"You…" John muttered, clutching his walking stick closer, as if it could ward off the unwanted apparition.
"I know it's a lot to take in, John, but you have to believe me. You have to trust me." The thing that was wearing Sherlock's face pleaded, in a brilliant impersonation of the dead genius.
"I saw you fall." John said, almost to himself. "Stop tricking me!"
"John…" Sherlock whispered, taking one step closer and widening his arms in an explanatory manner.
"No!" John shouted, lunging at Sherlock and punching him full on the mouth.
Sherlock fell back. The dust from the neglected carpet of the sitting room in 221b Baker Street tickled the inside of his nose. He lay still for a moment, wondering if John would attack again, but instead he had sunk into his arm chair quietly, as if he was tired. So very tired.
Sherlock examined John's boots from his position on the floor. He could tell that the psychosomatic limp was back, worse than it had been when they met. John hadn't left the house for a long time, and when he did it was only down to the corner shop and back, evident from the shade of dried mud on the soles. The wear on the edges of the boots would suggest that he wore them every day, but not outside the house. Perhaps he was ready and waiting to leave for when the time came.
Sherlock sat up and tenderly probed the edge of his mouth. The Woman would deduce that John still cared for him.
"I'm sor-" Sherlock started.
"DON'T!"
"But-"
"Do not! Do not try and apologise for what you did to me."
"It wasn't just hard for you!" Sherlock yelled, desperation seeping into his voice.
For the first time in many months, John studied Sherlock's face. He could see that their time apart had taken a toll on the genius. His eyes were dark and sunken and had lost the gleam of brilliance that they had once had. His hair had grown out and fell across his eyes and five o'clock shadow dusted his chin and highlighted his cheek bones. The once precious coat was crumpled and stained on the floor beside him and he wore a tight purple shirt that pulled at the seams. The distinct smell of cigarettes wafted from Sherlock and filled the darkened room, even though John could see the edges of three nicotine patches peeking out from his rolled sleeves.
"I'd always been alone," Sherlock started as he met John's piercing gaze, "Always. But then you came along and I figured it would be just as easy to go on my merry way if I had to. But I was wrong. I couldn't just pick up and leave without you, but I couldn't stand by and watch you get killed for my own selfishness."
"I begged. I begged, Sherlock! I pleaded that it was all just a trick and that you were alive."
John recounted the many sleepless nights he had had after Sherlock's 'death.' He had waited up all night for the detective to rush back into the apartment and give some complicated explanation as to how and why he was alive and then drag him off to solve another baffling crime.
But it never happened.
Eventually, John started locking the front door at night. He stopped setting out dinner for two. Sherlock's favourite brand of Earl Grey was crossed off the shopping list for good.
Eventually, the Army Doctor realised that Sherlock's final trick, was that there was no trick.
Until now.
"You left it long enough that I actually believed." John said.
"I-"
"I believed you were dead, Sherlock! Do you know what that did to me? You give me this exciting, adventurous life. You saved me, and then you just snatch it all back! Just when I was actually beginning to lo-" John stopped himself before he said the words he had been practicing for months.
"Beginning to… love me?" Sherlock added.
This took John by surprise. Sherlock had always been oblivious to the realms of human emotion and… Sentiment.
Heart pounding in chest, John nodded.
Sherlock rose to his feet and ever so slowly made his way to the worn chair in which John sat. Sherlock slowly bent forward, resting his arm next to John's on the armrest. Their noses were inches apart and their eyes were burning through each other.
John swallowed. His breath quickened. His heart was a furious drumbeat of emotion.
Sherlock closed the gap and their lips met to a metaphorical orchestral symphony. Watson and Holmes grasped at each other, as if pulling apart and reuniting at the same time. They furiously found each other's brokenness and joined it with their own.
John's hands ran down Sherlock's skinny torso and dug his fingers into his waist. Sherlock desperately ripped the familiar woollen cardigan from John's shoulders. John's hands rose from the detective's alluring hips and, one by one, popped open the over-strained buttons of Sherlock's purple shirt of sex.
Sherlock had developed a prominent six pack since their last meeting.
Desperate whispers and moans escaped the lips of both men and they could feel each other's cocks hardening. John unbuttoned the first clasp on Sherlock's jeans and then surreptitiously slipped his hand down to wrap around the man's stiff manhood. It was bigger than John expected, too big for the skinny man. Sherlock moaned loudly and begged for more.
"I missed you so much." John whimpered.
Just then, Mrs. Hudson entered the darkened living room.
"John," She said sadly to his shocked and embarrassed expression, "You're talking to yourself again."