This story is based off of fanart that I found on tumblr. I'll put a link on my profile if you want to see it.
Sherlock Paused before the door. He had a grocery Bag slung on his elbow, the tips of his long fingers clutching a small key. In his other hand was a large bouquet of roses that Mycroft had insisted he get.
Sherlock Holmes was nervous, he realized as he sucked every last detail out of the screw at the bottom of the first "2" on the door. He was nervous to see his friend. His friend that he had abandoned. His friend that had stood at Sherlock's grave and cried. His only friend. The one person that Sherlock Holmes could not live without. The person he- dare he even think it- loved?
It had been three months. What if John had moved on? What if he had a girlfriend? What if he had a boyfriend? What if he didn't live here anymore? What if Mrs. Hudson had died? What if JOHN had died? What if, what if, what if? There were so many "what if"s.
But he was the great Sherlock Holmes. He had faked his own death. If that didn't prove how amazing he was, then what did? Sherlock breathed deeply, catching a whiff of the roses in his left hand.
"Disgusting things. Why does Mycroft think that John would like them?" he muttered under his breath. Well, it was valentines day, after all. And Sherlock supposed that a bag of groceries probably wasn't enough to make up for three months' absence.
Thinking "what the hell?", Sherlock inserted the key, still hanging from his fingers, into the lock and turned the knob. He entered the dark hallway and creeped up the stairs. Was John not home? He was getting more nervous by the minute. He slipped the key back into his pocket and rearranged the groceries, holding them against his chest with his left elbow and transferring the flowers to his right hand. He was now at the entrance to his old flat. Oh, how he had missed this place. He cautiously opened the door, holding the roses out at arm's length as an offering. Or maybe a shield. He wasn't sure. How would John react?
Suddenly, a foot connected with his chest. He fell onto the floor in a heap. He was being battered by something long and- was that the baguette? he stole a glance upwards, and saw the baguette which had been in a grocery bag only moments before being wielded by John. His John. His- oh. Very angry John. Another strike came. Then more.
Each strike was punctured by a word. "HOW. DARE. YOU. LEAVE. ME. YOU. BLOODY. IDIOT." suddenly, it all stopped. There was a whimpered "Sherlock," then John was gone.
Where had he gone? "John?" called Sherlock, still sitting in a heap on the floor. He realized that he was badly bruised. Could a baguette really do that much damage? Looking around, he saw the baguette on the floor next to him, sitting among fallen groceries and crushed roses. And a pair of feet.
"You brought me roses." said a voice. Calmer than he had expected.
"It was Mycroft's idea," came the response.
"Mycroft knows you're alive?" Sherlock could sense that John was tensing up in anger just from his words.
"Did you expect him not to, John? I didn't tell him, if that's what you're mad about. He figured it out. He's been helping me. But John, it's you that I couldn't stay away from."
"Sherlock, I'm not mad. Well, maybe I am, a bit," John confessed, dropping on to his knees and showing Sherlock that he had brought a first aid kit back with him. Sherlock let out a breath he didn't know he was holding and leaned forward so that his friend could patch him up. "Sherlock, I missed you. How did you do it? WHY did you do it? Where have you been? Why did you make me go through that? Sherlock, I-" John's voice stopped, but his gentle hands continued to apply bandages to Sherlock's many bruises.
"I'm sorry, John." Sherlock whispered. "I truly am. I had to. He was going to kill you."
"Moriarty?" John asked, still calm. "Wait... This was Moriarty's fault?" John suddenly Screamed, overturned the first aid kit, stood up, and began to violently pace through the already crushed roses. "It wasn't- you didn't- you did it to save me?" and John stopped, staring straight at Sherlock, waiting for an answer.
It took a while for Sherlock to stop staring at John, simply marvelling in the fact that he could see him again, that John was killing him. John, John, John, John. "Yes" he finally managed to whisper.
Less than a second after he finished the monosyllabic word, there was another body close to his. A pair of lips crashing down on his. Warmth flooding him. Companionship. there were arms around him. He felt safe. Safe, for the first time in months. Safe, and home with John. His John.