I'm Coming Home, a sherlock fanfic

"John, you need to talk about what's going on or I can't help you."

It had been three months since Sherlock's death and John had been letting everyday slip by as if it was just wind in the trees. On his better days, he sat in the darkness of 221B Baker Street and stared blankly at the face on the wall. Mrs. Hudson brought him tid-bits to eat on these days. Soup and tea, mostly. But John barely noticed it was there.

On his bad days, however, he did many things. Sometimes he screamed at the yellow face, pretending it was Sherlock, cursing it for leaving him alone. Other times, he would lay in Sherlock's bed, slipping in and out of consciousness, crying quietly when he was awake. But mostly, he cursed at the wall. Mrs. Hudson had learned to do her shopping on these days.

Every once in a while, though, you could find him sitting in his chair across from Sherlock's in the sitting room, rubbing his temple with his hand gun. But he doesn't tell Ella that. No, John never tells Ella anything.

"John. Are you listening to me?"

He looked up at her with glassy eyes, not saying a word. Though, he didn't need to.

Ella leaned forward in her chair, "John, when Harry sent you back here, she told me you had been taking everything harder than everyone else; that you had been forced to live with her for almost three weeks after Sherlock's death. What was going on in your mind? There was something else troubling you. Not just his death, but unfinished business. What was it, John?"

As she spoke, John turned his head to face the window. Her words stung him over and over like an angry wasp that he couldn't get away from.

Sherlock's Death.

Death.

Dead.

He sort of pledged a vow of silence towards Ella after she told him to say what happened, why he had to come back. He would have stopped coming to the appointments but Harry dragged him off his arse every Thursday, got him to clean himself up and looking decent, and drove him to Ella's herself. She also waited in her car till the end of his sessions so he wouldn't try to leave early. It was the least she could do to make up for all the times he had helped her through a hard time.

"How's your leg?"

Ella's voice pulled John back into the room and he glared at her. How did she think it was? It's bloody fantastic, that's what. He lifted his cane, which he had never let go of, and tapped it against his shoe.

A sigh escaped from Ella's lips as her watch alarm went off. "Alright, John. You win this round." He nodded and stood to leave. Ella offered to help him up but he waved her off.

'I'm a grown man', he thought. 'I can at least stand on my own.'

As he limped out the door, Ella called out, "Until next Thursday, then. Noon, don't forget."

TO: Molly Hooper

How is he?

FROM: Molly Hooper

I don't know. He

stopped answering his

phone after he moved

out of Harry's.

TO: Molly Hooper

Surely that's not the

only way to stay in

contact with him.

FROM: Molly Hooper (1/2)

He never leaves the

flat. I tried to visit

a few times. He

doesn't speak. Once

I caught Mrs. Hudson

rushing out the door,

claiming he was having

one of

FROM: Molly Hooper (2/2)

his 'bad days.'

He was yelling and I

heard things breaking.

TO: Molly Hooper

You didn't stop him.

FROM: Molly Hooper

Mrs. Hudson suggested I

don't. Said that he

wouldn't have

acknowledged me if I did.

I took her word for it

and I haven't been back.

TO: Molly Hooper

Try Harder.

FROM: Molly Hooper

Sherlock. When are

you coming back?

The detective sighed and looked at the body in front of him. It was Gerard Kosik, a nasty criminal who was easier to take down than he imagined. He sent his reply:

TO: Molly Hooper

Soon.

Sherlock had much experience dealing with John's tempers, but he felt certain that this one would be worse than usual.

Unlike John, for the past three months Sherlock had been very productive in his quest to cut down Moriarty's web. If John had bothered to watch the news, he would have seen many reports on the mysterious murders of dangerous criminals all over Europe.

The last thread had just been cut and Sherlock let out a sigh of relief. He could go home now. Home to Baker Street. Home to Mrs. Hudson. Home to Lestrade, who was undoubtedly out of work for the time being. Home to Molly, who had been a tremendous help all except for her keeping John in check. And home to John.

Sherlock was shocked and displeased with the effect John's absence had on him. Due to rushing through the system, he had gone weeks without sleep and days without meals. Spending every waking moment searching for information and criminals that were all part of Moriarty's schemes. It hadn't been easy, but he got it all done as quick as he could. He had to. Because he knew John was strong, but he didn't know how long that strength would last.

He came to this conclusion during the funeral. Sherlock had been waiting close enough to listen, but far enough away to not be seen. John and Mrs. Hudson had stayed behind for a long while after the funeral, saying their final goodbyes. Sherlock had heard all John said to his grave, about being human how John owed him so much just for being there with him for the short eighteen months they spent together. Sherlock thought that was ridiculous, surely he owed more to John, who had saved his life numerous times. He also heard the miracle John wanted. Oddly enough, this caused stirrings, a sort of fluttering feeling in his chest that he also felt when he stepped off of St. Bart's roof. He knew they both needed that miracle, so he did his best to hurry and make it happen.

Currently, Sherlock was taking a train back to London.

TO: Mycroft

I'm finished. Have

someone be waiting

for me at the train

station to take me

back to Baker Street.

FROM: Mycroft

I'm sending Lestrade.

Which station?

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the text. Lestrade knew he was alive, but Sherlock hadn't talked to him since before the fall. He had Mycroft fill him in. Having Lestrade drive him back would be a headache waiting to happen from the earful he was bound to receive. Either way, he knew Lestrade was the only choice Mycroft had. Everyone else thought Sherlock was still dead.

TO: Mycroft

Fine. Oh, don't play

stupid with me, Mycroft.

You know exactly where

I'll be.

How's John?

He couldn't help but ask. Molly hadn't done her job correctly and he needed information. Before the funeral, Sherlock had been staying in Molly's flat with her. He gave her instructions that would aid him greatly and she carried them out fairly well. Collecting enough money to pay for hotels, travel, and food. Getting him as much evidence collected off of Moriarty's person as she could. And helping him discover his first target. He thought she'd be capable enough to take care of John. Obviously, he was wrong.

His phone buzzed, bringing him out of his train of thought and he nervously checked the answer.

FROM: Mycroft

Fine.

John is alive, if that

helps. He's raised

a few...false alarms

but he's alive. I'm

glad you hurried.

Sherlock cursed under his breath. He knew what 'false alarms' meant in Mycroft's world and he also knew he did barely anything to stop it. Mycroft's concern was unneeded, Sherlock didn't want sentiment getting in the way. Though, he felt himself experience it often. In Moriarty's game, he had won. Knocking out all the strings and threads to his web along the way. For the longest time, he tried to figure out why he felt sentimental when Moriarty was the one who lost.

Then it hit him. In order to beat Moriarty, he had to lose John for however long it would take. Thankfully, it only took three months. His absence left Sherlock feeling empty and incomplete. When he did get his chances to sleep, he dreamt of John. Sometimes it was memories he relived, fond ones. Others, it was his return home. But, those were usually nightmares of John being so furious, he wouldn't let him back in the flat.

TO: Mycroft

I'll be there in an hour.

He tucked his phone into the front pocket of the tote bag Molly had let him borrow. He'd need to return it in a day or two. For the rest of the trip back, he leaned his head against the window beside him and silently begged time to go faster.

"John, do you want me to stay here with you," Harry asked, letting John out in front of 221B. He hesitated before stepping out and looked at her. "I'll make us some tea, how's that?"

John stared at her blankly for a moment, as if trying to understand. Then he slowly nodded and slipped out of the car. Harry followed afterward up to the flat, which was a complete disaster. Mugs riddled the floors, broken glass decorated the area beneath the smiley face on the wall, which John had taken the liberty of ripping it off then taping back together numerous times. Trays of food rotted on tables, causing an ungodly stench. "Jesus, John. How do you live in this," Harry asked, picking up the trays and throwing as much as she could in the already overflowing bin.

John picked up the kettle and filled it with water from the tap and set it to brew. "I don't," he replied. Harry only sighed and continued to straighten up the mess.

"God, it looks worse than when you first moved in here," she said teasingly, trying to lighten the mood. But John never had the same sense of humor as Harry. He looked at her, a face stricken with grief and it burrowed holes into her very being. Her eyes grew sad, "Oh John, I didn't mean-"

"I think it's time for you to be heading back," John interrupted. "Clara's waiting."

Harry and Clara had gotten back together after Sherlock's death, realizing how short life really was. She sighed because John always managed to use their relationship against her. But she knew there wasn't much else she could do. Nodding, she grabbed her jacket and her keys and headed out to her car. John stood at the kitchen counter and waited a minute or two until he was sure she had driven away.

He turned off the kettle and sat back on his chair and proceeded to look out into nothingness.

Lestrade walked up to the train station and sat on a bench to wait. He was absolutely furious with Sherlock for causing him to lose his job just to find out he wasn't actually a suspect in the first place. Donavon and Anderson managed to keep theirs for kissing the Head Chief's arse and insisting they had no part in Lestrade's decision to have Sherlock help with all those casing. "Back-stabbing cowards", he muttered under his breath.

Suddenly, a man stepped in front of him and asked in a familiar voice, "Is there a reason you're just sitting here or can we leave?"

Lestrade looked up to the face of a man he barely recognized. His hair was cut short and sloppily, he must have done it himself. He had let the beginnings of facial hair settle on his face and dark circles dragged down his eyes. Almost completely skin and bones, the man standing before him looked like death itself. "Sherlock?"

The man rolled his eyes, "No, Greg. It's Santa. I've brought you a gift."

Lestrade only laughed in return and slapped Sherlock lightly on the shoulder, "I didn't even hear the train come in...Jesus, Sherlock. I barely recognized you. What happened?"

"No time. Ran out of funds. Borrowed clothes. Molly wasn't as resourceful as I had hoped but she did enough."

The former policeman rubbed his mouth, shoving his other hand in his pocket. "Well, we should be heading back. John's waiting."

Sherlock looked at Lestrade, slightly confused as he followed him to the car, "He knows?"

Lestrade shook his head and opened the passenger door, "No, Sherlock. John's been waiting for you since you left." Guilt shadowed Sherlock's face as he slipped into the seat. Lestrade got in on his side and pulled the car out of the lot to take Sherlock back home. "You know," he said after a long silence, "John told us about the phone call." Sherlock was silent. "The one you made on St. Bart's roof." He looked down at his hands and picked lint off of his sweatpants, but wouldn't look at Lestrade. "He didn't believe you. When you said you were a fake, he-"

"I know," he interrupted. Lestrade glanced at him quickly, seeing the guilt, and looked back to the road. Sherlock didn't speak again until they reached the flat.

He took a deep breath and opened his door, "Thank you. Um...for driving me here."

The tired man looked at Sherlock and replied, "It's no problem. Anytime. You should, uh...call Molly, or something. She's worried." Lestrade had been spending more time with Ms Hooper since Sherlock left. They were the only two besides Mycroft who knew he was alive, so they liked to confide in one another.

"Yes, I um...have to return her bag," Sherlock said, holding up the tote.

"Right," Lestrade replied. "So, I'll see you...whenever, I guess."

Sherlock nodded, "You know, you'll find a new job I'm sure, you should tell your wife about Molly."

Lestrade's eyes widened, "Okay, my wife and I are in the middle of a divorce, it doesn't matter-"

"I know. But tell her anyway."

He sighed and nodded, "Alright. I will. Now get in there before John does something idiotic."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth curved into an almost smile, "When doesn't he?" At that, he slammed the door behind him and unlocked the door to 221B Baker Street.

Mrs. Hudson listened for when Harry finally left. She was enjoying a cup of tea while trying to decide what to bring John for food. He hadn't gone to the shop since the funeral so she knew he had nothing decent in his flat. Mycroft had offered to pay the rent for him but she had insisted that he was being treated as a guest in her home and there was no fee for visitors.

"Let's see," she mumbled. "I brought him soup yesterday and the day before, but he didn't seem too interested." The woman stood and walked to the kitchen to search her cabinets, "Oh, there's nothing here he'll eat," she said distressingly.

"Order take-away," a voice replied. Mrs. Hudson gasped and turned around, dropping her cup and letting it smash into the floor. "That always worked before." Sherlock walked over to her and held her hand whispering, "It's alright, Mrs. Hudson."

Tears streamed down her face, "Sherlock...how...?"

"I'll tell you another time. I need to see John first." His landlady lifted his hand to her cheek and continued crying, unable to talk. "Mrs. Hudson, I had to do it. For you. For Lestrade. And for John. Moriarty-"

"I don't want to hear it, Sherlock," she interrupted. "Go upstairs and help John. He needs you, and I need to sit down." She nodded as she whispered her instructions.

Sherlock gently squeezed her hand once and headed to the stairs; leaving Mrs. Hudson to hope that today was one of John's good days. Though, usually Thursdays weren't.

John sat almost motionless in his chair, thinking. He tried to do this as often as he could because he felt closer to Sherlock when he did. Only, he didn't think about cases or clues as the detective once had. Instead he thought of past memories and what the future might bring. Though, the memories were more frequent since it was hard for him to imagine a future without his best friend.

'Unbelievable', he thought. 'A year and a bloody half living with a man and he's gone for three months and I'm barely living without him.' Of course, he figured that was because he thought he'd never see said man for the rest of his life. Which, made the rest of his life feel not worth living.

He usually got this thought in his head on days like this. So the feeling wasn't unusual when he reached for his gun, which miraculously managed not to get taken away by Mycroft who John was sure was watching him. But before he could grip it in his hand, a knock on the door broke the silence.

John figured it was Harry, coming back to try to get him to be social again. The door was locked, so he ignored it. When he heard a key jiggling in the lock, he straightened his back. 'Only Mrs. Hudson has a key besides me,' he thought. "Mrs. Hudson, I don't want to be bothered right now," he called out. The door creaked open, "Mrs. Hudson, I want to be-" He had stood up and turned around only to see a lanky, sleep-deprived and mal-nourished ghost standing before him.

"Hello, John." The exact opposite of what Sherlock's final words had been. Though John realized now they weren't so final afterall.

He walked closer to the figure in the doorway, who looked nothing like what he remembered. In fact, John thought he looked better bleeding on the sidewalk. "Sherlock...," he whispered, as if someone would hear him.

"John-"

"You bastard," John yelled as he landed his fist on Sherlock's cheekbone. He was so stunned, he didn't even notice his knuckles were bleeding because Sherlock's cheekbone had been so prominent due to the fact he had barely eaten in the past three months. He watched Sherlock fall to the floor, without much effort on John's part.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was surprised that he was still conscious. He turned to face John, a stream of blood trickling down the cut on his cheek, twisting John's insides.

"Somebody loves you. If I had to punch that face, I'd avoid your nose and mouth, too."

The voice faded from John's memory and he turned the kettle back on. "You'll want some tea, then?"

Sherlock smiled and managed to push himself on two feet. John was angry, which was understandable, but he wasn't kicking anyone out.

"I'll ask Mrs. Hudson to bring you something to eat. Nothing here is good," John suggested.

"Yes," Sherlock hummed as he sat back in his chair. His old, lovely chair, which he missed almost as much as his blogger. The detective rubbed his hand across the armrest as he added, "I can tell by the stench."

John turned to Sherlock, seeing an amused look on his face, but not a smile; which was normal for Sherlock. "God, I can't believe you're here," he finally said. "Is this a dream?"

Sherlock shrugged, "I hope not. Though, if it is then it's one of the better ones." He squinted at the yellow face as he spoke, quickly finishing off his sentence with, "Seventeen."

"Seventeen what? Dreams," John asked.

There had been more than seventeen dreams, Sherlock frowned. "No. You ripped my face off the wall and taped it back up seventeen times." He looked down at the floor beneath it and realized where all the crashing Molly was hearing came from. No wonder Mrs. Hudson wanted to leave. "You did a good job, though. Of breaking my things."

John heard a sneer in Sherlock's voice so he added one of his own, "Well YOU did a good job of tearing me apart like it was nothing."

Sherlock sighed, "John, can I explain?"

"No, I don't want to know. I don't want to know how. You can tell me why later." John tried to focus on the tea. Putting milk in his own and remembering Sherlock liking two sugars and no milk.

Sherlock stared at the man, not really knowing what to say. He had showered, shaved, was wearing neat clothes. He didn't seem to smell as awful as the room so he hadn't been in it long today. He saw the room had been slightly tidied up but knew John wouldn't have done it since the glass and ceramic pieces were still next to the wall. Mrs. Hudson, he could tell, didn't like to be up there much. Molly stopped going two months ago. Lestrade called but never visited, judging by the look he gave the place as if he hadn't seen it in ages. Mycroft always stayed behind his cameras. John probably didn't want him there anyway. Also, John sounded irritated like someone had been bothering him earlier when Sherlock was getting the door unlocked. He acknowledged his presence, which meant he had been recently talking to someone. Most likely, whoever had been in cleaning his flat. But they didn't finish so John must have kicked them out. It didn't take long for Sherlock to come up with his next statement, "I see Harry was here earlier. Dropping you off from Ella's, no doubt."

John looked up, exasperated, "Wha-who told you-"

"You forgot your cane again, John." Sherlock kicked the object in question with his foot. John stared. "Don't look so surprised. It's as if you're hearing it for the first time again."

He rolled his eyes, "Don't explain it as if it was the first time, then. I'll just call you a bloody genius and leave it at that." As he spoke, he dumped an extra spoon of sugar in Sherlock's tea and handed it over.

Sherlock snorted, "You're such a child."

"Oh, and you aren't?" John's comment made both men smile lightly as John added, "I'll get Mrs. Hudson to make us something. What do you want, soup? A sandwich?"

"Take-away," Sherlock replied, trying to suppress his grin.

John nodded and patted Sherlock's shoulder, "I'll be back, then." He made a call to Sherlock's favorite Thai restaurant and headed out the door, surprisingly voluntarily, and let himself be happy in the thought of the rest of his life being worth-while.