A/N: So, I may or may not continue this, it all depends if people want me too. Oh, and the title comes from a song called No Light No Light, by Florence + The Machine, it you were wondering.
–
Sherlock knew something was wrong.
Taking a walk in the Mind Palace wasn't supposed to be this difficult.
At least, not that area, the area specifically meant for people who were close to him.
Mycroft was clear, he was his brother after all, and Mrs. Hudson was remembered as well as Mycroft. Molly looked a little fuzzy, but her voice was remembered perfectly. Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson were a little blurry, but he remembered them well enough.
But John, however, wasn't clear in his memory at all.
Sherlock momentarily panicked, and reviewed the things he did remember.
He liked jumpers and tea. He was an army doctor, he wasn't someone to be messed with. Had horrible luck on all of his dates. He was short, he had blond hair, and-
Sherlock stopped himself. Those facts were trivial, they didn't matter at all. You could lump all of the facts together, but that didn't mean you'd get the same person.
Sherlock quickly pulled out his phone, to check the date. Oddly enough, it had been exactly three years since he had jumped, and left his world behind.
Moriarty's criminal web had been eliminated, and the commotion caused by his suicide had died down. It was probably safe.
Sherlock let out a sigh, and stood from the uncomfortable motel sofa, and placed his phone back into his pocket. He grabbed his already packed suitcase that he had been living out of for the past few years, and exited the small room.
He couldn't stop the small grin spreading across his face.
Sherlock was going home.
–
Sherlock quickly headed down the sidewalk, barely able to keep himself from full-out running to 221B. The plane flight and the train ride had taken far too long for him, it was nearly one in the morning. Mrs. Hudson would probably be asleep, but John might still be up.
As he turned to go on Baker Street, he tried to think of what to say. Just a simple 'Hi, I'm alive, and I'm moving back in, sorry for the stain outside the hospital.' would never do.
Sherlock stopped, and looked up at the building. The lights were off, John must not be home. Sherlock reached into his pocked and pulled out the key he had held onto for those three years, and unlocked the door, and quietly slipped in. He noticed there wasn't a light under Mrs. Hudson's door, so he decided not to bother her.
Quickly headed up the stairs, he entered the flat and flicked the lights on. He took a deep breath, inhaling the familiar smell of home. Unable to stop from smiling, he excitedly looked around the flat, happy to fine everything exactly as it had been. His laptop was still in his spot, he chair was still in its place, and the head was still in the fridge, although it was noticeably decayed.
His room, oddly, was in perfect condition, the bed was made and there was no dust to be found.
Walking back into the main living area, he decided to wait on checking everything until he settled things with John.
He turned the lights off, and settled into his chair, and eagerly awaited his friends arrival.
He didn't have to wait long.
The door creaked open, the lights flashed back on, and he entered, saw Sherlock, and then he turned around and headed to the kitchen, not giving his 'dead' friend a second thought.
Sherlock knew he'd have to convince him that it was really him, not just some hallucination. And he decided to do it the simple way.
"Hello, John."
–
John Watson froze.
When he had entered the flat, returning from the store, he had seen Sherlock.
Sitting in his chair, still with his coat and scarf on, looking very much how he did the day he jumped.
John had just dismissed it as his mind playing tricks on him, however, because it happened often enough. Sometimes late at night he'd think he'd hear Sherlock pacing about the flat, other times he swore he saw a few of Sherlock's objects change places. So when he saw him, sitting in his chair, looking like nothing had changed, he ignored him. He moved into the kitchen to pick up the few groceries he had bought, and then was when he froze.
"Hello, John."
There was silence for a moment or two. John didn't know what to think, he didn't know what to do, he wasn't even sure if he remembered how to breathe.
"I'm back," his old best friend said softly.
John spun around, and found himself face to face with Sherlock Holmes.
"S-Sherlock?" John tried to stutter out something, but it seemed his mind had been wiped blank.
"I'm not dead," Sherlock said, simply, "I never was."
"How?"
"Does it matter?"
John took a step back and studied his friend, and tried to wrap his mind around the situation.
Sherlock was alive.
Sherlock Holmes, the man who had committed suicide in front of dozen of witnesses and John's own eyes, who had a funeral, who was dead, was standing right in front of him, alive.
Very, very, very, much alive.
"John, you look very pale, you should sit down," Sherlock said, uncharacteristically concerned. He led John to his chair, and took the seat across from him.
"Just... can you explain this?" John exclaimed, once he had snapped out of the initial shock.
"Where do I start?"
"Start with how you lived."
"Oh, that. Simple, I landed in the garbage truck, and then while you were hit by the bicyclist, I quickly moved to the pavement."
John thought over this for a moment.
"But, that doesn't really make any sense. I saw you fall."
"The Homeless Network, Moriarty's body, and some fear inducing hallucination drug might have been involved. Moving on-" Sherlock said, trying to sum up the situation quickly, before being interrupted by John.
"Why did you do it?"
"Moriarty threatened me. Not me, actually, but you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson."
"Not that."
"Then what?"
"Lie."
Sherlock paused. He wasn't quite sure what John was talking about.
"You told me you were a fake. And then, you supposedly 'died'."
"I had to do it, John. Just leave it at that." Sherlock replied curtly, not wanting to revisit those memories.
"No. I can't."
"Look-"
"Three years. Three years, two days, and twelve hours. Three years, two days, twelve hours of believing in your lies. Of people constantly talking about how you were a fake, and trying to convince me of it. Three whole years of thinking you were dead." John was shouting now, and he stood from his chair.
"John, please-" Sherlock tried to interrupt, and stood from his chair. John's glare silenced him, however, and John stopped yelling, his voice becoming deathly quiet.
"Three. Damn. Years. Did you hear that, Sherlock? Three damn years! Do you have any idea what that did to Molly, or Mrs. Hudson, or Lestrade, or Mycroft?"
John calmed down slightly, and his angered expression soon changed to sadness.
"Do you have any idea what that did to me? What I was going to do to myself?"
Sherlock's eyes opened a bit wider, and he flinched at the thought of how John always kept a gun nearby.
"John, I'm sorry. Please, just-"
"Get out."
Sherlock stared at John in surprise.
"But-"
"Get. Out. Now"
Sherlock was hurt. He hadn't expected John to welcome him with open arms, but this? The thought hadn't crossed his mind.
Sherlock straitened his coat, and wiped the hurt look off his face, and tried to stand a little taller. If John would treat him with such indifference, the he wouldn't care.
"I thought you'd be happy to see me," Sherlock said, slowly starting to edge towards the door.
"I'm glad you're not dead. But... I-I just can't have you here," John said, his voice a little shaky. He didn't know why he was saying that, he didn't want Sherlock to leave at all, he wanted him to stay and never be out of his sight again.
"I understand," Sherlock replied calmly, although he felt like he was falling apart.
Sherlock carefully headed to the door, telling himself he wouldn't care, he wouldn't mind, and that he wouldn't look back.
He did have one last glance over his shoulder, and saw John staring at him, silently begging him to stay. Sherlock snapped out of it, and faced forward again, ignoring John's silent pleadings. If he didn't say it out loud, than he didn't really care, and Sherlock would try his best to convince himself of that.
"Goodbye, John." he said quietly, his voice barely a whisper.
He took a slow step forward, and then another, and another, until he noticed he was half-running out into the cold, wet night, dodging any other late night wanderers, unsure of where he was going.
He ducked into a nearby alleyway, and leaned against a cool brick walk, and shut his eyes tight.
Sherlock tried to convince himself that he didn't care.
It didn't work.