A/N: Hello all!

IMPORTANT NOTE THAT REQUIRES IMMEDIATE NOTING BEFORE READING ON:
This is not just a fanfic about the alternate reality of Star Trek, but I have also made several references to the previous appearances of the character Khan Noonien Singh, as seen before in The Original Series and Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan. It is also an AU fic for Sherlock. That being said, there are a lot of differences time-wise in both universes-for instance, the Stardates are very different from the dates of the Eugenics Wars, Khan's re-awakening, etc. from TOS and TWOK. I did this on purpose simply to attempt to mesh the universes of Sherlock and Star Trek better, so you as readers...just bear with me, it'll all make sense, and pay attention to the Stardates. You'll be fine. :)
Also, my fellow Trekkies: I /know/ it is the S.S. Botany Bay; there is a reason behind me re-naming it the U.S.S. Botany Bay, sooo once again, bear with me, darlings! 3

That is all-get reading! :D

all things from Star Trek: Into Darkness © Roberto Orci and J.J. Abrams
all things from BBC Sherlock © Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat all things from Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan © Jack B. Sowards and Nicholas Meyer
all things pertaining to Star Trek: The Original Series and Star Trek in general © Gene Roddenberry all things from the original Sherlock Holmes story "The Adventure of the Empty House" © Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Forever Avenge

Part One: Awaken

a Star Trek/Sherlock crossover

I

[Stardate: 2258]

A foggy mind…that never happens to him; his eyes opened, fully awakening his brain cells as his pupils narrowed to the unwelcome sight of blindingly fluorescent light. Shapes and shadows were the only things his sight collected as he continued to lay as still as possible, knowing enough of the situation to know that he was currently in the process from emerging out of cryogenic sleep. Any sudden movements on his part during the reawakening of his circulatory, cardiovascular and nervous systems could result in permanent—and possible lethal—damage to his reviving body. As the remnants of sleep alleviated, though, he immediately began to deduce what he could from his surroundings, gathering as much information as he could whilst being forced by his semi-mortal flesh to remain still. There was not much he could see from his sedentary spot inside of what he quickly figured to be a cryo-tube, and he ran his eyes across an imprint into the metal of the inside that read dully: U.S.S. Botany Bay. Upon relocating his gaze outside of the tube, however, he concluded that wherever he was he most certainly was no longer onboard his vessel. A shadow of a man leaned over him, the light behind him shading over his features, preventing Khan from properly identifying him. He need not do so, though, for it was clear to see just by his stance and the shape of his shadowed form that he was not a man he was interested in, was not the one man who mattered in the slightest. Nonetheless, he finally sat up, pausing momentarily as a short wave of post-stasis dizziness struck him.

"Not so fast, you'll knock yourself out," the shadowed figure said, stepping out of the dark and holding out a hand to assist Khan out of the cryo-tube—a hand that he pointedly ignored as he got a better look at his surroundings. Starfleet symbol on his shirt, probably a man of high ranking, he deduced rapidly in his mind. Captain? No, far too old, he would have been promoted due to years of experience alone in the least. Admiral then. Nobody else seems to be around; I must have been in the reawakening process for several hours now at the least, for the medical professionals would not have left so early in the series. He eyed an IV in his arm, the tubing accompanied by several bags and vials of liquid and a screen showing his vitals. Sick bay of the ship. Obviously…however, we are not moving, nor does it feel like any of the engines are running at full power; therefore we must not be on any ship undocked from the Starfleet base…In fact, I must be in the base and not on a ship at all, or else the engines would have to be running simply to power the medical equipment beeping here to the right of the Admiral…

"How do you feel?" the man asked, again urging Khan to speak with him. Khan did not say anything as he stared intently at screen across from him at his vitals, watching as his heart rate measurably sped up…52 bpm…60bpm…68 bpm…69 bpm…72 bpm…75 bpm. As soon as he saw that number, Khan felt satisfied that his cardiovascular system was independently safe; he ripped the IV out of his arm and calmly lifted himself out of the cryo-tube, walking briskly past the Admiral towards the nurse's station at the other side of the room.

"What have you done with the other cryo-tubes?" Khan asked as he pressed a thick square of gauze upon the punctured crook of his elbow. He could feel the man's disapproving glare upon his back as he spoke authoritatively:

"I think you need to take a seat first, you've just been pulled out of—"

"I know full well that I have just awakened from approximately one hundred Earth years of cryogenic sleep, Admiral, as well as I am aware of my own body's limits and am perfectly capable of pacing my systems accurately."

"I'm going to call the nurse—"

"A pointless threat to make, obviously; I do not require any filtrations or transfusions upon re-awakening for my body has already healed itself back to normalcy. I neither require nor want any further medical attention, Admiral. You know that I am not a normal human being—or rather, not human at all, for I am superior in every way—or else you would not have bothered to awaken me in the first place." Khan lifted the gauze off of his skin, observing that not only had the blood fully clotted already, but the entire wound was completely sealed up, as if the IV had never penetrated the skin.

"You require something of me—of my superior knowledge and intellect—or else you would have just left me and the Botany Bay abandoned, even despite the fact that it was once a Starfleet vessel," he continued, tossing the soiled gauze into the trash and washing his hands. "You had no need to recover the ship since it is outdated technology and hardly necessary on base. It would not have been worth your time to recover and restore it. You only needed me.

"Which is why I must now inquire, Admiral," Khan said, turning to look the stern man in the eye. "What have you done with my ship and where is my crew?"

The man stood in silence, looking intently at Khan. He had expected the man to be highly eloquent in his speech, and he knew that it would be extremely difficult to keep any information from him. That being said, he did not expect to see such fire in the man's cold blue eyes. There was a lot of genuine concern lacing Khan's questioning, which was definitely something new and unsettling to have in mind whilst working with him.

"Impressive," the man decided to say first, holding his hands behind his back as he stood tall and militaristic before Khan, forcing an air of authority to permeate the room as a warning to the human augment. "You are right, of course, though I can't imagine how the Hell you knew I was an Admiral."

"I didn't," Khan said, a thin smile ghosting across his face. "You merely confirmed my assumptions."

The man raised an eyebrow but ignored Khan's piercingly analytical stare as he continued:

"I am Admiral Alexander Marcus, Section 31 of the American Starfleet Command, and I will be in charge of enlisting you into The Federation. I've brought you out of suspension in order to use your mind to our advantage, to employ you, per se. I believe your savage intellect would be a prime asset in designing new and improved weaponry for Starfleet Federation vessels. That being said, I would rather escort you back to Starfleet command and get your orientation and paperwork in line before saying anymore upon the matter of your assignment or the fate your ship."

Khan said nothing as he watched the man stride across the room, passing right by him and punching six numbers into a keypad against the wall, opening the steel exit doors of the medical bay. He then turned and looked towards Khan.

"If you will follow me, I will take you to set up your secret identity within Starfleet."

Khan did not move from his spot, his mind whirring again, his thoughts now accompanied by frustration and rage. This mere human dared to do this, to attempt to control him? Something was not right here…he had to know where his crew was, where he was, and he had to know it now.

"…And if I should refuse?" he demanded of the Admiral, turning his head to see his reaction. The man's face remained stoically militaristic as he replied plainly:

"We can either do this diplomatically or by means of force."

"And if I should refuse?" Khan spoke louder, his teeth gritted as he firmly set his jaw, determined to get a straight answer out of the man one way or another. The Admiral's expression morphed into something resembling a smirk, though his eyes refused to smile with him.

"Then you can kiss your crew goodbye. All seventy-two of them."

Kiss them goodbye…Khan thought, a flint of horror impaling itself into his chest. He couldn't help but follow the latter thought with one of unparalleled morbidity: What an ironic choice of words...

"You wouldn't dare take the lives of seventy-two people," Khan pointed out with a knowing smirk feeding into his deep voice, feeding the Admiral a lie of false confidence. "Your weakness of sentiment wouldn't allow it."

"Ah, but you said it yourself, Khan," Admiral Marcus said, sneering Khan's name with great sarcasm. "You and your crew are not human, are you?"

"Where are they?" Khan yelled, his voice hitching as his heart rate accelerated along with his temper. "What have you done with them? I demand to know, now!"

"You are in no position to make demands, Khan," Admiral Marcus barked at the augment. "It doesn't matter where they are. What matters to you right at this very moment is the knowledge that they will be dispatched if you do not come with me and do as I say."

Khan stared him down, engaging in this silent power play for the sake of his crew, his family. There was no way he would abandon them, no way would he ever think to abandon him. His heart lurched at the very thought. His mind grew foggy again—second time in a single day, how annoying—but not unheard of. It usually took a lot to fog up Khan's sharp mind. Even as an augment, he was superior amongst his own kind. There was no matching his intellect, which was already superior enough when he was a human, now made untouchable by great genetic engineering. If there was a way to rescue his crew and possibly even his ship, Khan would be the one who could come up with a plan. In order to acquire more information on this new Starfleet (the information he had locked away in the hard drive of his mind was sickeningly outdated due to the one hundred-plus years he spent asleep) and all who run it, he would unfortunately need to play the Admiral's game of war. In order to ever be able to get ahold of the rest of the cryo-tubes, Khan would have to join Starfleet and build them their pointless weaponry.

"Fine," Khan begrudgingly agreed. Admiral Marcus smiled in triumph, leading the way out of the medical bay.

"I see you've chosen the diplomatic route," the man said. "Good. This makes my job less messy, that's for sure."

Khan ignored his snide remarks, concentrating on the space before him, looking nowhere but straight ahead as he was lead out of the base and onto a transport ship back to Earth. As he looked out the window at the quickly disappearing space station, he thought about his crew—wherever they were—still locked up in sleep, their protection now a prison. He closed his eyes, fervently ignoring the quickly approaching planet that had turned on him and his partner long ago and made a silent promise to him and the other augments that he would free them soon, that he would figure out a way to do so quickly and efficiently so that he may no longer be separated from the one that mattered most—the only one that ever mattered.

John…

-•-• •-•-

It astounded Khan just how dubious everybody else at Starfleet was to the fact that Admiral Marcus was currently marching a complete stranger right into the heart of the Federation. Surely there should have been more security clearance codes for both of them to abide by, officer and his guest, but apparently being of a higher-ranked authority gave one certain privileges to break laws however he so pleased. Khan could not help but scoff at the familiarity in the ridiculousness of the situation; was everyone on Earth just as predictable as they have always been?

Everything was white and chrome, the corridors the two of them passed through highly polished and pristine to the touch. The entirety of the futuristic navy would have been much more phenomenal to Khan's sight if it was not so predictable. Even the uniforms were to be expected, the primary colors utilized to differentiate between the categories of Starfleet officers far too sensible to be exciting. Khan found himself to be utterly bored to death by the time they finally entered the executive offices of the headquarters.

He was also quite bitter as he was forced to gaze upon the future, knowing that John would have been much more impressed and enamored by the sight than he was.

"You will be enacted into the operations division of Starfleet as a special weapons engineer," Marcus said, punching in the code to the large command room of the operations sector of HQ, "Where you will be enlisted as an English Starfleet commander and stationed back in London officially." They entered the large, dim-lit room to find that it was luckily empty. In the middle of the work day it was likely that some group or another would be occupying the space for various conferences. It was beginning to dim later into the evening, however; the work day was almost over, and HQ was winding down with the slowly setting California sun. Marcus had picked a rather strategic time in which to enter the false data of Khan into the computer.

He now booted up the computer, logging in as the database screen hovered across the conference table in a bright blue light, contrasting vibrantly against the dim of the room. Khan stood and watched as the Admiral pulled up what seemed to be a blank officer background log onto the holographic screen.

"You can sit if you'd like," Marcus said, motioning towards one of the chairs surrounding the table before turning back over to the keyboards to type in all of Khan's division information. Khan simply looked at him pointedly and remained standing.

"Now for a name," the Admiral, moving the cursor down over the text box in which Khan's false identity will be recorded into. "It should not be something crazy that will automatically attract attention to yourself, but at the same time you—"

"John," Khan spoke before Admiral Marcus finished speaking. He set his mouth in a deep frown as he momentarily let himself ponder the day's events so far, how he had been pulled unwillingly out of cryogenic sleep, how his crew was now being purposely kept from him. Khan hated the man standing before him—how could he feel any other emotion than just the one? After all, he asked Admiral Marcus to release John, but he took John away from him instead. He mulled over a list of fairly commonplace surnames in his mind before finishing: "John Harrison." Yes; for honoring his partner, Khan would take a fictional name as 'John Harrison,' a compliment for John Watson…his partner who's currently sleeping on while he must fight silently for his release.

Admiral Marcus eyed him carefully, and then slowly nodded. "That should do it," he agreed, typing in Khan's name and other false stats into the Starfleet interface. "Step over here and place your hands upon the scanner."

Khan silently obliged, patiently allowing the Admiral to record fingerprint, palm and retina scans for DNA referencing. He watched as his personal information began to appear one by one upon the holographic screen floating above their heads, little pinpoints of information zooming over to Marcus. He attended to each file one by one, typing in clearance codes to approve all of the new information being fed into the database with ease. Just like that, the fiction that is Commander John Harrison was suddenly a very important part of the Federation. Everyone else in Starfleet had to go through years of training, schooling, and service to achieve the level of power Khan had just now gained through a false alias and the simple punching of numbers into one computer. It was that easy to pull the wool over Starfleet's eyes.

Admiral Marcus punched one key of the board before him and brought up a classified file up into the air in front of them. He opened it, spreading the documents within about so as to show Khan the entire contents within.

"Six months ago, one of the Federation's greatest Class M ally planets, Vulcan, was destroyed by the Romulan Nero in his vessel, the Narada. The Narada deployed a drill platform in the planet's atmosphere, and began drilling into the surface. A distress call from the planet resulted in the deployment of eight Federation starships to the planet, where all but the USS Enterprise were destroyed by the Narada. Acting Enterprise captain Spock was only able to rescue several members of the Vulcan Council before the planet was lost.

"We want to prevent this level of devastation from happening to the Federation again," Marcus said, swiping his hand across the screen to pull up another source file. "Which is why I've brought you out of cryo-sleep and enlisted you into Starfleet; I've begun seeking various ways to militarize Federation vessels and weaponry in order to better protect ourselves from attacks like the Romulan one. In particular, I've been eyeing the Klingon Empire, and I'm afraid that all-out war between them and the Federation may be inevitable. Nero destroyed 47 Klingon war birds at the Klingon prison planet before we were able to see him dispatched; due to this, tensions have grown exponentially in the past two years to the point that if either one of us or one of them were to put a single toe out of line, shots would fly. We want to be the side with the bigger guns."

As Admiral Marcus side-stepped away from in front of the holographic screen, Khan stepped forward, taking over the controls momentarily as he sorted through the various beginning sketches of blueprints, official documents and digital data scripts, narrowing his eyes at the beginnings of what looked like a mega-battleship. There were multiple other blueprints similar to it, all of which focused mostly on advancing the typical Federation vessel's weaponry and engaging further precautionary details in the shields and protector forces. Already he was formulating ideas on how to improve upon the blueprints and on various ideas for improved guns and missiles. He smirked slightly, silently agreeing with the traitor standing to his right that this type of weapons engineering was right up his alley, that his savage intellect would be a prime advantage to designing only the best—and the deadliest—weapons for the Federation to use. Being placed in engineering would also give Khan the easiest access to many different ways of sabotaging Marcus' plans, of getting both his revenge and his crew set free. His official and personal prime directives had officially become perfectly clear to Khan, and he smirked slightly as he turned a 3D image of the beginning designs of a starship around above his head.

"So basically, Admiral, you want me to help you prepare for war," he said, casting a sideways glance at the man to view his reaction.

A dark smile slowly creeped across Admiral Alexander Marcus' face:

"…That's precisely what you will be doing, Commander Harrison."

-•-• •-•-

[Stardate 2015,4: London]

He didn't know why he would bother with reading the paper every day. News only upset him further, making him wish for things that could never happen, that would never be again, despite how many times he had cried for them, had prayed to see them happen again. But John Watson never failed to read with care the various problems which came before the public. He had even attempted, more than once, for his own private satisfaction, to employ Sherlock Holmes' methods in their solution, though with utterly indifferent success. He would never be a consulting detective like his former flatmate…But he knew deep down inside that Sherlock would never want him to lose his fascination for crime, a sport John had not even considered delving into until after meeting Sherlock and living with him. John mulled over his aloneness, rifling through the rest of the paper as he idly sipped at his coffee. The park bench he currently sat upon was half-cloaked in shade, though he preferred the sunlit spot to the darkness to better read the small newsprint. He tapped his right foot, wincing slightly at the dull pain that shot up his leg after doing so. His therapist warned him that his psychosomatic limp may return due to the amount of emotional stress he was going through in grieving for his friend, but John refused to ever use his cane again. Sherlock wouldn't want him to go back to the constraints of constantly limping about.

John sighed and folded his paper up. How was he supposed to know at all what Sherlock would want for him? He was considered the detective's best friend, but even John Watson could not foresee his suicide.

He was going to move back into 221B Baker Street today, back into his and Sherlock's old flat. He had moved out a month after Sherlock's death, when being around his ghost had finally become far too unbearable for him; but now Mrs. Hudson was inviting him back with open arms, saying how she simply could not bear to rent that flat out to anyone else. John knew she was especially lonely now without either him or Sherlock, so of course he obliged. Secretly he had missed the old place far more than he had expected to, and now after years of grieving John truly believed he would be able to look fondly upon all of the memories the flat brings back to him rather than straight up curse them as ghosts and flee like he had done before.

John tilted his head up to the sunlight, testing his memory skills on the front-page article he had read. The average human memory on visual matters is only 62 percent accurate, John recalled Sherlock telling him once when they were out on a case involving symbols written upon a wall in graffiti. Now as he tried to recall even the most minute detailing's from the murder littering the front page of the London Times, he found to his dismay that he could barely make out the man's name, much less the particulars of the crime which came out in the police investigation. He sighed heavily, wondering for the umpteenth time how Sherlock could even consider suicide with a mind as brilliant as his was. As he closed his eyes he listened to the low hum of hover cars whizzing by above the streets where automobiles continued to drive past below the shadows of the new technology. Most of the public still stuck with their electric motor vehicles rather than upgrading all the way to the space-era technology simply because of cost efficiency; only the police, state-service vehicles and a handful of taxis made up the slowly expanding airways. All of London was expanding upwards, actually; buildings were getting higher and more chrome than ever before. John could barely make out either the Ferris wheel or Big Ben from the city's skyline, the two things that once dominated London's silhouette.

John Watson could barely recall the old London; the London he knew before going off to fight in Afghanistan; the London before the future hit; or the London before the United Federation of Planets would have ever been considered a thing. John was still on the side of the older generation, the people who thought such an intergalactic alliance would eventually be their planet's great undoing. After all, he was a soldier; he had seen far too many wars started in ways all too similar to this. By the looks of the United Nation's lack of decision-making on the subject, however, it did not look like the Federation would be enacted at any point during John's lifetime—and he was just fine with that.

At last the doctor stood from his park bench, tucking his newspaper underneath his arm and tossing his now-empty cup of coffee into the garbage can next to him, watching as the garbage was incinerated inside the metal bin on the spot in a flash of bright white, smokeless flame. As he turned away from the trashcan, he accidentally struck against an elderly, deformed man, who had been behind him, and knocked down several books which he was carrying. John immediately stooped down to pick them up, observing the title of one of them, The Origin of Tree Worship as he did so, and it struck him that the fellow must be some poor bibliophile of some sort. Could be that, either as a trade or hobby, the man was a collector of obscure volumes. He endeavored to apologize profusely for the accident, but it was evident that those books which John had unfortunately maltreated were very precious objects in the eyes of their owner. With a snarl of contempt the old man turned upon his heel, and John saw his curved back and white side-whiskers disappear among the throng.

"Good day to you too, then," John muttered to himself with a frown, retrieving his newspaper from the ground, wincing slightly when pressure was forced upon his leg. With one last glance in the disheveled old man's direction, John turned on his heel and began walking away from the park and towards his small, current place of living to go pack up his few belongings. From there, he would take them and himself back up to central London, back to Baker Street. As he walked, he mulled over the quick observations he had made over the stranger he just ran into and how he had spliced together meaningless bits of information to come up with the utterly unimportant fact that the man was a book collector. Is this what my life has become now? John asked himself as he unlocked the door to his meager one-roomed flat. Will I forever attempt to copy Sherlock Holmes until the day I die?

That actually did not sound like too horrible of a thing, reliving the memory of Sherlock until he got to see him face-to-face once more, beyond the grave. He stopped in the middle of his flat, staring down at his shoes as he recalled all the painful, lonely months he had sat in this room, contemplating ending it all. He could jump right after Sherlock; fall with him into the ground, into his own grave. They would probably even bury him next to Sherlock, what with the way everybody thought they were a couple. It would be just like old times, John right there by the detective's side where he belonged.

Even after he had finally accepted the fact that Sherlock was really gone, though, John could never bring himself to shove the damn gun into his mouth. He was a soldier, after all; he was made to keep on fighting, not to stand before the barrel of a gun and accept defeat.

He was back at Baker Street in no time, seeing as he had very few possessions to pack and that his new place of residence was not too far from his previous Central London abode. It was as simple as catching a cab (an automobile one, not a hovercar…flying made John a bit uneasy), reciting the address (since when did the words '221B Baker Street' leave such a warm feeling upon John's tongue? Had he really been gone for that long?), and driving off back into the home he once loved, with every hope of making it a home once more. Mrs. Hudson had called him earlier, informing him that she would not be in when he got there but that she would leave his key underneath the doormat for him. Sure enough, there was the little golden thing, shining beneath the mat; John set one of his two small moving boxes down and stooped over to pick it up, inserting it in the lock and easily kicking the door open enough for him to walk through it with his belongings. It only took one trip to take his handful of stuff back upstairs to his old bedroom (he could not bear the thought of taking over Sherlock's old room, not even after three years of it being left empty).

To his great astonishment, when John returned downstairs there was someone waiting for him in the living room. Upon further inspection, the doctor recognized the stranger to be his old book collector, with his sharp, wizened face peering out from a frame of white hair and his precious volumes—a dozen of them, at least—wedged under his right arm.

"You're surprised to see me, sir," said he, in a strange, croaking voice.

John stared at him and nodded once.

"Yeah, I'd say so," he said, a flint of a sarcastic edge evident in his tone. "How did you get in here?"

The man simply smiled and help up a hand as if in surrender.

"I mean you no harm, Doctor. It's just, I've a conscience, sir, and when I chanced to see you go into this flat, as I came hobbling after you, I thought to myself, 'I'll just step in and see that kind gentleman, and tell him that if I was a bit gruff in my manner there was not any harm meant, and that I am much obliged to him for picking up my books.'"

"Oh," John said. "Well, no harm done, it really is no big deal…" he narrowed his eyes ever-so-slightly at the man. "But may I ask how you knew who I was?"

"Well, sir, I am a neighbor of yours; I've a little bookshop at the corner of Siddons, and very happy to see you there sometime, I am sure. Maybe you collect yourself, sir."

He took the books tucked beneath his arm into his hands now, rifling through the volumes with a thoughtful look on his face.

"Here's British Birds, and Catullus, and The Holy War—a bargain, every one of them. With five volumes you could just fill that gap on the second shelf. It looks a bit untidy, does it not, sir?"

"Untidy—?" John began but froze on the spot after he moved his head to look at the shelves behind the bookkeeper. He took a hesitant step, turning to look right towards the shelves, not believing what his eyes were seeing: Sherlock Holmes, standing and smiling at him from across the room. John blatantly stared at him for some seconds in utter amazement, not fully grasping what he was seeing and frankly unsure if he believed it at all. He was dead—you were dead, he thought in dubiety; how can you possibly be standing here in front of me?

Sherlock.

John swallowed hard; he didn't die…he's back.

"Sherlock," John tried to acknowledge the man's presence, but ended up mouthing the name instead, failing to find his voice amidst the emotion-drawn constriction of his larynx.

"John," said the low, well-remembered voice. Sherlock looked upon him with a somber expression as he stepped away from the bookshelves towards his former flatmate. "I owe you a thousand apologies. I…I had no idea that you would be so affected."

"You're alive," John said, finally able to register slightly hoarse speech through the shock. Sherlock offered the man another small smile before glancing back at the bibliophile as he saw himself out of the flat. When he directed his attention back to John, he was met immediately by a fierce fist to the jaw, the sheer blow of the punch sending him staggering backwards and stumbling over the furniture behind him. His smile vanished as he re-steadied himself, looking at John with an expression that was a mixture of pain, hurt and remorse—no surprise at all, though. Sherlock had mentally prepared himself for practically any reaction John could give him upon seeing him.

"I deserved that," the detective muttered after a moment's pause, gingerly lifting a hand to his bruised chin. John gaped at him:

"Yeah? You deserve this one, too!" he said as he cocked his fist back and hurled it straight into Sherlock's nose, watching in fury as the body part exploded beneath his knuckles. John pulled his hand away—now splattered with the blood that was currently pouring from Sherlock's nasal cavity—and flexed it, wincing slightly at the ache from the blow. He heard Sherlock murmur stuffily, "Yup…I shupposh I did," as he quickly retreated to the kitchen to fetch a paper towel. The army doctor spared a glance up just in time to see Sherlock pass him by, bright crimson blood squeezing through the long fingers gingerly cupping his injury. He did not feel sorry yet, though; he was shaking in anger and hurt as he re-directed his gaze back down upon his still-aching hand. The sounds of Sherlock ripping a paper towel off of the roll, crumpling it up and pressing it against his nose were the only sounds that permeated for the moment, Sherlock trying to figure out what to say next while John refused to speak.

"…I never meant to hurt you, John," Sherlock finally spoke, sniffing painfully and looking wistfully back at his former flatmate. "I would have returned sooner if I could, but…well…" he glanced at the two armchairs in the living room, then back at the stoically silent John. "If you are done punching me, then we can discuss it; I will tell you everything—you of all people have the right to know. If not, that's fine, I understand…though I would suggest against hitting me anymore simply to spare your hand—"

"Three years, Sherlock."

John's voice was just as shaky at his stance was when he finally spoke; Sherlock saw this and sighed heavily before speaking softly in response: "I know, John."

Sherlock heard the man take a deep breath, watching him straighten his shoulders up as he turned to face where he stood in the doorway from the kitchen into the living room. His deep blue eyes were glistening ever so slightly, but Sherlock knew the man would not cry. Not that he did not want to, and not even that he would not do so soon; but he was trying to make a point here, purposely pushing the long-since dulled pain of watching his friend commit suicide—now fully rekindled, doubtless, due to said friend's return. His emotions were strong, even strong enough to impact Sherlock, for the sentiment-hating man could feel his throat clenching in sorrow for John's pain.

"Do you, though?" John said, clearing his throat upon hearing just how badly his voice was beginning to waver. "I mean, could you possibly know how I felt, believing you were dead all that time."

"Yes," Sherlock said, and then winced internally, immediately knowing that was the utmost incorrect thing to say in response. John shook his head, his eyes now downcast as he struggled to remain in control of his emotions.

"No, Sherlock; you can't," he stated firmly. "You can't possibly know anything about that, about how I…"

But I can, Sherlock thought to himself, eyes examining every inch of John's form. Dark, obvious bags beneath the eyes, cheeks slightly sunken in, usually firm militaristic stance drooping ever-so-slighty—he's fatigued, probably has not had a decent night's sleep in far too long. Hasn't done much shopping as of late, either—that shirt's an old one, and is now nearly two sizes too large. He hasn't been eating again—dropped at least fifteen to seventeen pounds in the past year, probably a bit more in the full three. Skin's a shade more pallid than I remember as well, which means he goes out far less than he used to, only when necessary or when his therapist commands him to. Trembling—cold?—no, heightened anxiety. Deepened frown lines around the lips and upper eyebrow areas…along with more pronounce dimples around the eyes…which are swollen ever so slightly—not just from the infrequent nightmares—war? Highly unlikely—and lack of sleep, but due to the fact that he's holding back tears as hard as he can right now…so yes, John. Yes I can know just what my actions have done to you…maybe not emotionally, but I can see clear as day the physical ramifications of your loss.

John sighed unnervingly, briefly burying his face in his hands. Sherlock knitted his eyebrows together, patiently waiting for the man to regain control.

"You don't know this, Sherlock," John said, removing his hands from his face and looking back at the detective, "But you saved my life the day you invited me to get a flat share with you…" He paused here, gulping unpleasantly before admitting:

"I was planning on shooting myself in the mouth as soon as I got home that day. Meeting you, though…it gave me the slightest bit of hope that maybe—just maybe—I really could turn it all around, could make my life have meaning again."

"John…" Sherlock began, but the doctor raised a hand to hush him.

"I almost went through with that previous plan a month after the fall, your fall," John confessed, his voice barely at a whisper as he shook his head slightly; he tilted his head back up before finishing his speech, though, making sure to meet Sherlock's eyes as he said:

"But I stopped myself, because I knew you wouldn't want me to do it, to follow you…for once."

John sniffed again and kept his pain-filled eyes firmly locked with Sherlock's for as long as he could stand it. After about three minutes of cold, thick silence he finally turned his head away.

"So…there," he muttered with a sigh. "Don't tell me you know anything about how I feel, Sherlock. You weren't the one left behind."

In that moment, as he looked upon the downright tortured look upon his best friend's face, Sherlock knew what he had done all those years ago was the biggest mistake of his life. It would be better, he knew, once he explained himself to John, told him about the threat from Moriarty upon his life, but the pain would remain, and it would take far longer than he anticipated for John to heal completely. He honestly had no idea that John would become suicidal; sure, the man would hurt, but to take his life away? Was he really that desperate, that attached to someone so frankly unattached to…well, everything? Sherlock silently cursed himself for his cluelessness over John's level of caring, over how he had broken him after being the one person who managed to bring him back to life the day they met, when they were still strangers. He began to take a step towards John but stopped himself; what more could he do or say in this situation? The words 'I'm sorry' hardly seemed adequate after the confession he had just listened to. Sherlock could not tell just how much longer John's control would last. The man could break down any second now, leaving Sherlock even more powerless and speechless in the process, with that ridiculous bloody napkin still pressed to his throbbing face.

John saw Sherlock move out of the corner of his eye, though, saw him hesitate to approach him. Of course, neither of them knew what to do now, after as dark of an admittance as the one the two of them bore witness to. John merely stared at the wall, idly focusing as much of his weight upon his left leg as possible when his right leg's ache suddenly decided to make an appearance at the already painful enough scene. At last the barrier was beginning to break; a single, glistening tear slid down John's cheek, slightly sunken in due to the lack of will to eat properly for the past three years. He blatantly tried to ignore the fiendish saline water's presence, tried his hardest to stand firm…and failed miserably. With a final, fervent shake of his head he turned on his heel and walked straight into Sherlock, throwing his arms around him with fervor. Sherlock dropped his napkin in surprise, and then slowly wrapped John up closer to him, pressing his lips together firmly as he held onto his crying friend. John's tears were not loud in the slightest but they were uncontrollable, the silent sobs almost worse in their cold, solemn nature than a noisier display would have been. Sherlock shut his eyes when the display of silent sadness distinctly reminded him of the day he had followed John to the cemetery, the one time John could stand to visit his friend's unknowingly empty grave. Sherlock could practically feel the torment radiating out of John's gentle tremor, and he pulled him tighter, trying his best to be a comfort when he honestly had no idea how to stop the torture he had inadvertently started.

John pressed his tear-stained face into Sherlock's shoulder, murmuring fervently against the detective in a biting tone obviously meant to come across as a warning: "If you ever leave me again, I'll end you."

Sherlock couldn't help it; he smiled at John's merciless words, knowing at once that he was slowly but surely beginning to be forgiven, that John was going to be okay. The detective nodded, accidentally brushing his cheek against John's face in the process:

"Okay, John."

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