John stood outside 221B, mentally prepping himself to walk inside. A year had passed since he witnessed Sherlock's suicide and was only now returning to their—his apartment to dispose of Sherlock's possessions. Taking one final deep breath, John stepped over the threshold and began his ascent to their flat. He was glad that he managed to pick a time when Mrs. Hudson was out; he didn't want to be at the receiving end of her concerns at the moment. His ears perked as faint violin music reached him, but dismissed it as nothing more than a product of his too-hopeful imagination.
With a heavy heart, he unlocked the door and nudged it open, not yet daring to step inside. The violin music rang louder, the gentle, morose tune setting the perfect mood for Johns daunting task. He closed his eyes and could momentarily picture Sherlock standing by the window, violin tucked securely under his chin, watching ordinary people go about their ordinary lives. He let the image go with a sigh, but the music persisted. Opening his eyes and looking around the room, he saw the CD player was on. What a quizzical look, he walked over and pressed eject. To his frustration, the tune continued, though it was slightly softer. He set the CD on top of the player and began to follow the music. It led him through the kitchen, down the hall, right outside Sherlock's bedroom. John's heart began to beat faster.
"No. No, no, no, no, no." He silently reminded himself that Sherlock was dead and nothing could change that.
Except… Irene had been dead, hadn't she? But that was a completely different situation. They didn't see her die. They didn't check her pulse only seconds after. They didn't see the blood pooling around her head. No, John knew Sherlock was dead. He'd come to terms with it and had begun to move on. Maybe Mrs. Hudson had turned on the music for her own comfort. With that thought in mind, he opened the door and froze. The music ended and John stared blankly at the man in front of him.
"Ah, good to see you, John."
A ghost, it had to be a ghost. There was no other explanation for Sherlock Holmes to be standing in front of him as if he never jumped off the St. Bart's Hospital rooftop.
"Good… 'Good to see you?' Sherlock, you were dead. And then you just-you show up with your violin and your…" John shook his head out of frustration. "What the fuck? Answer me that, Sherlock, what the fuck. I-I needed you. I couldn't go back to a normal life. Once you're friends with you, everything else is dull. God, Sherlock, you can't do this!"
John took a deep breath to try to collect himself. "You can't be alive, Sherlock."
Sherlock let out a breathy laugh and shook his head.
"I knew you wouldn't figure it out, John, but I at least expected you to try."
"What?"
Sherlock scoffed. "Did you even try? Think about it, John! Rhododendron ponticum—a poisonous plant that causes runny nose, watery eyes, difficulty breathing, and a slowed heart rate, when taken in a high enough dose. It was on site at the factory where we found those children eating the mercury candy. I picked some up on our way out. I brought it with me to the hospital later on. When you left to check on Mrs. Hudson, I had Molly help me extract some of its pollen for me to ingest. Then, when I called you, I had you stop so there was a building between you and St. Bart's. When I fell, you were knocked over by a bicyclist—"
"How do you know that?"
"—and I landed in a truck full of dead bodies. I unwrapped one from its bag and pushed him out onto the sidewalk in my place. After your bump with the bicyclist, you were dazed and confused and shocked and saw what you believed to have truly happened. Molly officially announced me dead and my replacement went into the ground, not I. I planned everything out, John. I knew Moriarty wouldn't rest until he'd destroyed me completely, so I faked my death."
John was feeling both impressed and frustrated. "Right, right, okay. But why now? Why did you come back after I finally came to accept your death? Was I just a cruel form of entertainment for you this past year?"
"No, John. I wanted to come out of hiding, but Moriarty had his men trained on you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. I couldn't let my three only friends die for me."
"Okay, but you still haven't answered my question, Sherlock. Why now?"
"Because Moriarty's men think I'm dead now. They stopped following the three of you only a few weeks ago."
"Why'd they continue to follow us after you were confirmed dead?"
"Think, John, think. They probably had orders to follow you after my death in case I wasn't really dead."
"So… so this is it? You're back for good?"
"Yes, John."
John felt a contentedness wash over him that he hadn't felt in ages. His best friend was alive and well and standing right in front of him. He rushed forward and wrapped his arms tightly around Sherlock's waist. Sherlock was momentarily shocked before he let his arms fall around John's neck.
"Thank you," John whispered into Sherlock's chest. "Thank you for being alive."