Author's Note: I wanted to try my hand at writing John, and this is what came of it.

When Sherlock came home, he was sitting in his chair, legs propped up on the table, reading the daily paper that kept him grounded in reality. When Sherlock came home, John Watson felt the air in his throat, his breath, hitch. That was when Sherlock's voice traveled up the staircase. Mrs. Hudson was out, and she couldn't be so cruel as to fake his voice. No, she wouldn't even be able to. And Mrs. Hudson was the nicest landlady he had ever had, much more than just their – his landlady actually, but.

No, he was hearing things, wasn't he? Just like how he sometimes still felt Mary's fingers caressing his cheek. Perhaps he should ring his therapist, as Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, everyone kept on advising him to do. This was the final straw, the cinch in it all.

Certainly when he heard bloody footsteps coming up the stairs. John shut his eyes and rubbed at them, trying to block out the nonexistent sounds he was hearing. Until, of course, the voice was closer, much too close. John blinked his eyes open, clearing his sight of those little spots that had developed after rubbing them, and felt his jaw go slack, his brow furrowing as he just tried to understand the elaborate illusion his disturbed mind had created.

"John, don't tell me you didn't check your phone. John."

He said nothing as the Sherlock his mind had created (God, how could it do that to him?) scanned the room in a split second, locating and picking up his mobile. He brought it over to John and handed it to him, their fingers brushing against each other for an instant. An instant in time that almost caused John to choke on his own bloody saliva. His mind could of course create images, but this was an entirely different level. A phantom touch? Of course, people spoke of phantom limbs, but this? What exactly was his brain playing at? He didn't want to go completely mad, he didn't.

But he still looked down at the phone and saw several unread text messages… from Sherlock Holmes. He opened them and read.

I'm not hungry, but if you wish, I could go out to eat with you. SH

Like we used to. SH

If you haven't deduced this yet, I am not dead. SH

John. SH

It's been three years. SH

That comes to 1,095 days. SH

I'm not one for emotions, feelings, sentiment, and so on, but I am sorry for making you wait that long. That is the fact of a feeling I cannot delete. SH

I'm also sorry for making you believe I was dead. SH

But you of all people know that I don't do things without reason. SH

I had to go away for a while, to take care of business. To keep three people I would call my "friends" alive. SH

Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson… SH

And you most of all, John. SH

I'm not much for anniversaries, but... SH

I'm coming home tonight (three years; 1,095 days later), and I hope that your sentiment will outweigh mine. As always. SH

That's how it is supposed to be. SH

I will see you soon. SH

John locked his phone again after marking the messages as read and set it calmly on the armrest, placing his elbows on his knees and resting his chin in his hands, looking up at Sherlock, almost waiting for him to disappear. Like he should, because Sherlock Holmes was dead. Had been dead for three years to the day.

"John." Sherlock sat in his chair, the one across from John. "You have something to say. I know–"

"You cannot be real. You can't. Just like if Mary, for God's sake, if she came here, it'd be one hell of a delusional party!" He was on his feet now, stubs of fingernails tearing at his scalp before he took one hand away and pointed it, shaking slightly, at Sherlock.

But he couldn't think of any more words to say, just a strangled cry as he lowered his head and sank to the floor. No, he was not crying, but he was desperate and he felt like a broken child's toy. He wanted reality, he wanted to be rid of Sherlock and his blasted memory – it had, after all, been three years. Three of the longest years in his life to some extent. He'd been able to mostly rid himself of those horrible memories from Afghanistan, remove himself from it – but he had not been able to do the same with Sherlock.

John half-expected his image of Sherlock to stoop down by him and put a hand on his shoulder, since that's what he wanted. But – but that didn't happen. He tilted his head and saw that this Sherlock was doing exactly what Sherlock would do if presented with a situation like this. He wouldn't quite know what to do, for perhaps one of the first times in his life. Or death. John felt sick to his stomach. This had been his wish, however insane and mad it was, for three years. That Sherlock could do one more miracle for him and not be dead, but who believed in miracles anymore? Certainly John Watson did not. Especially since even after Sherlock, he'd had to go through Mary as well.

"I am real, John. Tangible, physical – simple science proves that I am real." John stood up again, leaning on the "good" leg, even though he knew that was all a farce. He saw some kind of disappointment in Sherlock's eyes before the other man continued, walking over to one of their windows overlooking the street. "Once Mrs. Hudson comes home, you can have your proof. Or, I can ring Molly."

"Molly - Molly knows?"

Sherlock turned his head back, eyes piercing John, "She always has."

"Since – since then?"

"Since before. Not very long before, and she kept going on about how I 'dropped everything onher,' but yes. She helped."

John was trying, absolutely giving it his all to attempt to wrap his head around this, around everything. He just felt shell-shocked. It was not processing in his mind. But what was coming to him, he voiced.

"I've seen Molly for these past three years. Talked to her, bloody well confided in her sometimes, and she's known all this time?" John ran his hands down over his face, rubbing at it in frustration and just not understanding. His jaw clenched, and he felt – he only felt an indescribable anger at everyone, including himself. Especially himself. For not noticing, like Sherlock would have.

"Please do not wish ill on Molly. I was the one who told her not to tell you. You had to believe that I was dead for everything to work, for you to live."

"So," John said, moving closer to Sherlock, just shy of getting right in his face, "What you are saying is that you had to be dead in order for me to live?" He shut his eyes and breathed out what had been so heavy inside of his chest, but it didn't help one bit. Not at all. This wasn't real. It was not.

"That is an accurate summary, John. Yes. I know that I did wrong to Molly by asking her to keep it from you, she told me herself in various ways so that I 'understood.' All I ask of you is to not do the same to her, as I did. It's not her fault."

"Do wrong to her? Do wrong to her? What about ME, Sherlock? Did you ever give one second's passing bloody thought to the wrongs you DID TO ME?"

The room was silent, save for John's labored breathing as he regained himself, even though his anger still simmered just below the surface. This was not how he pictured this going when he'd had dreams, waking and sleeping, of this moment. Dreams that he had entertained at first, then pushed away non-effectively, and then finally effectively once he'd met Mary Morstan. But then they had come back, achingly, after her death.

He heard Sherlock clear his throat and, for once, they met eyes, and John felt something. Something in his chest clench, that he had not felt in such a long time, and he wasn't sure what to make of it. Sherlock opened his mouth for a moment, hesitated, shut it, and then finally, "...Every single day, John."

One simple sentence, but by the eye contact, the tone of Sherlock's voice, and how John knew, somehow, that Sherlock, his Sherlock, the Sherlock Holmes would not exaggerate on this point – John Watson believed. He took a step off the cliff and believed.

"You still wish to punch me, though." John blinked and stared at Sherlock, his eyes, his mouth – a mouth that held a minute smirk to it now, if John could describe it as so. He was still in a state of shock, though it was, for the moment, wearing off, and after Sherlock deduced it, John deduced his own feelings. Sorted through them.

He swallowed thickly and said, "Yes… yes, I do."

"Go ahead, then. I won't punch you back this time."

Those words brought him back to somewhere over three years ago. Irene Adler. John lost himself in those memories - but only for a moment, as they were the past, and the past was, well, simply the past. At least that past was. For now.

John did not take pause any longer. He brought his fist back and sent it right around Sherlock's cheek, all of his anger and resentment and sadness packed into it. Because he wanted, in some perhaps sick way, for Sherlock to feel how he had felt. If even for a moment. Though he might have hit a bit too hard, based upon how Sherlock staggered back a step or two, holding a hand to the smarting cheek, the other hand inside his mouth for a few seconds before he pulled it out again, holding something small in it.

"You – you broke part of my tooth off, John," Sherlock said, examining the bit of tooth in question. John didn't know what to say, if he should feel sorry or not (he did). But Sherlock only brought the small piece of tooth up to his eyes, as close as possible without a microscope. After a few seconds, he closed his fist around it and said, "Get some milk in a clean container, John."

As John did what Sherlock asked, his brain finally focused on something almost trivial, he asked, "Are we going to the dentist now?"

"For this?" He heard the incredulity in Sherlock's voice, and then laughter of all things. Laughter. Sherlock's. Oh God, how he'd missed it. Yet even though Sherlock didn't want to go to the dentist, John still retrieved the milk and a clean container as he had been asked, pouring enough in it to completely cover the bit of tooth. (He also prepared ice in a plastic bag for Sherlock to put to his cheek to prevent swelling, even though Sherlock hadn't asked. He needed it whether he wanted it or not.)

John was surprised to still see Sherlock in their sitting room, still by the darkening window as night started to fall. Soon Mrs. Hudson would be home; John only hoped that she wouldn't have a heart attack because of Sherlock Holmes. John believed in her, though, as he did in Sherlock now. His head felt clearer, though he wasn't sure how long that would last. The doubt would linger for some time, he knew that much. It would flicker in and out, and it did, as soon as later in the night as he tossed and turned in his bed down the hall from Sherlock's room.

He stared at his ceiling for several minutes before throwing the covers off his body. What had occurred today felt like a dream to him, and he couldn't sleep not knowing if Sherlock really was in his room. If all of this had really happened. He did remember it all, remembered Mrs. Hudson nearly fainting after seeing Sherlock (and then scolding him just a few minutes later as they drank tea together), remembered helping Sherlock move his minimal luggage (very minimal) back into the flat. He remembered watching telly with Sherlock as they ate takeaway for the first time in three years, together. He remembered Sherlock yelling at the television at least once, maybe more. John hadn't been paying that much attention, for his mind had been focused more on just the entirety of Sherlock being here.

It was all just a dream, though, wasn't it?

John bit his bottom lip as he sat up in his bed, looking at the clock (2:43 a.m.). He rubbed his eyes and pushed himself up onto the floor, walking the short distance to Sherlock's room. He furrowed his brow when he did see Sherlock lying in bed (he slept now?).

"Know you're here, John," the muffled voice came from the pillow (no, not asleep). John started, and Sherlock turned over, his eyes showing nothing of sleep deprivation

"I knew you would come to check."

"Of course."

"I am very much real, John."

John swallowed hard, barely believing that he was doing this, but he needed to. It was non-negotiable (unless, of course, Sherlock pushed him away; he hoped he wouldn't). Without asking Sherlock, because knowing Sherlock, the man had already figured everything out, John walked around to the other side of the bed and crawled in, pulling the covers over himself. Sherlock did not turn around, leaving John to only guess. He knew what he wanted, whether it changed him or not, he didn't know, but he did it anyway. John didn't care anymore.

His chest against Sherlock's backbone, John curled up against his flatmate, knowing now – yes, now, this was reality. He could never come up with all this with only his mind. The body heat seeping from Sherlock into him and vice-versa, the feel of Sherlock as he breathed in and out, and those curls in Sherlock's hair just tickling his nose a bit as John took his own breaths (in, out, in, out), as they steadied, and as he felt himself finally become comfortable.

Sherlock said nothing, but in the morning John woke in almost the same position.

It was only reversed.