John Watson wasn't someone to easily forget. In school, this worked to his advantage. He didn't have much difficulty studying when rote memorization was the key to a good grade. He was never quite as brilliant as the rest of his peers, but his work came fairly easy to him, and the few times he struggled, well, he managed, and with an older sister who was a brainiac in her own way, well, it wasn't difficult to be a good student.
In personal relationships, this didn't always work so well. He remembered too many faults, too many times a person had failed him, and at first, he spent more time focusing on that than on the person, and so his early relationships, especially with women? They were doomed to fail. He eventually figured out how to remember that everyone is human and that focusing on a person's strengths rather than their faults was the key. He didn't have very many long-lasting relationships, but at least the ones he did have weren't fraught with tension.
Then the day came that Mike Stamford introduced John to Sherlock Holmes, and while it was obvious that he was different in a very obvious way, in a you-don't-just-meet-a-person-like-this-every-day sort of way, he was no different than any other relationship that John Watson had had.
John Watson remembered everything. Every thoughtless word, every time he was left behind. But he also remembered the brilliance, the feeling of being included in Sherlock's very important work. He remembered not feeling alone.
And now, as the man stood before him, the man who was supposed to have died three years ago, who had thrown himself off a roof and made John watch him do so, John could remember with great clarity a conversation they had right before the end.
"I know you're for real," John had said, a sentiment that was nearly repeated verbatim as Sherlock stood on the roof of St. Bartholomew's."
"One hundred percent?" Sherlock had asked, if not quite sure he believed John's sincerity.
John had never doubted. Not once, not when "Richard Brook" had appeared before him and had made ridiculous claims. Not when Kitty Reilly had explained the entire plan. Not when the papers and the people talked about how much of a fraud he was.
The odd thing was, John never really grieved like a regular person would. He didn't greive over Sherlock the way he had grieved for his friends in Afghanistan. He didn't grieve over Sherlock the way he had grieved just a year prior, when Harry had died. He often wondered why that was, and now as Sherlock stood before him, very different, to be sure, but still very much Sherlock, he realized that perhaps it was simply his subconscious trying to tell him something. Perhaps he had known all along that Sherlock was not really dead.
Sherlock wasn't dressed in a manner that he had expected, if he had been prepared for this at all. He was wearing a dark wash pair of denim trousers, with a shirt the color of his eyes with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair was ginger, and he wondered about that – was that the color his hair naturally was, or did he dye it to be darker, so that he looked as little like Mycroft as he possibly could? Somehow, John wouldn't put that past him at all. He was too thin, and that was really what John had a difficult time not focusing on. His hands shook as he stood over the threshold, and John wondered when the last time he'd eaten had been.
John swallowed hard. "Sherlock," he said, his voice betraying him. He couldn't very well pretend like this had been nothing, like he hadn't suffered heartbreak that some days, on very bad days, made him want to curl up and not speak to a single person. "Sherlock," he said again, this time, his voice a little stronger, but more questioning than the time prior.
"John," the other man echoed, walking forward so that John could see for certain that he was real, that this was actually happening.
John reached out his hands and clasped Sherlock's in his own, if for no other reason than to calm his shaking. "When was the last time you ate?"
Sherlock laughed, and marveled at what a fantastic question that really was. "What's today?"
"Wednesday."
"Hmm. Must have been Saturday, then."
John rolled his eyes, as if there was nothing ridiculous about this reunion, as if there was nothing weird about inquiring about Sherlock's eating habits when he had just spent the past three years believing his best friend to be dead. Well, sort of believing. He knew his subconscious didn't quite buy into the lie.
John led him to a chair and disappeared into the kitchen to fix tea and biscuits. In reality, this was enough of a simple, routine task that it allowed him time to process what was awaiting him back in his living room. An apology? No, probably not. An explanation? Certainly. He was certain he'd get some fantastic story to explain why he had lied, why he had told his best friend that he was a fraud and expected him to just believe that.
When he returned, the expression on Sherlock's face could only be explained as "Worried". It was clear that he was attempting to gauge John's possible reaction. John sat down next to him, after handing him a cup of tea.
Sherlock sipped at the tea and nibbled on a biscuit before making a face. "These are horrible."
"Sorry," John shrugged. "I didn't really expect to be entertaining."
Somehow, Sherlock found this a bit funny, and let out a sardonic laugh. "No, I suspect not." He scrutinized his friend. "You didn't know."
"No, I didn't."
"But you didn't doubt who I was."
"No, I didn't," John repeated.
"In three years, you never updated your blog past that day."
"You're right. I didn't. I didn't see the point. The people who believed you weren't a fraud offered their support in their own ways. The people didn't believe you, well, I wasn't writing for them, was I?"
Sherlock nodded. "I see. So when we were – before, when you blogged, you blogged for the world or just the people who mattered?"
John shrugged. "I don't really know. It doesn't really matter. The people who hired you thought you were worth contacting, right? That was the point. You were, at times, a pompous arse to everyone, even those who didn't deserve it."
"Quite right."
John rolled his eyes. How typical it was of Sherlock to take that as something nearing a compliment when he meant nothing of the sort. He knew they weren't going to get anywhere if he relied on Sherlock to do the talking. The man wasn't adept at that in the best of times, and a tired, hungry, world-weary Sherlock was certainly not at his best now.
"Tell me. Tell me why you left me. Why you let me believe – why you wanted me to believe that you were a fraud and had killed yourself. Tell me why you made me watch."
