Three years after faking his death Sherlock stood in front of his flat on Baker Street, steeling himself up for what he thought John might do. Every possible scenario for what John's reaction might be to him suddenly reappearing replayed themselves as he unlocked the door, with the key he'd kept in his pocket for years. The most likely one was a quick and painful punch to the face, one that he'd allow John, so that the ex-army doctor would let go of all the feelings that he'd been holding onto for the past three years.
When he swung the door open, he could see John reading that day's newspaper, the doctor's eyes flickered up to study his face.
'Hello, John,' was all the detective could breathe out; studying the other man's face for any response, but the only thing he saw was a welcoming smile on his soldier doctor's weathered face. 'I'm sorry, I-'
'Hello, Sherlock.'
And that was it. After being gone for so long, John just let the other man back into his life without asking for any sort of explanation. Sherlock found it all weird, but decided not to question it.
Months went by since Sherlock's return and John still had not yet asked anything of the detective. Their daily life had reformed almost immediately, two cups of tea in the morning, solving a mystery posted on John's blog, random chit-chats. It was as if the brunet had never left. Sherlock did notice that every now and again, the doctor would get frustrated and yell, but never at Sherlock. There would sometimes be broken glass and John breathing harshly and his hands balled into fists. The detective figured this was his doctor's way of coping, so it was at these times that Sherlock would wrap his arms awkwardly around the ex-army doctor until the man calmed down and went about his business.
The detective would comfort the doctor when he felt the other needed it, and John would never fight it. John never lost his temper or begged Sherlock to tell him where he'd run off to. It was all very weird and he felt the need to question it, but never did.
Of course he'd told Lestrade he was alive. He couldn't stand to stay in the flat without something to stimulate his mind, he needed cases. Usually, Lestrade would text him and Sherlock would solve the case like that, but this wasn't enough for Sherlock. He'd invited Lestrade over to show him the case files, of course, John being the man he is, asks the detective inspector if he'd like a cup of tea, the inspector politely accepts.
'I won't be here long,' he waved the folder in the air before throwing them on coffee table in front of the couch Sherlock sat on, 'here's the files on the triple homicide, had to pull a few strings in order for me to even take them out of the file case. You best be happy, Holmes.'
'Thank you, Lestrade,' the detective replied, reaching over to open the folder when the pair of them heard something break.
Looking towards the sound, they saw John, his eyes wide and mouth agape, the tea he was bringing to Lestrade was staining the carpet and the cup shattered.
The doctor began spewing nonsense but the one sentence he said caught Sherlock completely off guard,
'You can see him too?'