So sorry for abandoning AVPFY for so long. I have become caught up in the Sherlock fandom. I have not given up on AVPFY, though. I simply need some time to work out my Reichenbach feels. So, here: Have a Sherlock fanfiction for no apparent reason other than I am following the 30 day OTP Challenge, using them as prompts. Disclaimer: If I owned any portion of the Sherlock Holmes books or the BBC show, I would not be here. I would be busy making sure that Sherlock and John fell in love in season three.
It had been roughly three years since Sherlock had jumped (but really, who was counting? Time was a blur at this point), and yet John was still living at 221b Baker Street. He certainly hadn't planned on staying - the memories were far too painful - but he couldn't bring himself to leave. Whether he accepted the fact or not, he welcomed the nightmares he got every night. They were his only chance of seeing Sherlock again.
One day, while John was having a coffee, he received a mysterious text. 'Meet me at the cemetery' it read. The text was anonymous, which piqued John's interest. "Might as well," he said to himself. "Not like I have anything better to do." Grabbing his cane, he set off.
Arriving at the cemetery, John noticed a shrouded figure next to Sherlock's grave. "I'm assuming that you're the one who sent me that text," he said as he walked up.
"Yes," said the man. He had a hood on that cast a shadow over his face, so John had no idea who he was.
"So tell me, why exactly are we here?" John asked. He really had no desire to be at the cemetery, but this was the only adventure he'd had in his life for quite some time.
"This pains you, doesn't it?" the man asked. "The grave of a man whom you held in high regard." John nodded, unable to speak. It seemed impossible, but John thought he recognized the man's voice. "Well," the man continued, "I've come to tell you that it's a lie." Reaching up, the man took off his hood.
"Sherlock?!" John exclaimed incredulously. "But how? I saw you dead."
"No. What you saw was simply me in a coma."
"But, what about all of the blood? No one could lose that much without dying."
"Molly gave me extra beforehand. All that I lost was extra blood that my body did not need."
"I suppose that makes sense. But what about the impact?"
"The way that I stepped off of the building combined with how I maintained my speed during the fall kept me safe from any major injuries."
"You're actually alive," John said quietly, reaching out tentatively and touching Sherlock's cheek, just to make sure he wasn't hallucinating. Then something occured to him. The depression from the three years he had spent alone finally exploded into a fit of rage, and he swung at Sherlock. His fist connected with Sherlock's cheek in an impact that was sure to leave a bruise, but the detective just stood there, accepting the blows, which only served to infuriate John more. Instead of continuing to beat him, however, John changed tactics to something that he knew would affect Sherlock. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked in a voice barely above a whisper. "Why didn't Molly tell me?"
"John, I..." Sherlock started to say.
John cut him off, his voice getting louder with each word. "All this time I've been having nightmares about your death, depressed and alone, and you've been alive!" He turned, quite angry with Sherlock. "You're horrid, you know that?" he spat over his shoulder as he walked away.
"John, wait," Sherlock said, grasping John's hand. Something about that touch made him turn back and look at Sherlock. "I wanted you to know, I really did, and I know that I deserved everything you did to me for leaving you to think I was dead all this time. But everyone else needed to believe I had died. If I could've had my way, I would've spared you the grief and not jumped at all."
"So then, why did you?"
"Moriarty had assassins to kill you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade if I didn't. The three people that are the closest to friends that I have. If that had happened, then I truly would have . . . never mind." Sherlock was going to say that he would have jumped, but he realized that John didn't need to hear that sort of thing at the moment.
"Which means the next best thing was for you to fake it. Still, though, why didn't you tell me?"
"I needed your reactions to be convincing, otherwise people might start to wonder. And what better way to convince people than for you to actually believe that I had commited suicide?"
John had to admit that Sherlock's reasoning made sense, though he wouldn't say so out loud. Not that he needed to, anyway; Sherlock had probably deduced what he was thinking from his facial expressions or something.
"Can you forgive me?" Sherlock asked, with a truly apologetic look in his eyes.
"Yeah, I suppose," John muttered. "But you have to promise one thing."
"What?" Sherlock asked, willing to promise anything if it meant getting John's friendship back.
"Never pull a stunt like that again. You . . . well, you mean too much to me."
"Of course. I promise," Sherlock said, smiling though it hurt to do so. The two of them then went back to 221b, and not even John seemed to mind that they held hands the whole way.