It had taken two years, but the call had finally come. "It's over. You can come home, now, Sherlock." Moriarty's web had finally been defeated. Of course, as Mycroft had been the one to make the call, it had obviously come at a very inconvenient time for Sherlock. Right in the middle of an interrogation of one of his most promising suspects. Typical. Still, it was good news, after all, even if it had come from Mycroft.
After finishing the interrogation and making arrangements for his return to London, Sherlock began to ponder how to best announce his return from the dead. Molly already knew, obviously. Lestrade, well, why not just pop up and greet him like usual near an alley? Mrs. Hudson... Slightly more difficult, what with her age and all - John would want him to be considerate, after all - so perhaps just knocking on her door and meeting her face to face would be best. Yes. That's more considerate. John would like that.
And as for John... best to be delicate. Searching through his memory for ideas on how to reveal surprises in the best way, Sherlock decided to go for a bit more... prolonged and quieter method: leave a trail of clues for John to follow, that would lead him to Sherlock. That would give him a bit of time to prepare himself for the reunion, and also give John a bit of privacy from all those... nosy people out there. After all, for all his skills, John still tended to display emotions like the average man, and to abhor them like the British man he was.
Having decided on the best ways to reveal himself to those who mattered, Sherlock then began to plan out the clues to leave for John, and to finish up the obvious case for the obviously incompetent police in the city where he was staying.
Once he finished all of that, having little else to occupy his mind on the long plane ride back to England, there being almost no one to deduce besides the crew, all of whom were ridiculously easy, thanks to Mycroft, who was occasionally good for something (something small, obviously), like a private plane, Sherlock began to remember some of his favorite memories from before the Fall - though he would truly die before telling anyone, most of them beginning around the time he met John.
One of his favorite memories was how John talked in his sleep. Almost every night, around three, when John was in his deepest sleep, he would begin to talk in his sleep. At first, Sherlock was surprised to hear John talking about him - not only that, but he would talk about his brilliance. Sherlock was flattered, of course, but his favorite times had to be when John talked about how much he cared for Sherlock, how deep their friendship was. The first time this happened, after a particularly difficult case, John talked about how he would die, before he betrayed Sherlock. Sherlock couldn't help but stare.
It took several moments before he came back to himself, and he couldn't help the lightening of his expression as he realized that he would do the same. He never told John about it, but he locked that memory up tight in his mind palace, along with a few other memories no one knew about, save perhaps Mycroft. As the plane descended towards the runway, he couldn't help but wonder what John talked about now. Tea and jumpers, most likely.
Getting off the plane, he met his brother waiting for him by a black car. "Hello, Mycroft."
"Hello, little brother." Mycroft greeted him in turn. "I see your time abroad doesn't appear to have changed your bright and sunny personality at all."
"And I see that two years have not shrunk your waist size at all either," Sherlock retorted.
Mycroft sniffed, but made no response save, "Shall we get in the car? You know you must be debriefed before returning to society."
Turning to his brother as he got in and the car started moving, Sherlock asked, "A debriefing, Mycroft? Do you truly think I would have gone to all that trouble to destroy Moriarty's web, and not ensure its destruction? Honestly, Mycroft. All that time spent eating cake must have clouded your brain."
Mycroft frowned. "I'd like to see you try and explain your one sentence messages to my employer. You must be debriefed before you can return to society. And I warn you, I expect detailed answers. We must be thorough in defending our country."
"I would expect no less." Sherlock muttered ungraciously, as he settled himself down and prepared himself for a very tedious ride to Baker Street.
Lestrade had just lit up his cigarette, preparing to take a break from the most recent crime scene, when he heard a voice from the alley behind him, a voice that he swore he recognized. "Those things will kill you, you know."
Lestrade choked on his cigarette and turned around in time to see Sherlock emerging from the shadows of the alley. "Oh, you-!" Cutting himself off, he dropped the cigarette, ran to Sherlock and embraced him. After a moment of startled shock, Sherlock returned the embrace. Letting him go, Lestrade asked, "But, how - Why? Does anyone else know?"
"Not important, to stop Moriarty and his network, and yes. Molly, my brother, and now you and Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock answered.
Lestrade let out a strained laugh. "How'd she take it? And what about John?" Becoming serious, he went on, "You need to tell him, Sherlock. The Fall, well, you'd have to see him to understand. But he lost three stone within as many weeks. He really struggled for a while there - we all did, but him more than most. He's gotten better, but he still occasionally has to use a cane."
Sherlock scowled. "Of course I'm going to tell John. But apparently my thick-waisted brother is thick-headed as well. He told me that John was doing fine the entire time. But I must be off, Inspector, to go alert John to my return." Turning as he spoke, Sherlock began to stride off towards the street.
Halfway there, he turned back to Lestrade, who was still standing there, with a bemused expression on his face, and said "Oh, and you might want to release the girl sitting in your car, Gavin. She's innocent. It was obviously the bartender who framed her." He turned back around and left again. Lestrade blinked a few times, then glanced around for his cigarette. Seeing it lying on the ground a few meters away, he sighed and lit another one. "I need a new job," he muttered.
John had just finished with his last patient of the day when the secretary came in with a piece of paper and a package and said, "This just came in for you. Insisted it go right to you."
Curious, John asked, "Do you know who it was?"
Shaking her head, the secretary replied, "No. It looked like a homeless person from the streets. I thought it was a prank at first, but decided to give it to you, just in case." John frowned thoughtfully. The mention of a homeless person struck a bell, but only in relation to Sherlock - a venue that he had closed off long ago, and had no desire to go down today. Shrugging, he thanked the secretary.
Once she left, he opened the package, and immediately his face went white. Inside was the pink phone from his and Sherlock's first case, along with the case involving the very first time they ever met Moriarty. The only difference was that the screen was completely shattered, rendering it forever useless. Shaking off the memories stirred up, John glanced at the note. It looked like the headline of a newspaper from several years ago: "Taxi driver dies at Rolland Kerr University College." Staring at the paper for a few minutes in silence, John all of a sudden got up, grabbed his coat, and walked out the door.
Hailing a taxi, he gave the address for the university. Sitting in tension the whole way, once they arrived, he threw some money at the taxi driver and ran to the room where the old taxi driver had once tried to kill Sherlock, and had instead been killed himself. Checking that his gun was readily available, John cautiously entered the room. It was empty, except for a small package that lay on the table. Hesitantly opening it, John stared at the black lotus that lay innocently next to a Missing Person flyer. Turning his eyes to that, John took in the top words that declared, "My friend Soo Lin is missing. Have you seen her?", then hastily read the details below.
After a moment, John realized where he had seen the woman in the picture before - she was the one who had been killed at the museum where she worked, in the case of the Blind Banker. Realizing that whoever had sent this must have know that her apartment would have been given to new owners after four plus years, and that finding anything there would be impossible, John hastily looked up the address of the museum on his phone, and then hailed a taxi to take him there as fast as possible.
Once there, he managed to sneak down to the room where they had met Soo Lin,after calling in a few favors, and look around, his heart pounding all the while. After searching for a bit, he found a package similar to the ones before, and opened it with trembling hands. He could sense a pattern forming, and he remembered all too well their next famous case. Inside was another headline that read, "Carl Powers mystery finally closed by Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes".
John let the paper fall from his hands as unwanted memories of that night came surging into his mind, memories of being drugged into submission by Moriarty's men, of waking up to see his leering face, the pain of seeing the shock on Sherlock's face as he stepped out of the cubicle. Forcing himself to move past the painful memories - and to move at all, John called yet another taxi, and prepared himself to face The Pool once more.
Several hours later, John stepped out of the taxi with a shaking hand, and a limping step. Wishing he had his cane with him, and clutching a crumpled up piece of paper in his hand, John unsteadily made his way through the cemetery to a grave he remembered all too well. The paper was the exact same one he had once used to pen with shaking hand his final plea to Sherlock, the one he had left on his grave. The one he found lying next at the scene of the last case Sherlock had solved before the Reichenbach case.
His heart pounding nearly out of his chest, breath shaky, and hardly daring to hope, but not knowing what else to think, John continued to walk, eyes darting, searching. As he neared Sherlock's grave, a tall, lean figure stepped out from behind a nearby tree.
John saw him at once and stiffened. "Hello, John," The apparition said.
"Hello, Sherlock." John replied numbly, eyes still fixed on the figure now coming closer. John stood still, hardly daring to breathe as Sherlock finally reached him and stood right in front of him, looking just as he had before the Fall, only slightly more... worn. A hint of a smirk was faintly detectable in his expression.
"I'm not dead," Sherlock finally said, his eyes searching John's.
John nodded. "I can see that." But the numbness was wearing off, and anger was starting to take it's place. He suddenly hauled back and punched Sherlock in the face, knocking him backwards onto the ground. "Two years. TWO YEARS, Sherlock! Two years I believed you were dead. I thought I had watched you die! And now all of a sudden you're here? As if nothing had happened? Why would you do that?" he demanded.
Holding his now profusely bleeding nose, Sherlock stumbled to his feet. "I had to John. I had to defeat Moriarty and his network. There was no other way."
John shook his head. "Why was this the only way? And, even if it was, why couldn't you have at least told me?! I could have helped!"
Now it was Sherlock's turn to shake his head. "Moriarty threatened to kill you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson if I didn't kill myself. He had snipers trained on you at the roof. Killing Moriarty then wouldn't have done anything but get you all shot. He killed himself, but I still had to die. And you had to believe it. You were being watched. If there had been any signs that I hadn't died, all my work would have been for naught. Instead, I've spent the last two years taking down Moriarty's network. And I've only just now finished it."
Slightly mollified, John answered, "I suppose that makes sense, but I'm still mad at you. Probably will be for a while yet."
Sherlock nodded. "I expected as much. However, I do hope you aren't planning on continuing to date the woman you are now. She's a compulsive liar, and a petty thief. She's also a drug addict. How she managed to hide it from you for so long, I don't know. You always did tend to miss the obvious."
John frowned. "Margaret? How would you know any of that? You've never seen me with her."
"No," Sherlock conceded, "But I have seen her before, and I saw her number in your list of contacts at the office. You really should get better security for your computers. Honestly, John. A child could hack them."
John sighed, but looked up at Sherlock, then all of a sudden hugged him tight, and said, "I'm still mad, but I'm glad you're back."
Sherlock returned the hug, and asked, "Does this mean you're sorry for breaking my nose?"
John laughed. "No. And besides, your nose isn't broken. It'll be fine. Just keep holding it like you are, and keep the pressure on it."
Holding his nose as ordered, Sherlock asked, "Do you want to call a taxi, or would you rather walk for a bit, get used to using your leg as normal again?" Surprised, John looked down at his leg, which was standing as straight and as firm as the other.
Laughing, he said, "I guess you fixed my leg again. Punching you must be therapeutic. I should recommend it for all my patients."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I would rather you didn't. Shall we leave? You must be eager to get back to your tea and...things" Gesturing with his hand, he lead the way out of the cemetery, and back into London, bustling with life.
John raised a brow. "Yes. I was very focused on tea, while you were... gone." He muttered as he followed him. After walking for bit, a thought occurred to him. "Sherlock?"
"Yes?" Sherlock answered distractedly.
"I know why you sent me all those... items... with the clues, but why did you send me a pink phone with a cracked screen? The screen wasn't cracked in either of the two cases."
"Hmm? Oh." Sherlock came back to the present all of a sudden. "Well, it was simple, really. The phone wasn't a clue for the university. It was a clue for the entire search. The phone represented Moriarty, as it was used by him in what you later called, 'The Great Game.' The utterly destroyed screen represented his demolished network. Obviously."
"Yes. Obviously." John answered dryly. And so the two continued, on their way home, conversing back and forth, or, rather, deducing, for Sherlock's part, and eye rolling for John's.
Later that night, Sherlock was updating his website for the first time since the Fall, when he happened to glance at the time. It was an hour past John's usual bedtime, and he showed no signs of leaving any time soon. "John? Aren't you usually in bed at this time?"
"Mmm." John answered. "Not tired." S
herlock frowned at him. John's work schedule required him to be there early in the morning. At this hour, he had to be exhausted. The bags under his eyes were further proof of his exhaustion. "Your work schedule, repeated sips of a tea brand that I know you hate, but use when you are tired for the caffeine, dry lips, the dark bags under your eyes, and the fact that you've read that same page of your book four times and still haven't actually read anything, all point to you actually being exhausted. Aren't you the one who always used to nag at me about how sleep was essential to being healthy?" Sherlock demanded.
He softened his tone slightly. "Go to bed John. I'll still be here in the morning," he added, partially correctly interpreting the flash of slight fear and unwillingness in John's eyes.
Rolling his eyes, John reluctantly got up from his chair with a tired grunt and put his cup in the sink. "I'd forgotten how disconcerting your deductions could be." He muttered. "But I have to admit you're right. I'm knackered."
"Of course I'm right," Sherlock smirked. "Now go to bed." Rolling his eyes again, John called a good night as he headed up the stairs to his room. Waiting until he heard the sound of the door shut, Sherlock turned back to his website.
Finally shutting his laptop with a sigh, and shaking his head at the utter stupidity of criminals and police force alike, he decided to head up to his room and get at least some sleep before having to deal with all the tediousness of what his return would entail in the morning. Halfway up the landing, he paused suddenly, hearing some muted muttering from John's room. Suddenly curious as to what he was saying, he silently pushed open the door and crept in.
He had done this a few times before, occasionally for a science experiment that John may or may not have taken on accident, and once or twice to see if John still talked about him. He may have prided himself on not caring about others, but, if he was honest with himself, John's opinion had come to mean a lot to him. John had stirred when he came in, but had settled by now, so he patiently waited, curious to see what he was saying.
Soon enough, John began to speak. But the words that he spoke were not the ones that Sherlock had subconsciously looked forward too. These words were broken, pleading. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I was supposed to be there. I should have stopped it. I'm sorry. Please, Sherlock! Forgive me! I'm sorry." With growing shock and faint horror, Sherlock heard John continue to plea for a dead Sherlock to forgive him for failing him, to not be dead. Stretching a hand forward to wake John from what was obviously a nightmare, Sherlock hesitated.
John valued his privacy and, already mad at Sherlock, might do something violent if he knew Sherlock had seen him when he was "weak." Withdrawing his hand, Sherlock forced himself to leave the room and go back downstairs. Looking for his violin, he was glad to see it undisturbed, and took it carefully out of its case. After tuning it quickly, he glanced upwards briefly, and then began to play a calm and soothing melody, just loud enough to be heard upstairs.
After a few minutes, he heard footsteps go across the hall to the bathroom, and running water, and then the footsteps went to the top of the stairs, hesitated, and then retreated back to John's bedroom. Sherlock continued playing for another half hour, and then went back upstairs.
This time, when he walked into John's room, all was quiet, and John slept peacefully. The next day, John made no mention of the night before,and neither did Sherlock, thinking it to be just a one time nightmare, triggered by his return. But the next night, the same thing happened. And the next.
Sherlock continued to play the violin at night, seeing that it helped John sleep, but then one night, a few days later, John's words changed. And the words he uttered made Sherlock freeze. John was still begging. But this time, he was begging his father not to hurt him. "Dad, please! Stop! You're hurting me! Stop!"Sherlock stared at John with wide eyes as he continued to beg the unseen father to stop beating him.
But then the pleas changed yet again. They were no longer for only himself. They were for his sister as well. "Harry, stay behind me! Dad, she didn't mean to do it. Please don't hurt her!" Stretching his hand out, John continued to beg his little sister to take his hand, to hide somewhere with him, growing more agitated as she failed to respond.
Sherlock, seeing this, reached his hand forward, hesitated, drew it back, but then came to a decision and grabbed John's hand with his. John instantly quieted, grasping Sherlock's hand. Sherlock continued to sit there for another two hours, until it was almost the time that John began to wake up.
Sherlock never said anything about it, but every night when John had nightmares, whether about his father, Harry, or Sherlock himself, Sherlock would grasp his hand in his and hold it tight. And every night, John would relax, and fall into a calm, restful sleep. Sherlock doesn't plan to tell him. Ever. And he's never going to stop holding his hand. It was the memory of their friendship that kept him sane, while he was away, dismantling Moriarty's web. And now, it's time to return the favor. Because that's what friends do. They protect each other.
A/N 2018: Have you ever looked back on your early writing and just cringed? *Sigh* I came back to do some much needed editing, and nearly cringed myself to death. And that's just for most of the grammatical errors - which are hopefully gone for the most part by now. :P All well. Hopefully it's more readable now.