Disclaimer - I don't own anything you recognise.
Part of my Mass Christmas(ish) Post - I hope you enjoy :P Have a very Merry Christmas (If you celebrate it. If not, have a lovely day!)
Silence
Mycroft sighed, impatiently tapping his fingers on the desk.
"You have heard my reservations, Sherlock, but you will do what you feel you must as always," he said, his tone bland. Of course, that didn't fool Sherlock.
"Oh my god, you actually care about him!"
Mycroft snorted. "Really, brother, what on earth would make you think that?"
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Why else would you be concerned about the effect of my return?"
"This conversation is over, Sherlock. You do whatever you want, but for once in your life, I fear you may not get what you anticipate."
"Mycroft... what are you not telling me? What happened to John?"
"John, dear, I brought your morning tea and the paper."
John looked up, his eyes on Mrs Hudson. He watched her put the paper and mug down on the small table, nodding his thanks to her. He didn't speak. Ever. His friends had long since stopped expecting him too.
"Greg will be round later, and Mycroft sent a message that he'll be popping in as well. That'll be nice, won't it?"
John frowned slightly, but didn't give any other indication that he was interested in visitors. Honestly, he had to appreciate the sheer tenacity of his friends. It had been a little more than two years since Johns world fell apart, and still they insisted on standing by him.
It wasn't even that he didn't want to talk now. It was like he'd literally forgotten how. He'd stand in front of the bathroom mirror, his mouth moving as he tried unsuccessfully to force the words from his lips. Nothing worked.
Mrs Hudson squeezed his shoulder briefly before she left the flat. He was left alone was more, not that it bothered him. He preferred the silence now. As much as he would never, ever, let his friends know, he was waiting for the silence to swallow him up. The only sound in the room was his breaths, and he was just waiting for them to stop.
"Alright, Mycroft," Greg greeted quietly. He'd been sitting with John for almost an hour, filling the silence with the latest news from the Yard.
"Gregory, John," Mycroft replied, a small smile on his lips. "John, how are you?"
John simply stared at him for a moment, before he shrugged his shoulders slightly.
Mycroft nodded. "I shan't stay long today, but I have... sensitive news that I thought I should probably deliver in person."
John gestured him into the seat facing him.
Mycroft sat and took a deep breath, drawing surprised looks from the other two men. Mycroft actually seemed... nervous.
"Jim Moriarty was dangerous. When Sherlock... I don't know why I'm the one explaining this," Mycroft muttered shaking his head. "Sherlock is alive. I'm sorry, John, truly sorry for all that you've been through because of the lie. I... I tried to convince Sherlock to remain 'dead', but he insisted he see you. I'm sure he's full of certainty that the two of you can pick up right where you left off, but... Well. That is your business. I hope you won't think too badly of me when all is said and done. I honestly was just trying to keep my little brother alive. I won't contact you again, but know that should you ever need anything, I will always be willing to try and help you."
John stared at him, trying to take the words into his brain. It wasn't really working. Sherlock couldn't be alive. He couldn't be. John saw, with his own eyes, Sherlock fall from the roof of St Barts, he saw the body on the floor, hell he checked for a pulse!
While John tried to process silently, Greg wasn't opposed to making some noise.
"He's alive? Sherlock's alive?"
Mycroft nodded. "He is."
"Well where the bloody hell is he? I'll kill him myself!"
With a small chuckle, Mycroft shook his head. "You won't kill him, Gregory, though I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't shed some blood before all this is over. He's waiting in the car. I thought it would come better from me, rather than him just showing up out of the blue. I doubt he will be able to contain himself for much longer, however."
"You assume correctly, brother."
Sherlock sat in the car, pouting though he'd never openly admit it. Mycroft had left him with a 'stay' as though he was some obedient puppy to be ordered around. He knew Mycroft was hiding something. He knew it. He just couldn't quite work out what it was.
His sulking done, Sherlock sighed then pushed the door open, climbing elegantly from the car. He wasn't going to hide while his big brother told the world he was alive. If anything, John, his John, his best friend, his blogger, should hear it from him.
He knew the man would be angry, and he felt he deserved to take the brunt of that anger. He deserved it, but he could and would work around it. John would listen, he had too. There was no other option.
Taking a moment to enjoy the view of 221b Baker Street, Sherlock crept up the stairs, avoiding the two creaky steps on his way. He could hear Mycroft and Lestrade both, but he was surprised not to hear John's voice.
"- doubt he will be able to contain himself for much longer, however."
Damn right, Sherlock thought smugly.
"You assume correctly, brother."
Sherlock leant against the door frame, his eyes on John's back. The man hadn't even turned around to look at him. Mycroft stood up, resting a hand on John's shoulder as he passed.
"Look after yourself, John, and... remember what I said. Gregory." With a perfunctory nod at Lestrade, Mycroft left the room, shooting Sherlock a clear warning as he passed.
Sherlock glanced at Lestrade, slightly surprised to find the man staring at him as though he'd just committed the most heinous of murders right in front of him. He walked past him, ensuring to keep a slight distance between them, and rounded himself so he was standing in front of John. His blogger was staring ahead, his face clear of emotion as he tried to process what was going on.
"You've got some fucking nerve," Lestrade snapped, glaring at Sherlock. "You stroll in without a care in the world, as though your absence hasn't caused any pain for anyone. You're a joke, Sherlock Holmes. An absolute fucking disgrace."
"You're being rather dramatic, Lestrade," Sherlock drawled. "Perhaps you should leave."
"Hmm, I was just thinking the same thing about you, actually," Lestrade sneered, before he moved to stand in front of John, hip-checking Sherlock out of the way as he did so. Sherlock watched with disbelief as Lestrade crouched so he was at eye level with John, his hands on the arms of the chair so he was blocking the doctor into the chair.
"John? Come on mate, look at me. It's alright, John, everything is fine, nobody is hurt."
Sherlock looked on with growing concern as Lestrade talked softly, almost like he was trying his hardest to bring John out of a nightmare or talking someone down off a ledge. He saw the exact moment that John seemed to return to the room. He blinked twice, swallowed hard then nodded at Lestrade.
"Alright?" Lestrade asked, sighing with relief.
John nodded once more, before he looked at Sherlock. Greg backed off when he saw that John was okay... well, as okay as could be expected at least. Sherlock didn't watch him move to the other side of the room, he kept eye contact with John, begging the older man to give him the chance to explain.
Then, as only John could, he surprised him. He stood from the chair and turned his back, walking up the stairs to his bedroom without a word. Sherlock heard the bedroom door click quietly.
"What the hell is going on?" he grumbled. Of all the reactions he'd considered possible, this certainly wasn't anywhere even close to what he'd thought likely to happen. John was a man of action! He didn't back away from a fight, no matter how much it might hurt!
"You aren't the only one who 'died' when you fell from the roof of St Barts, Sherlock," Lestrade said quietly. "John hasn't spoken since the funeral."
Sherlock scoffed, only to realise as he looked at the Detective that he was telling the truth. "But... why?"
Lestrade snorted, though it was without humour. "You were his world. I don't think either of you actually realised exactly how deep John was in with you until it was too late. You died, and you took him with you. You broke him, Sherlock. He doesn't think we understand what he's doing, but we do. We all know he's spent the last two years just waiting to die. If he was any less of a man, he'd have eaten his gun months ago. Honestly, we all thought he would. But John, Dr John Watson, Captain John Watson, he's gone."
"But... I'm back now. So why isn't he?"
Lestrade shook his head sadly. "If you think it's that simple, I honestly worry about you, Sherlock. John's heartbroken, you showing up after two years isn't going to magically fix it."
Leaving Sherlock by himself, Lestrade climbed the stairs slowly. Sherlock heard a shuffled at the top, followed by a sigh and a small bang. Lestrade was sitting outside John's bedroom door. It didn't take a genius to work out why.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Sherlock demanded, banging a hand down on the desk in between himself and his brother.
"Tell you what?"
"Tell me about John? Why didn't you tell me he was suffering so much?"
"Would it have changed anything?"
Sherlock frowned. "I would have... I could have..."
Mycroft sighed. "Exactly. There's nothing you could have done. Besides, wasn't it you that told me you specifically didn't want news of John? That it would distract you?"
"Well, yes, but I never thought it would be like... that. Lestrade said John hasn't spoken since the funeral? Is that true?"
Mycroft nodded. "Yes. At first, we thought it was just his grief manifesting itself in silence, we thought he'd get over it. When we realised... well, it was already too late. He refuses to see a therapist, he doesn't leave the flat, he wouldn't eat or drink if Mrs Hudson wasn't there to look after him. We thought about trying to get him sectioned under the mental health act, but he's an adult and he'd not a danger to himself or others. I see him as often as I'm able, and Gregory goes around whenever he isn't working. We did what we could, Sherlock."
Sherlock nodded absently. "Lestrade said I've broken him. Do you think I can fix him?"
Mycroft felt a wave of sympathy for his little brother, who for the first time in forever, actually looked unsure of himself. "I think if anyone can fix him, Sherlock, it'll be you."
The reunion with Mrs Hudson was full of tears and chastising, but Sherlock took it. When she hugged him fiercely before begging him to help John, Sherlock felt his heart break a little more.
This wasn't something he could throw an experiment at. He had absolutely no experience when it came to sentiment. Perhaps that explained why he'd never expected to come home to this shell of his blogger, but he honestly wasn't sure what to do next.
"Sherlock?"
After speaking with Mycroft, Sherlock had returned to Baker Street to find Lestrade in the same place he'd left him, John still in his room. He looked up to see Lestrade standing at the bottom of the stairs.
"Keep your ear out for him. Any noises, go and check on him. I don't think he'd do anything stupid, but I don't want to take the chance. If he gets up, tell him I'll be by after work tomorrow."
Sherlock nodded, his eyes on the stairs. "Greg? How do I fix this?"
"I... I don't know. My advice? Tell him how you feel."
"How I...?"
Greg paused at the door. "Don't make me spell it out for you. Think about John, really thing about what he means to you. Then go and tell him what everyone else has known for years."
It was three in the morning when the silence was broken. Sherlock could hear John thrashing around in bed and instinctively knew his blogger was having a nightmare. He climbed the stairs cautiously, opening the door to see John fighting with his quilt, his head turning left to right so quickly Sherlock was sure he'd had a kink in his neck.
"John. John, wake up. John!"
He sat up in bed, his eyes slightly wild as he looked around the room. The only light came from the hallway, and it took a few moments for him to adjust. Sherlock felt hope when he saw John mouthing his name, but no sound came out.
"May I come in?"
Hesitating, John nodded. Sherlock sat down on the bed, close enough that if John were to reach a hand out, they would be touching.
"I'm sorry, John. I wish... well, I wish a lot of things, but most of all I wish that I hadn't hurt you. You... you're everything, John. Moriarty; he threatened you. You, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson. If I wasn't seen to kill myself, there were snipers set on the three of you. I thought... I thought I was doing the right thing. I've spent the last two years getting rid of Moriarty's network, fighting so that it would be finally safe for me to return home... home to you."
John was watching him, a curious spark in his eyes.
"I understand if you don't want to talk to me. I'll even understand if you want me gone. But... You have to know, John, before you make a decision, that you're the most important person in my world. I, uh, I love you. I've never said that to anyone, and I never will again, but you deserve to know the truth. I love you. You're... you're everything, John."
The two stared at each other for long moments, before Sherlock stood up, heading for the door. He heard John move and glanced back, surprised to see him typing furiously on his phone. Sherlock's cell bleeped in his pocket.
Don't leave. I need you too.
"John... did something happen to stop you from speaking?"
John's lips moved again, and he seemed to be straining. Sherlock frowned, indicating the phone.
I don't know why I can't speak. I didn't want to before. Now... I just can't.
Sherlock cautiously moved towards John, sitting back down on the bed right beside John. Moving slow enough that John could move or push him away, Sherlock wrapped his arms around the doctor, pulling him closer into a tight embrace. It only took seconds and John was sobbing against his shoulder as Sherlock stroked his back comfortingly.
"I missed you every second I was away, John. I'd hear you in my mind palace, giving me grief for not eating or sleeping. I know you have every right to hate me, but please, please, tell me there's a chance you can forgive me."
John pulled back, wiping the tears away roughly. "Sh. She. Sherlock. I..."
Sherlock's lips covered his before he could try and force anymore words out. John froze for a moment before he returned the kiss, clutching at Sherlock's shirt. When the two broke apart, Sherlock let his head rest against Johns.
"I love you."
"I... lo - I love you... too."