Author's Note: Hello, all! Welcome to the Mystery of the Drowned Fish!This is my first Sherlock fic. My best friend gave me Sherlock for my birthday, without warning about the end of The Reichenbach Fall. So, to deal with the Reichenfeels, I started this. It is a Post-Reichenbach Fall story, so there are a few spoilers. It also eventually become a bit Johnlocky, so though it won't be for a while (you know how those two can be!), if you object to it, you're forewarned. A huge thank you to OboeChica, my fantastic Beta! Without her, this would be impossible.
Disclaimer: I own Sherlock, Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman. Gatiss and Moffat are under my employ. Yeah, I wish… -sigh- I own nothing, I just take the boys out to play, no infringement on BBC's brilliance or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's original books.
Chapter one- Bloody Git!
It had been six months - to the day- since Sherlock Holmes had thrown himself off the roof of St. Bartholomew's when John Watson finally moved back into the flat at 221B Baker Street. It'd been a long week for John, what with moving his things from Harry's, where he'd been staying, and long shifts at the surgery. All of John's patients today seemed especially annoying and whiney, but that was probably because he wanted to go home. His home, not Harry's. The place he had gotten to know so well while helping Sherlock with his cases. Every time John walked in he expected to hear his best friend whine about being bored or wanting tea or asking if John had gotten milk. It hurt, but John didn't care, because it meant he remembered. He sighed as he unlocked the flat, calling out a quick hello to Mrs. Hudson. John shucked his coat, tossing it on his chair and limped up the steps to his room slowly.
John had no idea what woke him up later that night. He usually didn't sleep very deeply (once a soldier, always a soldier), except when he was dreaming about one of his and Sherlock's cases, like he'd been tonight. Usually, it took a bomb going off to wake him from one of those, but he'd shot strait up tonight for no apparent reason. He sat there, listening for whatever had woken him. Hearing nothing, he went to lie down again.
Thump.
As quickly and quietly as he could manage, John reached over for his gun, getting out of bed slowly. Glad he'd left his door open earlier, he carefully made his way down the stairs, his gun preceding him and limp forgotten.
Carefully, John stepped into the sitting room. "Who are you, and what are you doing in my flat? I do have a gun, and I don't miss often." John almost smiled, remembering his first case, the cabbie case. No, he didn't miss often at all.
"Tea, John?"
John froze. His brain shut down for a moment, then restarted, going twice as fast. He shouldn't have been surprised, he mused. After all, he'd never really given up hope that it had all been a trick. That deep, melodic baritone could only belong to one person, after all. One supposedly very dead person.
John flipped the light switch, taking stock of the scene in the kitchen. Perfect black suit, the purple shirt, spotless loafers, coat and scarf draped carelessly over one of the kitchen chairs.
"You bloody git. You let everyone think that you're dead! You let ME think that you were dead!" John's voice was quickly increasing in volume from the whisper he'd started at to a yell as he went on. He couldn't bring himself to care at the moment. "You made me watch, you bastard! I watched my best friend jump off a roof and smash against the sidewalk! Why the bloody hell would you- could you- do that to me?! You were probably at your own funeral, weren't you?! You heard every damn word I said at your grave, didn't you?! Do you even know how much pain you caused, you insufferable arse?!" John's final, wordless yell was drowned out by the retort of his gun as he whirled and emptied his clip into the smiley face on the wall.
Sherlock just stood there, looking mildly stunned. The only sound in the entire flat was John's harsh breathing, making it easy for both of them to hear the exact moment Mrs. Hudson started up the stairs, yelling for John. Sherlock turned quickly back to the tea he was making, finding a third cup and mulling over what John had said.
"John Hamish Watson!" John cringed at Mrs. Hudson's screech, hearing a faint chuckle from behind him just before the door to the flat was thrown open by the irate landlady. "What on God's green earth do you think you're doing, shooting my wall at two in the morning? Just because Sh-" Mrs. Hudson stopped herself from saying his name; she hadn't said it since his funeral. It hurt too much. "He did it does not give you the right to to-"
Feeling terrible, but needing to explain himself, John interrupted his landlady. "I assure you, Mrs. Hudson, that I have a VERY good reason to shoot your wall."
The "reason" took the half-second of silence to speak up. "Tea, Mrs. Hudson?" He'd only spoken five words in the last half-hour, but he'd managed to shock two people into silence. The second's reaction was much different from the first's, though, for which Sherlock was slightly grateful.
Mrs. Hudson paled, tears filling her eyes, and turned to where Sherlock stood, waiting. She held her hand out- behind her, to John. "John, is it… is it really him?"
John stepped around her, toward Sherlock, stopping when he was close enough to the taller man to touch him. "One way to find out. What did you say to me, on the phone? When you phoned me, before you jumped." The last bit was aimed toward Sherlock, but John heard Mrs. Hudson's breath hitch at the mention of Sherlock's supposedly fatal final act.
"This phone call… It's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note" Sherlock looked away from John as he recited the words from his and John's last conversation, words he couldn't delete, no matter how many times he tried. John was glad Sherlock had looked away; if he hadn't, he'd have seen it coming, stopped it. Since he didn't, John's fist met no resistance on it's way to Sherlock's cheek.
Sherlock lurched backwards in surprise, and Mrs. Hudson yelped. John was breathing hard again as he turned toward his landlady. "It's him." Turning back to Sherlock, he smiled grimly. "Better finish up with that tea, mate. We're going to need it." John gently led Mrs. Hudson into the sitting room, placing her in his chair and returned to the kitchen to help Sherlock with the tea.
"Look, Sherlock- I'm not going to apologise for hitting you, because you have to admit that you did deserve it." He smiled tightly at his friend as he put two sugars in Sherlock's cup.
Sherlock hid a smile, rubbing his cheek. "I suppose I did, didn't I?" John gaped at his friend. Sherlock never admitted to such things. Ever. He looked up to see the smile that Sherlock couldn't hide any more. Shaking his head, John carried the tea tray in to Mrs. Hudson.
Eight hours later, John and Sherlock were still talking. Mrs. Hudson had gone back to bed around six, three hours ago. While she and Sherlock said goodnight, John took the opportunity to call in sick to the surgery. He figured the less people knowing that Sherlock was back the better, and John knew he wasn't going to make it to work. There was still too much he and Sherlock needed to talk about.
Once Mrs. Hudson had left, John asked the question that weighed the heaviest on his mind. "So, now that you're not dead, are you going to move back into the flat? Your room's the same, I just moved your experiments in there. Except your eyeballs. They're in the cupboard. And your skull. He's still on the mantle." John held his breath, waiting- and hoping- for what he might hear.
Sherlock looked away again, toying with the edge of his once again empty cup. "If you'll have me back." He didn't look up while he awaited the verdict.
He tried to fight it, honestly he did. John burst out in hysterical laughter. Sherlock turned, incredulous. "Of course you can come back, you nutter. You pay half the rent, remember?" Once he could put together a full sentence, he couldn't help but rib his flat mate. Sherlock grinned, and together they succumbed to fits of laughter.
When they'd calmed down enough that they were able to breathe without much difficulty, John's phone started buzzing.
"Hello?"
"John, it's Lestrade. I've got a case for you and I-"
"Greg, bring it to my flat." John kept talking before the Detective Inspector could object. "Trust me, there's something here you're going to want to see. But don't bring anyone with you, ok? Especially not Donovan or Anderson."
Lestrade sighed, but gave in. "Fine. You're only ever cryptic when it's important. I'm warning you, though- this had better be good. I'll be there in twenty."
"Good. Oh, it will be, I promise. See you then."
Once he'd hung up, John turned to Sherlock. "Lestrade's bringing us a case. He'll be here in twenty minutes; I figured he should know about your amazing recovery." Sherlock's face brightened so much at the word case, John wondered if he'd even heard the bit about Lestrade knowing that he wasn't dead.
John sent a grumbling Sherlock into the kitchen to start more tea fifteen minutes later. A good thing too, because at the same moment the kettle whistled Lestrade rang the bell. John got up to let him in, leading the way up the stairs.
"What's this thing I need to see so desperately, John? You said it was-" Lestrade stopped as a cup of tea was extended out from behind him; the DI was still facing a now smirking John, who had his arms crossed; obviously not the one offering the tea.
"Drink it before it gets cold, Lestrade." Sherlock's mirth was evident in his strained tone as the DI took his tea and turned around.
"Is that…"
"Yep." John was fighting laughter again too.
"But that's Sh…"
"The one and only." This time Sherlock took over, so John could take a moment to calm himself.
"But you're…"
"Obviously not." This time, both John and Sherlock responded at the same time, which sent them over the edge again. Apparently lack of sleep and an over abundance of caffeine could affect them both, in large enough quantities. Lestrade practically fell onto the couch.
"You faked it, you clever git." Now even Greg was starting to laugh. "I should have known. You wouldn't kill yourself. Too boring. Anyway, I do have a case for the two of you. It's a good one- a murder, your favorite, Sherlock. John's been taking cases with us while you were dead, but this one's difficult. No prints, shoe impressions. Not that any of my blokes can find, any way."
"Are you really surprised by that, Lestrade?" Sherlock sighed, shaking his head. "Who's working this one?"
"Anderson." Lestrade broke into a wide grin. "Oh, this is going to be good. Bloody brilliant, more like!"
Author's Note: Well? What do you think? Oh, and I'm American, so if I got anything wrong with my British stuff, feel free to point it out. I'm trying to make this as authentic as possible. Review, if you'd be so kind! All are appreciated and read.