"You're not going to come with me?" the dark-haired man asked, surprising even himself with how overwrought he sounded. The noises of busy London filled the silence that followed as Sherlock regarded his brother outside the door of 221B Baker Street.
"For what reason would I accompany you?" the elder asked disparagingly. "This is your mess, remember?" He tapped the sidewalk once with the end of his umbrella, which thoroughly annoyed Sherlock, who pursed his lips and glared. Mycroft tilted his head upwards and smiled. His expression, though full of sarcastic gusto, betrayed the considerable pity he had on his little brother as well.
Three years.
Sherlock turned his back and gingerly turned the doorknob to his old home. To where John was waiting. Upon seeing that he had been dismissed, Mycroft began walking the opposite way, uttering a complacent "good luck," as he disappeared into the chaos that was the city street.
Sherlock noticed, for one, that his heart was racing. It was really no use trying to predict John's reaction to his sudden arrival. They hadn't seen each other in years. The door was left rather carelessly unlocked, as it had been when he had lived there. Upon entering, he was not greeted by a bubbly Mrs. Hudson nor a tentatively friendly John. Of course Mrs. Hudson wouldn't be home; she had happily agreed to vacate the home so as to leave some time alone to he and John. Sherlock smiled, remembering how very well she had kept the secret of his survival to herself, despite being present to John's ostensible agony.
Ascending the dusty stairs, he found himself taking care to tread quietly. How strange, he thought to himself. It wasn't as though he was trying to surprise John in any way. He simply wanted to clarify. And… though he likely wouldn't admit it to anyone… he desperately, desperately wanted to return to the life he had left. He wanted it all back. To steady himself, he took a deep breath before entering their flat. Hand poised to grasp the doorknob, he very slowly began to turn it, when suddenly, it began turning by itself. He released an involuntary gasp and stepped back. The door swung open, revealing a harried John, who was talking on the phone and hurrying out of the flat all at once. Sherlock attempted to pull himself together as he straightened his scarf. John, slow as ever to observe, glanced at Sherlock and continued on his way for a fraction of a second before processing what he saw. He froze, phone still pressed to his ear, and simply stood in front of his friend. Sherlock, thoroughly disappointed at his failure to time his own revelation, mirrored him, still, silent and apparently quite as surprised as he was.
"Listen… Harry, I'm going to have to call you back," John said slowly. Without hanging up, he put the phone in his back pocket, all the while maintaining eye contact with his long-lost best friend. John had dark circles underneath his eyes and his wrinkles had gotten just a shade deeper, but the instant he set eyes on Sherlock, he looked ten years younger. His hair had grown out somewhat, still cropped neatly but noticeably different from the army style. After several more moments of empty silence, Sherlock smiled assuredly. John's expression transformed from inconsolable surprise to affronted shock.
"What in the hell?" John said quietly, revealing every ounce of sorrow and anguish he had felt the past three years towards the loss of Sherlock. This man standing before him, it was Sherlock! He could literally not believe it. Sherlock maintained his awkward beam.
"I'm alright," he said, out of the blue.
"I see that," John replied, feeling the beginnings of tears in his eyes.
"It's… good to see you again," he said, taking on a serious demeanor. John laughed once, and put his face in his hands.
"God…" he whispered, stumbling backwards and clumsily hitting the door. Sherlock attempted to steady him as he sank to the floor and sat there, trembling, broken again and, above all, profoundly overjoyed. Sherlock followed his lead and sat across from him, leaning against the dark wall of the stairwell of 221B Baker Street. John's breathing was shallow and rough, and Sherlock watched him anxiously, awaiting a clearer reaction.
"How?" he asked, appearing angrier now, his brow furrowed. Sherlock raised his eyebrows.
"Mycroft hasn't told you?"
"No he hasn't told me!" he shouted. "I haven't been told anything! I thought you were dead until about two minutes ago!"
"It was to… keep you safe," he replied evenly. John scoffed loudly.
"Do you have any idea what you've put me though?"
"Not being able to tell you… was not easy either, John."
At this remark, John shut his mouth and studied Sherlock's features, as though making sure to never forget his face. He looked into his icy eyes and, for perhaps the first time, noticed sympathy. Sherlock continued watching him carefully. John leaned his head back to the door, staring at the ceiling. Suddenly, he began chortling. Sherlock, though at first somewhat distressed by his change in demeanor, soon joined his laughter. They continued laughing until there were tears in their eyes, until they had grown so raucous that their voices echoed throughout the stairwell.
After all, thought Sherlock, the whole situation was absurd. Not a single part of it made any sense. Three years later, and there they were, laughing like idiots just like before. In that instant, there was nothing that could have improved his disposition.
After all, thought John, he was never dead to me.