August – three years post fall

Sherlock watched John from a bench across the street as he went in to a small café for coffee, as he did at least once a month since his "death". He followed John, watched all his movements, noticed everything – but he refused to call it stalking. No, he was merely checking up on his friend. Sherlock noted how old John had begun to look. His hair had begun to gray and the wrinkles and laugh lines on his face had become more prominent. As if Sherlock's absence in his life had worn on him so much more than even the war. Before Sherlock had left, John always acted as the constant positive to Sherlock's negative. He had walked through life with a bit of a spring in his step. Now he moved with a limp – albeit a psychosomatic one.

As John stood in line he glanced around constantly, as though looking for someone. Ever since Sherlock's "death" John has been more aware of everything around him. He checks behind him, moves around like he is being followed – and he was, for a short time. The assassins hired to shoot John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade followed him for months until they thought they were certain of Sherlock's demise. Sherlock supposed they were paid extra for just that.

John placed his order and shifted from foot as he waited, glancing furtively around, as though ready to make a mad dash at any given moment. The barista was clearly flirting with him, though John didn't notice that sort of thing anymore. He smiled politely as she handed him two drinks, but it didn't reach his eyes. Sherlock wished John would smile again, a real smile. Even as frequently as he came down from where he was staying in Scotland to follow John, he hadn't seen it for some time. Not since before the fall.

Sherlock lifted the hood of his pullover around his head when John came out of the café. He stopped, almost petrified. John stood frozen in the doorway staring at his hands in the realization that he'd just ordered a drink for Sherlock. His hands shook and he began to breathe heavily. Sherlock watched as he dropped both cups in the trash and staggered to the nearest table. He took several deep breaths as he tried to steady himself.

Sherlock clenched his fists as he watched the pain cross John's face. There had to have been another way – one he hadn't thought of – because this. This was torture. Watching John grieve his death just a few meters from him and knowing that hurting John was the best way of protecting him. His best friend. His only friend.

September

John stared into the mirror at his face as he brushed his teeth. Lifeless. He spat. He felt so mechanical. Like he was just going through the motions anymore. He was glad for his military background; that made it easier for him to just turn his brain off. Ignore the world. Ignore life. Ignore the hellish nightmare he was in and the aching loneliness he felt at Sherlock's absence.

He wished he could move on – forget Sherlock, his best friend. Forget what he'd done for him. Forget how Sherlock had rescued him from the monotonous drone of the life he'd fallen into after the war. Sometimes the pain was too much.

No, he wouldn't give those memories up for anything. The most harrowing of memories were the ones he held most dear. As much as they tormented him, they were all he had left.

He hobbled down to the kitchen where an envelope lay on the table. He picked it up and shoved money inside. He sealed it and wrote "RENT" on the front for Mrs. Hudson. After Sherlock jumped, she said he could only pay his half until he got back on his feet. He wondered why, after so long, she still allowed him to pay half. Best not to ask though.

He dropped the envelope in her mail slot on his way out of the flat. He never could stay there long. Maybe he'd go to a pub later. Call someone up and have a few rounds with one of his mates from his younger years. Might even meet a nice girl.

He sighed. That never really worked to take his mind off his depression for very long though. There had been several nice women for John over the years. They never seemed to stick around for very long though. John couldn't blame them. He didn't even remember their names at this point anyway.

Wherever he was going to go, it wasn't here. He left, pulling his coat tightly around him against the chill. It had been particularly cold of late. He'd settled on looking for a job. The last few had fallen through. He hadn't managed to keep one for very long. It was always something to do with his mood.

Sherlock watched John limp away from inside of Speedy's. He waited for John to round a corner before walking out himself. He unlocked the door with the key he still had and stepped in. He stared up at the door to the flat. This was as close as he'd ever gotten. He didn't dare go up and take a peak. He might be tempted to take something, or worse, stay.

He tapped on Mrs. Hudson's door.

"A minute!" she called. Sherlock could hear her as she padded from her couch to the door.

She scowled upon seeing him. "Since he's just left, I'll assume you're not here to stay."

"You know I can't-"

"Won't."

"-as much as I'd like to."

She glared daggers at him but opened the door wider for him to step in. "Like a cup of tea? Maybe a biscuit?"

He shook his head and made no move to sit down. "No, I've only come to drop off this." He pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to her.

"You may as well live there if you're going to keep paying rent like you do." She suggested, as she always did when he dropped of the other half of the rent.

He remained silent.

"But you won't." She crossed her arms. "Fine. Alright."

There was a moment of silence before Sherlock finally looked up at her and said, "John is far better off without me."

"That's debatable," she said tautly.

"Well, I should go."

She frowned but wished him well when he left.

October

Sherlock pulled his newspaper up to cover most of his face as John's gaze brushed over him. Though he wouldn't even recognize Sherlock anyway as he was in one of his many disguises. Sherlock wore a brown trench coat today (he couldn't bear to not have one on) that was excessively baggy, so as not to tell his definite shape, a ball cap, sunglasses that covered a large amount of his face, and a fake beard that itched. He felt tacky and rather awkward, but it did well to hide his identity.

He got up as John began walking and rounded a corner. Sherlock folded the newspaper and tucked it under his arm. He followed John at what Sherlock had deemed a "safe" distance for a couple of blocks as John made his way through the ins and outs of London.

It was rather crowded on the sidewalk and a man bumped into Sherlock making him drop his newspaper. Sherlock huffed in disgust as he bent to retrieve the paper. When he stood back up again, John had disappeared. Sherlock quickly scanned the crowd for John, but he was nowhere in sight.

Sherlock made his way to the alleyway he'd last seen John standing next to. He walked swiftly down the alley only to make the realization too late. John knew he was being followed.

Sherlock heard the click of a gun as John said, "Don't move and put your hands in the air." John had been getting better at this. He'd pulled the great Sherlock Holmes into a trap.

"You've been following me for some time now. Why? Who are you? What the hell do you want from me?" John interrogated.

Silence.

"Look, I'm not really in the mood to shoot someone today, so do me a favor and don't make me have to."

Sherlock turned to face John and slowly pealed his beard away and removed his glasses.

John's eyes went wide and he dropped the gun.

Obvious shock. Increased breathing rate. Visibly shaking. Possible rage or elation.

Clenched fists. Definitely rage.

"Sherlock?" John said, barely audible above a whisper. His voice shook.

"…John," Sherlock gave his best coy smile.

"You bastard!" John growled. And that's when John Watson punched Sherlock Holmes in the face.

Sherlock stumbled backwards and fell. He hadn't expected John to hit him so hard.

John pounced on top of him and pushed him fully to the ground. He straddled Sherlock, hitting him a few more times, each one with considerably less force than the last. Sherlock didn't fight back though. He took it like a man because deserved it and he knew it. He hated himself for leaving John alone like that. He wanted to be hit.

When John finally stopped hitting him, Sherlock's nose was broken, his lip was split, his pale skin was colored with bruises, and he was bleeding profusely. John stared down at what he'd done to Sherlock. He'd put all his rage and anger at Sherlock for leaving him so alone in the world again.

And all of a sudden he felt as though he couldn't take it anymore. He collapsed on top of Sherlock and wept into his chest.

"You were dead!" He sobbed, "I watched you fall! I watched you fall, Sherlock, I saw you. How can you be here? You were dead… You were dead…"

Sherlock never comforted people – he didn't know how – so he simply let John cry there into his chest and focused on breathing through his mouth (since the blood made breathing through his nose rather impractical). Normally he found such displays of emotion pointless, pathetic, and repulsive, but this was different. It always was with John.

They stayed there in the alley like that for a few more moments before John abruptly sat up and wiped his face of all tears. He stared down at Sherlock, still in disbelief.

"Right," John said and stood, reaching for Sherlock's hand. "Let's get you cleaned up."

John pulled Sherlock up into a tight embrace. Sherlock hugged John in return.

"I… I'm glad you're alive…" John choked out before squeezing Sherlock tight once more then turning back down the alley.

They walked back to the flat in silence, John keeping Sherlock in his sight at all times and holding on to his sleeve. He couldn't bear to have Sherlock out of his sight. He still felt as though he was in another of his dreams. Soon he would wake up, Sherlock would be dead, and he would be left alone, yet again, to face the cold reality that was the world.

Sherlock held his breath as he went up the steps of the flat. He hadn't been back here in three years. 221B. He ran his fingers over the numbers as he stepped in. He noted the subtle changes as he made his way up the stairs to the door to the flat. Their flat. As often as he followed John, he never came back in here because he knew he wouldn't be able to leave again if he did.

When Sherlock walked in he was surprised to find everything almost the same as he'd left it. Mrs. Hudson had boxed his things up. Had John really gone through the trouble of unpacking them again?

All of Sherlock's things were on the mantle, including his skull. His violin untouched on a stand. The wall where Sherlock had previously made bullet holes now had dents to match.

John realized what Sherlock was looking at and his cheeks flushed as he turned and headed into the kitchen, still dragging Sherlock by the sleeve. He sat Sherlock at the table and got a rag, water, cotton swabs, and rubbing alcohol. As he gathered these he constantly looked back to Sherlock worriedly, then pursed his lips and turned back to his supplies.

Sherlock observed that John had purchased new plates when he opened up the cupboard to retrieve a bowl. The previous plates had been approximately the same size as the dents that now covered the living room wall. He could safely guess what had happened to the aforementioned dining ware.

John pulled up a chair across from Sherlock and tended his wounds. He cleaned the blood off of his face and sterilized the cuts all in silence. When he finished he tended to the cuts on his own knuckles. It would seem Irene Adler was right – one could indeed cut their hand hitting Sherlock's face. John stood and put on a kettle to make tea. Then he sat back in the chair and stared at Sherlock.

Sherlock was first to break the silence. "I truly am sorry," he told John.

"Why, Sherlock? After all this time, why now? Why not tell me you weren't dead sooner?" John's voice wavered as he spoke.

"I was protecting you. The less you knew the better."

"Don't try to be clever. I know everything – who was following me, why you jumped – everything except how you survived. I just don't understand why you couldn't tell me. I could have kept it a secret, and you know it."

Sherlock let out a sigh. "Because you were the one person that truly mattered. If you didn't look thoroughly convinced that I was lying dead in front of you they would have killed you, John. No hesitating. I couldn't bear the thought of that. You're my only true friend – my best friend – if you knew I wasn't dead, and didn't have the proper reaction, do you really think they would have paused for even a moment before shooting you?"

John knew he was right. Why did he always have to be right? He looked away. "Fine. Alright. But three years, Sherlock, really? It has been safe for you to return for a long while," he looked back at Sherlock, "I made certain of that."

"It wasn't safe. Not only because of the assassins but also the government wants to bring me in for fear I was the criminal mastermind behind Moriarty's plot." John rolled his eyes. "And what exactly do you mean 'I made certain of that,' hm?"

The kettle whistled, signaling that the water was boiled and the tea ready to be made. John stood and prepared the tea into two mugs and sat back down again. Sherlock looked at him expectantly.

"Do you really not know what I did those months after your death?" Sherlock shook his head. "And here I thought you had been following me. What a lousy stalker you make."

"I kept an extremely low profile those first few months…"

"Right. Well… I'd spent that time proving your innocence. I couldn't let everyone think you were a fake and let Moriarty get off scot-free." He looked down at his mug, stirring his tea. "In fact, I almost killed your brother in the process…"

Sherlock almost choked on his tea. "You what?!"

"Sherlock," he would whisper to himself when he was alone. Even when he wasn't he felt it. He didn't think there was any hope left in the world. All of the mystery and life had gone. Life was no longer a thing of beauty but entirely repulsive. He found it hard to tolerate being awake or doing anything at all.

Often he would wake in the night in a cold sweat, usually yelling Sherlock's name. Every night he watched Sherlock fall, over and over. Like reruns of a bad television show, but you wouldn't turn it off because it was the only thing on. These nightmares were always so much worse than the ones of Afghanistan. In these he was always losing the one thing he had going for him. He remembered the fear dreams of the war always brought. The smell of gunpowder and sweat. The way the dirt stung his nose. Now he felt a great, resounding nothing right in the pit of him. He feared it would swallow him whole.

Mrs. Hudson visited him often in the hotel he'd been staying in since. He barely ate unless it necessary or she had brought him something to eat. She frequently tried to convince him to return to the flat. "His things are all packed away now. You can come back any time," she insisted it was because of this that he could return.

What she didn't realize was that the absence of his belongings only made it harder to handle.

"I'm worried for you, John," she would say as she placed a hand on his knee. When he wouldn't respond she would usually just go quietly, leaving him alone with his thoughts once again.

At one point she almost forced him to leave the hotel room for the first time in weeks. "You can't sit around and mope forever!" She had said just before leaving him for the day. "You need to get out of here and do something productive!"

So he did.

He'd cleaned himself up and left the hotel for the first time in ages. He left a note at the Diogenes Club for Mycroft to meet him at the warehouse they'd first met at 6:00 PM.

When Mycroft arrived he raised his eyebrows upon seeing John. "I hardly expected to hear from you. Especially now that Sherlock's dead, neither one of us has anything of need from the other."

Why did the first thing out of his mouth have to be some stupid comment on his brother? John couldn't listen to Mycroft talk of Sherlock so trivially. He walked straight up to Mycroft and hit him harder than he'd ever hit anyone in his life. Mycroft caught himself as he stumbled backward but John just hit him again so he fell on his arse.

"Doesn't family mean anything to you?!" He yelled at Mycroft. Underneath the bruises and blood Mycroft looked rather shocked and confused. "Ugh. Don't answer that. It's obvious that isn't anything that has ever been important to you for anything other than asking favors."

Mycroft didn't answer.

"It's your fault he's dead, you know," John glowered at him. "If you hadn't told Moriarty his life story Sherlock might be alive right now. Does that even bother you?"

Silence still, but the look on Mycroft's face said everything. He looked genuinely upset, but only at the fact that the world had lost its most brilliant mind, not that he was the cause of his own brother's death.

"You disgust me," John spat in his face. "You're a sorry excuse for a human being."

"Did you have me come here simply to beat me like a dog and call me names?" Mycroft asked as if the only thing that bothered him about this was that he was potentially missing an opportunity to make a business deal. He stood and wiped himself off. He pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at his bleeding nose.

"No, actually. Here's what's going to happen: You're going to help me prove Sherlock's innocence. It's the least you could do after sending your only brother to an early grave."

"And what exactly, do you propose I do?"

"You're going to publicly announce that Sherlock never had a childhood friend named 'Rich Brook'. You don't have to announce it was you who gave him the information (unless it comes to that, of course). I know how important it is to you to look good, and what could be worse than selling out your brother to a maniac?"

Mycroft looked shocked momentarily, like he was wondering how this poor, cripple soldier could possibly have the audacity to ask him something of this magnitude. But it wasn't really that monumental a thing to do – especially if it meant John would never pester (remind) him about what he did to Sherlock again.

John spent the following months gathering evidence against Moriarty. It was during this time that he found out exactly why Sherlock jumped and also that he was being followed. He did his best to get as much as he possibly could before coming out with it. If this was the last thing he was going to do for Sherlock, by God, he was going to do it right.

When John finished telling him this, Sherlock looked positively astounded. Point for John.

"Why would you do that?" Sherlock didn't understand why John would go to all the trouble of proving a dead man innocent.

John looked down at his tea. "You're my best friend. I couldn't very well have you dead and thought a criminal mastermind."

"… You always believed in me… Even when I gave you every reason not to."

John turned red. "Yep. That's me. May as well tattoo 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes' on my backside."

Sherlock chuckled. It was nice to think that had John never lost faith in him. He smiled softly at John.

"So…" John was eager to change the subject. "How exactly did you survive that fall?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's rather simple, John, really. If you'd only just pay attention."

"Sorry, I was a little preoccupied at that point in time. I'll try to be more observant the next time you're jumping off a building."

Sherlock ignored the snide comment. "Obviously where you were standing was important. I stressed that. I made sure you were behind a building so you wouldn't see me hit the ground. I actually jumped into the back of a nearby truck, landing safely. I then got out and had various members of my Homeless Network spread blood and surround me to give me the appearance of death. I also had them make sure you couldn't check my pulse anywhere besides my right arm. I used that tennis ball I'd been tossing around all day in order to stop the pulse in that arm."

John was astounded. It must have taken a lot to orchestrate his death. If he'd been off by a few feet when jumping he really could have ended up scattered along the sidewalk.

"But how did you get out of the morgue? What was in the coffin?"

"Well, the coffin is empty, of course. And naturally I'd had the aid of a one Miss Molly Hooper."

John was stunned. He'd never suspected Molly of knowing Sherlock's whereabouts. But it did make perfect sense that he would require her assistance. It also explained why she'd acted so odd the first few times he'd seen her after the incident and every time he'd mentioned how he missed Sherlock.

"And as far as where I'd stayed goes – since you are about to ask," Sherlock said, interrupting his reverie, "Molly arranged that I stay with some family friends of hers up in Scotland. I traveled through back roads and under the radar of the government with the help of the Homeless Network. I stayed with a woman named Elise Gallagher – she is Scottish, her husband Irish – and her eight positively monstrous children. By God, the woman is Satan's incarnate!"

John chuckled, "How ever did you survive?" It was nice to hear him laugh again. Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he'd seen John even remotely happy in earnest.

"Speaking of Elise," Sherlock glanced at the time, "She does expect me to return this evening…" He trailed off.

"I'm coming with you," said John, without hesitating for a moment. "I've got you back now. I'm not letting you go so soon."

Sherlock beamed at John. "I suggest you pack, then. The next train leaves at 10:15 and its 9:03 now. And seeing as how it takes 45 minutes at least to get there, you might want to be quick about it."

"Right. Yes." John was packed within 10 minutes and the two men hailed a cab and were off to the train station.

They purchased tickets (Sherlock using his fake ID) and got settled in their seats. John tilted his head back and closed his eyes. He leaned his arm against Sherlock's, still needing the constant reminder of his presence. It was strange to have Sherlock back in his life so suddenly, though not unwelcome. He'd missed his friend for so long it was good to be in his company again.