Sequel to "Texts to a Dead Man", which should be read first. Written for Januscars who asked very nicely if I could write the reactions of everybody else to Sherlock's sudden reappearance. Will feature almost everyone, from Mycroft to Anderson, although updates will be slow. Takes place immediately after the epilogue to "Texts to a Dead Man".
9:06 PM, December 25th, 2015
Sherlock pulled his coat even more tightly around himself as he and John walked through the cold streets of London through the crowds, Sherlock holding Gladstone's leash and John carrying Susan in a baby carrier. The consulting detective knew all the routes through London where Mycroft wouldn't find them – he didn't want to deal with that yet.
"So... how, exactly?" John asked as the walked, unnoticed by the hordes of people around them. A surprising amount of people for Christmas night, but that was the way of things, he supposed. Sherlock glanced over at him – John couldn't quite help the way he felt like flying because Sherlock was alive.
"How what?" John gave an exasperated sigh.
"Molly helped you... take a hiatus. But how?"
"Do you remember the blue ball?" John blinked at the seemingly unrelated question. "I'll take your confusion as a no. I was holding a blue ball when I told you Mrs. Hudson was shot in hopes that you wouldn't need to see me... take a hiatus, as you put it. If you take a rubber ball, or any sort of object, and place it underneath your arm correctly, it will block off the main artery leading to your hand, therefore slowing the pulse." John's eyes widened in realization.
"So when I checked your pulse-"
"You didn't feel a heartbeat because I was blocking the blood flow."
"Bastard."
"So I've been told, yes. Anyway, one of my homeless network, you remember them, right? One of them hit you on a bicycle, one helped spread fake blood in the time that you were down, and a few more managed to acquire medical uniforms and a gurney to take my body away. Molly used a corpse with similar injuries to fake an autopsy report, photographs and whatnot, and she was also the one to identify me considering she knew me personally. Nobody questioned it. Sandbags in the coffin, a fake identity I made months ago because I was bored, and I was on my way to taking down Moriarty's web."
John knew he was gaping again, but he couldn't help it.
"But how did you survive falling from a building? You were-" He paused, lowering his voice. "You were three stories up, Sherlock. It's still not possible to survive that."
"You thought you saw me hit the ground but you were hit by a bike so you didn't see actual impact. There was a truck parked in front of where you were, I landed on a mattress in the truck bed. Cracked a few ribs and really messed up my ankle and wrist, but better than the alternative."
"...If I weren't so bloody happy you're alive, I'd be ready to kill you."
The two shared a grin, and it felt so right.
"Here we are," Sherlock said after they had walked for half an hour. "Molly's house. She was... quite helpful, I should let her know I'm back in town."
"What if there's company?" John asked quickly as Sherlock walked up to the door. He turned back to look at him.
"She doesn't," he said. "No siblings, not married, bad relationship with her parents, and she's been- she hasn't had much luck keeping friends lately."
With that, he rapped three times on the wooden door.
"Coming!" came the faint reply. "Although if this is another set of bloody carolers, I've got a water pistol-"
Molly opened the door and stared at Sherlock and John. There was a long silence.
"It's done?" she asked weakly. Sherlock nodded.
"I'm not looking forward to the press," came his typical Sherlockian reply, and Molly laughed and wrapped him in a hug.
"Oh, come in, come in," she said cheerfully. "And you too, John. Tell me, did you punch him? I was ready to a bunch of times after I saw how you'd been doing; for someone who's a genius he can be downright stupid, putting everyone through all this. Oh, you brought Susie! Hello there, sweetheart! Oh, and Gladstone too, he doesn't mind cats, does he? Toby doesn't mind dogs if they leave him alone..."
Christmas dinner was spent with a widowed veteran army surgeon, a very-not-dead high-functioning semi-sociopath, a mortician, who despite doing postmortems on a regular basis was probably the most normal person in the room, a toddler, and a dog and a cat who seemed to enjoy playing chase around the room.
John hadn't smiled so much in years.