Author's notes:
Hello! This is my first Sherlock fic! There's no exact time frame; I know that canon says that Sherlock waited three years to return, but I find that cruel. Either way, some time has passed since the rooftop incident.
My apologies for anything that seems out of character or not appropriately British (as I am not) - please let me know in the comments.
Enjoy!
OOO
John Watson wasn't a large man, but the sofa seemed uncomfortably small. Yet, there he was, once again, unable to sleep anywhere else. Even in Sherlock's absence, the sitting room of 221B Baker Street still felt more like home than anywhere else. The sounds of London were dull and unobtrusive outside, but John was awakened by the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs.
He sat up to see a tall, faceless figure entering through the door, where the light coming through the windows cast a dim glow upon a face that seemed to materialize out of the shadows.
"Hello, John."
With a defeated slump of his shoulders, John hung his head and sunk back into the sofa. "Hello, Sherlock."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "You don't seem surprised to see me."
John stared at the ceiling, unable to meet his gaze. "I see you most nights, Sherlock. What's it going to be tonight? A lecture about proper data storage? A demonstration of coagulation agents? Jesus, I wish you'd stop torturing me."
Sherlock inhaled deeply through his nose and exhaled with pursed lips. "You think you're dreaming."
"Considering that the last thing I remember is taking two sleeping pills with a jigger of Scotch, yes, that does seem likely."
"Do you feel tired?"
"Of course I do. I haven't had a good night's sleep in…God, I can't even remember."
"If you were dreaming, you wouldn't feel tired. That's strictly a conscious sensation."
"Piss off, Sherlock."
"Are you cross with me?"
John sat up quickly, looking Sherlock in the eye for the first time. "You're god damn right I'm cross with you! You lied to me, and then you killed yourself in front of me! You made me watch my best friend die! Do you have any idea what that's like?"
Sherlock met his gaze intently. "When I was 12, my father was killed in front of me."
John didn't know how to respond; his subconscious Sherlock had never offered personal information before. "I'm…sorry."
"I'm sorry too, John. I didn't want to make you watch that, but it was the only way to ensure your safety."
"How do you mean?"
"I can't talk about it now; frankly, I shouldn't even be here. Look, if you need to tell yourself that this is a dream, you're free to do so, but I just wanted you to know that I'm sorry for how everything happened. I'm not yet finished with what I need to do, but when I am, I promise you'll see me again." He then turned up his coat, pivoted toward the staircase, and vanished from sight.
John had a strange feeling that this dream was unlike the others, but in order to avoid another heartbreaking morning, he shrugged off Sherlock's presence as yet another bit of subconscious torture as he collapsed back into the sofa.
OOO
Despite the persistent lack of rest, John found that he was walking around London with a renewed sense of purpose. As he entered the café, his eyes darted around until they zeroed in on a solitary man in a suit, sipping his tea while perusing a folded newspaper.
"Hello, Mycroft."
Mycroft lifted his eyes from the paper and stood up slowly, extending his hand. "Hello, John. How have you been?"
John shook his hand and took a seat. "I'm…surviving. How are you?"
"Oh…you know. The same."
"Mycroft, I don't mean to pry, and I know this must be the last thing you want to discuss, but I asked you to meet me because I need to ask you something about Sherlock."
Mycroft shifted uncomfortably and sighed. "What did you want to ask?"
"I'm sorry, and I know this is a very personal question, but…what happened to your father?"
"You're right, that is personal." He paused and took a brief sip of tea. "But, I suppose it's a matter of public record. He was a police officer, and he was killed while trying to stop a robbery at a shop."
"Did Sherlock see it?"
"Yes, actually. Father was off duty at the time; they were shopping together."
"How old was he?"
"Let's see, I was 19, so he would have been…twelve. My God. He seemed older than that."
John's eyes grew wide. He was overcome with a strange combination of sadness and elation. Had Sherlock really appeared in the flat? How could that possibly be?
"I'm sorry, Mycroft," he said, hastily fastening his coat. "I have to go."
OOO
John was pacing furiously around the Baker Street sitting room, holding a phone to his ear as he waited to be taken off hold. Finally, the line clicked and Lestrade's voice broke the silence.
"Listen, John, I have some information, but I don't know how much I can tell you. There are still some officers who consider you Sherlock's 'accomplice.'"
"Greg, I don't need details. I just need to know if any evidence surfaced that Moriarty left any sort of network behind. Drivers, operatives, assassins, anything that connected him to the criminal world aside from that 'actor' nonsense."
"Sort of. I can't…all right, I can tell you this. We have found some evidence that strongly suggests Moriarty was a legitimate criminal and Sherlock was not a fraud. However, since they're both dead…honestly, John, we're swamped here, and nobody's interested in pursuing the case further. They don't see the use."
"And what about you? He was your friend! You don't see the use in clearing his name?"
Lestrade cleared his throat. "Look, I'll try to reopen the file, but I'll have to keep it quiet."
"Thank you, Greg. I can't tell you why right now, but this is very important. Let me know if there's any way I can help." John sighed, ended the call, and stared out the window, pondering his next move.
OOO
John held up his ID badge, and was wordlessly ushered through the metal detector at the Scotland Yard entrance. Greg met him at the bottom of the staircase, holding several manila folders under his arm.
"John, hello. Listen, I wanted to be the one to tell you this."
John's brow furrowed, imagining the various possibilities of that statement. "What is it?"
"Last weekend, in Paris, French police arrested a hitman who claimed to have been employed by Moriarty."
"Why would a hitman voluntarily reveal his employer?"
"He was charged with an assassination attempt on a member of the French government on the same day that Sherlock died. Believe it or not, Moriarty was his alibi; he confessed to being employed because he never actually had to complete the hit."
"Who was the target?"
"You were."
John inhaled sharply, pausing for a moment to think. "Was the hit called off because Sherlock…?" He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.
"That's what he claimed. I'm not saying he's the most reliable source, but it's at least convinced several officers – including Donovan – that Sherlock was telling the truth. Not to mention that a raid on this hitman's flat has given us enough evidence to put him away for a very long time."
John smiled widely. "That's excellent news, Greg. Thank you for bringing me here."
"I wish I could do more."
"I think you've done more than you know."
OOO
As John walked up the stairs to the flat, he had to pause for a moment to remind himself that the vision of Sherlock may have been just that, and that perhaps he had read about Sherlock's father some time ago and merely recalled the information in a dream state. His cautious optimism was tempered with the realization that he had witnessed Sherlock die, and no manner of criminal investigation could bring a man back from the dead.
Slowing his pace, John entered the sitting room to find a very familiar man sitting in a very familiar chair. This man, who was normally so quick with a quip or a jab, stood up slowly from the chair without a word and took two steps forward.
"Hello, John."
John crossed the room in three bounds and wrapped his arms around Sherlock so tightly that his shoulder hurt. Sherlock, after taking a couple of seconds to process the situation, gently placed his arms around John as well. The two men stood there, wordlessly embracing, as John buried his face in Sherlock's chest and shook ever so slightly. When they finally separated, John looked up at Sherlock's eyes, so glad to replace the haunting vision of the lifeless blue glassy eyes that had stared up at him from the pavement.
Finally, Sherlock spoke.
"I thought you were going to punch me in the face."
"I was considering it. I still might, in fact."
The two men laughed together, and John's heart ached to realize how much he had missed that. With their eyes still locked, they sat down in chairs across from each other and leaned forward as if in suspense.
"Oh, John, I have so much to tell you."
"I can't wait." John had been smiling so widely that his face hurt, and he finally took a deep breath and wiped away the tears that had been forming in the corners of his eyes. "Tea?"