Sherlock (he was worried, and it seems his worries are validated- John looks worse than he did after Afghanistan), and he knew everyone was alive; how much worse would it have been for John? He's not expecting him to faint, but it doesn't come as a surprise either, and he catches his friend before his head hits the floor and moves him to the sofa. He starts tea, remembering to add milk, and is about to bring it to the sofa when he hears a small noise from behind him, similar to the sound a wounded animal makes. He's startled out of his internal reverie on his friend (does John even want him as a friend anymore?) and leaps toward John before remembering the tea, which he grabs and brings with him.
The look on John's face breaks Sherlock's heart.
He looks surprised, understandably, and confused, and angry, but most of all, hurt. John hasn't survived the past three years unscathed; it was silly of him to believe his friend's military background would protect him from the worst of it. He stands and takes it in- losing weight, circles under the eyes, obvious insomnia: the nightmares must be back- and berates himself for letting this happen. It's almost a relief when John gathers enough energy to yell at him. It's no more than he deserves, after all. The punch he sees coming. He welcomes it, embraces it, rejoices over it. Anything that will make John look alive again.
John sits back down on the sofa and awkwardly pats the seat next to him. "You can sit here," he murmurs quietly. "I promise I won't punch you again." Sherlock nods and moves to sit next to John, elbows within a few centimeters of touching.
"I'd understand if you did, though," he says. "I...look...John, I'm so sorry. I had to. There was no other option."
"There was ALWAYS an option, Sherlock! You could have told me!"
"John, I didn't know what Moriarty was going to do. I knew he wanted me dead-"
"Then why did you let him find you? You went to him, Sherlock. Just like the pool."
"Don't you see, John? It was just like the pool. Moriarty didn't just want to kill me and ruin my reputation. He wanted to make me choose. John, Moriarty had three snipers following the three people I...care about, and he made me choose between my life or theirs. His men had to see me die or you-those three people would have died. I had no other option, John."
"But you've been gone for three years. What have you been doing? Why you couldn't have texted me or called or even sent a message through Mycroft?"
"Your grief over my death would not have been as convincing if it was faked. In order to give me time to take out the snipers and Moriarty's men, they had to believe I was dead, and you helped them believe that. Multiple times I picked up my phone to text you with my latest discovery only to remember that any communication with you would be traced and everything I jumped for would be lost."
"Who were those 'important' people, Sherlock? Who exerts enough of a force on your life that you'd rather die than let them be killed? Not Mycroft. Irene?"
"Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade."
"You said there were three."
"The third one...the third person Moriarty had a gun on was you, John. You. Not Irene."
"But-"
John's sentence is interrupted by a stifled gasp from the doorway. The two of them turn their heads toward the sound in time to see Ms. Hudson running back downstairs. They immediately jumped up and went after her.
"You didn't tell her you were back?"
"She wasn't in."
"Sherlock! I swear you haven't changed at all in three years!"
"I hope I've changed in some ways, John."
Before John can think of an adequate reply to Sherlock's last profound statement, they are at Ms. Hudson's door, and their primary job is damage control.
"You go in first, Sherlock. Might as well give her some kind of explanation."
"Will she want to see me?"
The obvious hesitation in Sherlock's voice gives John pause. It's rare for him to hear indecisiveness in his friend's voice, and definitely not when Ms. Hudson is concerned.
"Yes, I think she will. She's missed you too, you know."
Sherlock opens the door slightly and John pushes him in to the center of the room, in the direction of the chair in which Ms. Hudson sits, bawling her eyes out. He watches him while he kneels in front of her and takes her hands , then wipes a tear from her cheek.
"Shhhh," Sherlock whispers, clinging to Ms. Hudson as though she's a lifeline and he a drowning man. "It's okay. It's all fine now."
Her voice is shaky when she replied. "How are you alive, Sherlock? John and I went to your funeral." She turns to look at John, who gives her a small smile, and her voice grows stronger as she continues. "For that matter, have you seen John? The poor man was destroyed when you jumped off the hospital. He hasn't been back to St. Bart's since."
Sherlock at least has the grace to look ashamed. "Yes, Ms. Hudson, I've seen John," he sighs. John gives him a nod and he returns to his explanation. "The only way to keep Moriarty's henchmen from shooting you, Lestrade, and John was to fall off the ledge. I couldn't live with knowing I caused your deaths. There was no option for me."
Ms. Hudson nods. "I understand, sweetie," she says, as she pays Sherlock's hand. "Don't worry too much about me. I'm just the old housekeeper. I'm sure you and John have much to discuss; off you go now!"
John, as he was being dragged away by Sherlock, shouted "Thank you, Ms. Hudson!"
"Oh I course dear. I'll bring up biscuits later."
"Thank you again, Ms. Hudson. You're the best landlady in London!"
"Why, thank you, John. And- be careful with Sherlock, will you? Now that we have him back, I don't want to let him go ever again."
"I will be, Ms. Hudson, don't worry. I will take good care of him, I promise."
Sherlock finally succeeds in pulling John towards the stairs and up towards their flat, and John recovers enough from the events of the last hour to yank his wrist out of Sherlock's grip.
"What exactly are you doing, Sherlock?" John demands, barely managing to keep from falling down the stairs.
"John, I have to talk to you. I owe you an explanation." Sherlock's voice is barely above a whisper.
"Yes you do but...okay. Fine. I'll sit down and listen to your explanation."
In a way, Sherlock can understand John's reluctance. He had, after all, forced him to watch him jump, and he can rationalize it as much as he wants with reasons and logic but that doesn't take away the fact that John believed he was dead. Sherlock had made him watch his "death", and while he had no idea John would be so affected, even he could recognize utter desolation when he saw it. He sighs. Sometimes he wishes that friendship- because that's what he considers John, a friend- wasn't so complicated, but he wouldn't trade his partnership with John for anything. Now, though, he is worried that John might not move back to Baker Street. Another sigh. Without John, what would be the point of work anymore? Sebastian Moran, the last of Moriarty's network, is still out there, but Sherlock needs to see John which is why he came back earlier than is safe. He's married to his work, yes, but John has become so closely tied to his work that...no. He won't ruin their tentative friendship with any other...feelings. John needs a friend right now, not something more.
John might not know much about the why and how of Sherlock's faked suicide, but he does know that, if anything, Sherlock's return has increased the amount of guilt he feels over the things he said to Sherlock when they were holed up in Bart's. In all honesty, he's slightly surprised Sherlock came back. He could have take advantage of his "death" and retired or something...Sherlock would probably have something impatient to say to that idea. He's so far above John intellectually that John knows he couldn't match Sherlock if he tried, yet he'd rather die- or pretend to die and in doing so destroy everything- than let John die. Then again, it wasn't just John. Sherlock has always been protective of Ms. Hudson and he's known Lestrade for years; it's no surprise he wanted to keep them alive. John must have just gotten lucky. He sighs and heads over to the sofa, Sherlock trailing behind him, still thinking. The stuff he said to Sherlock before he left to see about Ms. Hudson...about how friends protect people and Sherlock's a machine and all that anger and hurt he had that night even though none of it was really, truly aimed at Sherlock...he's been beating himself up about that for three years. He's been avoiding Mycroft ever since then too; selling out Sherlock to Moriarty is an unforgivable crime in John's book. Every night he relives walking out the door at Bart's, except the outcome is always different. Sometimes Sherlock lives. Sometimes John catches him. Sometimes Mycroft helps John save Sherlock. Sometimes Sherlock dies without telling John goodbye; sometimes John gets a chance to apologize for everything he said. Never once did he ever believe he'd actually get that chance, but he's spent three years waiting and he intends to take it. He wants, needs to tell Sherlock I'm sorry, I know you're much more than a machine I was just trying to push your buttons and it was terrible of me, Jesus Sherlock I am so, so sorry, Sherlock I'm sorry I wasn't there when you needed me I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry. He needs to say this, but will he ever get the chance?
John sits down on the sofa (let's not faint again, he thinks) and watches Sherlock pace back and forth in front of the fireplace. When John is about to demand that Sherlock explain right now or let him go sleep, for goodness' sakes, Sherlock stops and starts talking.
"Look, John, I don't have much time, so let me finish before you start your incessant questioning, alright?"
John nods.
"John...when you left Bart's, that day, I knew I was going to die. I was watching Moriarty weave his net a little bit thicker every day, with every new neighbor and new tourist and new case. He was an absolutely brilliant criminal. I wanted to draw him out, into the open, and put him in a position where either he lost or we went down together, because every time the net tightened around me it tightened around you too, John. Moriarty was the greatest criminal the world has ever known: a threat to London, to every government, and to me. But he didn't just want to kill me; he wanted to break me, and from the day he met us at Bart's he knew that the best way to break me or at least wound me was to kill you. He didn't really notice much at Bart's, but the pool incident was a dead giveaway."
At this point John starts to interject, but Sherlock waves at him and he snaps his mouth shut.
"Like I was saying, the best way for him to break me was to kill you, so that's what he decided to do. There were three snipers and three bullets: one for you, one for Ms. Hudson, and one for Lestrade, the three people who mean the most to me. He knew me better than I anticipated. My original plan had been to try to wrangle him into a surrender, but I should have known he wouldn't go into a meeting unarmed. He could call off the snipers, but then he killed himself and my chance of rescuing myself and my...friends was gone. I had to jump to ensure your safety. So I jumped.
Earlier I had approached Molly and the two of us had formulated a plan. If I had to jump, which we both thought was likely, I had to know how to land to minimize injury. She taught me what areas of my body to protect and I put on a small vest underneath my shirt to prevent damage to vital organs, whether from impact or bullets. I actually jumped and actually landed and it hurt like hell, and I think my heart stopped for a moment or two."
John couldn't resist jumping in here. "I checked your pulse, Sherlock. You were dead! I made sure you were dead and you were, Sherlock!"
Sherlock sighs. "No, John, I didn't die. Molly and I planned out our theory perfectly. You were going to get a call about Ms. Hudson and run over to Baker Street, which would give me the time I needed to talk to Moriarty without your safety or sanity being in danger. I didn't know about the snipers. It just so happened that his plans and mine coincided in a way that my preordained plan solved his puzzle. Then, when you saw Ms. Hudson and ascertained she was fine, you'd rush back to Bart's-"
"Oi! How'd you know I'd do that?"
"Really, John, you're a ex-soldier and a doctor. You're predictable to a fault." Sherlock sniffs disdainfully, but with a hint of fondness. "Anyway, you'd rush back to Bart's and by that time I'd be done with Moriarty. Of course, in case some unforeseen circumstance occurred and I was forced to jump, I made plans with the homeless network. See, I asked him to meet me on the roof-"
"You asked him to meet you? Sherlock-"
"Don't be so melodramatic, John. The roof had the fewest ways to kill me, so I had a better chance of executing a plan and surviving. I asked my homeless network to surround me and not let anyone else get near me, regardless of who they said they were, and they did that. I'm quite proud of their efficiency, frankly. They wouldn't let you close enough to actually, truly confirm that I was dead, and then I was wheeled away in to Bart's and got patched up and put my clothes on some recent crime victim. That's what you buried, John. For the next three years I tracked down every single one of Moriarty's men and brought them to vengeance. Only one, Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's successor, remains. I should have stayed to help Mycroft find him, but...I needed to see home again. I couldn't focus, even with no one around. I'm used to having someone next to me now.
One last thing. John, I was there at my burial. You didn't see me and Ms. Hudson didn't see me but I could see you. And I want to say I am so, so sorry, John. When I called you, on that rooftop, and told you I was a fake, I needed you to believe me but more than anything I wanted to you see through the lie. That phone call nearly killed me. The only reason I actually jumped was because I had to."
"Sherlock-"
"No, let me finish. I had to, John, because living without you would have been worse than death. I've never needed friends, but I need you, John. And I'd rather die than live knowing I could have prevented your death."
Wordlessly, John gets up from the sofa and walks over to the fireplace with his right hand in his pocket. He stares into the grate for a few minutes, then executes a smart military pivot and whips a palm-sized black object out of his coat pocket and offers it to Sherlock.
It's Sherlock's phone that he had thrown on top of Bart's.
John clears his throat. "They didn't want to let me up in the roof, I think they thought I was going to jump too, but I got them to agree to let me go grab your phone. I thought...I hoped it might tell me why you were dead now, what was so important that you'd die for it. It didn't tell me anything. Then again," he shakes his head slightly, "you probably already knew that. I kept it anyway. It reminded me of you. Sentiment, I know- isn't that what you told me about my sister keeping the phone Clara gave her?- but I didn't want to let you go. I still don't. I have a lot of questions, but I think they can wait until another time."
He thrusts the phone at Sherlock, who had been gaping at John, and Sherlock takes it gingerly from his hand.
"Sherlock, I can't live without you. I realize that now. These past three years have been absolutely miserable. I think I understand now why you had to jump, but Sherlock, please don't do something that stupid again. I don't think I can handle you truly dying."
It's silent for a moment, and then a ding comes from Sherlock's new phone that he had purchased while he was "dead".
"It's from Mycroft," Sherlock croaks in response to John's questioning look. "He said they caught Sebastian Moran. He is dead. Moriarty's web is abolished."
They sit in stunned silence for a moment until John slowly walks over to where Sherlock is staring at the wall and hugs him. To his surprise, Sherlock hugs him back.
"Well, John, now that Moran is gone, how about dinner?"
"Angelo's sounds good."
"Grab your coat! It's chilly outside!"
Angelo is predictably excited to see Sherlock alive and John looking alive again, and this time when Angelo gets them a candle, neither one protests. They are sitting at the same table that they occupied on their first case- seems like a lifetime ago, John muses- and they feel like they've come home. So when Sherlock puts his hand halfway across the table, palm up, John slides his hand into Sherlock's, and they smile at each other before looking back outside.
"Sherlock, you have to eat. You've lost an awful lost of weight on your little trip."
"Okay, John."
"I'm serious, Sherlock. You have to actually order something."
"Yes, Doctor."
Another ding from the phone, this one John's.
"Ah, sorry," he says. "Wait. It's Mycroft. He says Lestrade's got a new case you would like, not quite Moriarty but close."
"Tell him we are heading over there right now."
"Sherlock!"
"Crime waits for no one, John! Come on; grab your coat! Let's go!"
He yells a goodbye and thank you to Angelo, who chuckles. John goes running out the door after Sherlock after yelling out a thank you of his own, and Angelo watches them hail a can and drive away. He's glad they're back together and Sherlock's not dead. They need each other.
He goes over to clean up their table and spies a glint of metal gleaming underneath the table. He reaches under and pulls it out.
It's a cane. John's cane, to be exact.
Angelo smiles at it. John must have left it in his hurry to catch up with Sherlock.
It looks like they'll be okay after all.