Author's note: In two days, it's my half-anniversary of joining fanfiction, and since I won't be online in the next couple of days, I'm uploading it now.
I decided to celebrate with writing my longest oneshot to date and – writing a Sherlock and John reunion scene, because I haven't really done that yet. Usually I just summed it up in a few sentences. Not anymore. So get ready for bromance.
This also includes reunion scenes with Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade (I got a little overexcited with celebrating) and elements of "The Empty House", although not too much, because I wanted to focus on the reunion scenes. Hopefully these won't seem too familiar to my regular readers.
I don't own anything, please review.
He wasn't the same man he'd been when he had left London under an assumed name three years ago. There was no point in denying it. He had dismantled Moriarty's web, had slowly brought the members in jail or made otherwise sure they wouldn't be a problem anymore. That they wouldn't be a threat to his... friends anymore.
It had taken longer than he'd thought; at first, he had been rather confident that he'd be able to return within a year. He should have known that Moriarty's web would turn out to be even larger than he'd supposed. This was the reason that he had contacted Mycroft after the first year. The reason he hadn't done it before was not that he felt angry or betrayed (as John would undoubtedly have thought); no, there had simply been no reason for it. And, no matter that his brother was the British Government and the Secret Service, telling anyone he was alive carried a certain risk.
He hadn't bothered telling Mycroft he was alive or even why; he'd simply sent a text to the one phone only he and Anthea had the number of – a demand for information about a part of Moriarty's web. Mycroft had answered by sending the information, and that had been it. They had never exchanged more than either demands or information, and for a good reason.
Sherlock hadn't wanted to know how John was doing, how Mrs. Hudson was doing, how Lestrade was doing. Thoughts like these would have been a distraction he could ill afford while chasing and simultaneously being chased by some of the most dangerous criminals on the planet (naturally, word had got around that someone was dismantling Moriarty's web – Moran might not have been as intelligent as his bosom friend, but he was clever enough). He had managed not to think about them – most of the time. There had been moments when he'd caught sight of John's favourite sort of tea or wished desperately for Lestrade to be there because the police force of the country he happened to be in where even more idiotic than most of Scotland Yard. But he had always shoved thoughts like these in a special room in his mind palace. He hadn't deleted them for one simple reason: He, who had always prided himself on his ability to distance himself from other people, was desperately trying to cling to his humanity now that he had become a ghost.
Even with the information Mycroft sent him it had still taken two more years, and he still had to capture Moran. But it wouldn't be easy. Sherlock had found out a few weeks ago that Moran was in London.
Now all he had to do was to wait for Moran to make a mistake, commit a crime he could connect with him, to bring him behind bars. Risking to travel back and kill him wasn't an option; the sniper had his eyes everywhere, just like his boss had had, and he would find out that Sherlock had returned, and more likely as not kill his friends before he'd even had a chance to come close to him. No, he needed a murder – something he could investigate. Moran would be forced to lie low after having committed it, which meant Sherlock would most likely be able to return without him noticing, and by the time Moriarty's friend found out, he would already be back with John. And able to protect him.
He had been aware – how could he not? – that it could take years for an opportunity to present itself. And yet, he had been – John would probably say he had been hoping – that it would come sooner than later.
And it had. Just a few weeks after he'd finally disbanded the last big part of Moriarty's web, leaving only Moran to be dealt with, he'd read about the murder of Ronald Adair. He had been an important criminal before Moriarty's death – he usually made a few pounds here and there through gambling in casinos and cheating – and Sherlock had only been aware of his existence through his homeless network. He paid them money to receive all information they could gather about the criminal classes in London, after all.
Apparently he had become more important after Moriarty's death – as soon as Sherlock read that he had been found shot in his flat on the third floor, the only evidence the bullet that had smashed his skull, apparently from a pistol, all doors locked, but the window open, he knew that Moran must have shot him with the air rifle Moriarty had had built for him especially. Therefore, Adair had been important enough for Moran to deal with him personally. He had probably helped the ex-soldier to make a fortune in gambling – as far as Sherlock knew, it was Moran's only "legal" way of earning money. Maybe Adair had got cold feet, maybe he had blackmailed Moran, either way, the sniper had killed him, and Sherlock would prove it.
And so he made his way back to London. The one place in the world he had ever really felt at home.
Despite the fact that he wanted nothing more than to see John – to explain to him what had occurred, to learn what had happened during the years he'd been gone – he went to the Diogenes Club first. Mycroft usually went there in the late afternoon.
He took the door in the back only members knew about. Naturally he was able to figure out the security code and made his way to the visitor's room; a brief glance in the mirror hanging opposite the door proved that his brother was alone and he entered.
Coming back in secret had been worth it to see his brother's face; most people wouldn't have realized that the British Government was in fact surprised, but Sherlock noticed the way his eyebrows rose.
He simply said, "Ronald Adair".
Mycroft nodded. "Shot by Sebastian Moran, obviously".
"Yes. I just need to prove it so I can return. And of course you need to make sure I'm fully rehabilitated..."
Mycroft interrupted him. "Of course. Does John know you are alive?"
Sherlock shook his head. "Not yet. I wanted to make sure you had him under surveillance before Moran found out I was in London".
"He already is under surveillance. I upgraded his status as soon as Ronald Adair was shot. As well as Mrs. Hudson's and DI Lestrade's ".
Sherlock nodded. "Thank you". Then he added, "It will be best for me to stay at your house until I can officially return".
Mycroft didn't say anything. He must have already thought the same.
"But first I will call at Baker Street and contact Lestrade– now that I know that John is safe" or as safe as he could be, for the time being "I will let Moran know I am alive. He surely has people watch over our flat. And Mrs. Hudson will surely like to know that I am back. I don't know whether – "
"He moved back in. About a year after you – disappeared" Mycroft answered, standing up and filling a glass with brandy. His brother noticed that his hand was shaking slightly. Sherlock's return must have shaken him even more than he'd supposed. "But he is currently at work. He takes shifts in another hospital".
"Good, then" Sherlock replied. He was almost relieved and ashamed of himself because of that fact. He was... afraid of seeing John again, in a way. Afraid that the doctor would reject him. Afraid that they wouldn't be able to get the special bond they had shared back.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow, once again reading his thoughts. "You shouldn't underestimate him, Sherlock". Then he drowned his glass, and Sherlock stood up, turning to leave the room.
"Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, almost hesitantly, causing Sherlock to turn around once more. "It's..." Mycroft swallowed, and Sherlock realized he had never seen the British Government unsure. "It's good to have you back" he finally finished.
Sherlock nodded and strode out of the room, knowing that his brother would realize that he appreciated the sentiment, for all the bad blood between them.
He made his way to Baker Street, looking forward to see Mrs. Hudson again, his eyes registering every chance in the city as he passed through the familiar streets.
Sherlock had decided to walk the whole way from the Diogenes Club to Baker Street for precisely that reason; the risk was negligible, since Moran would undoubtedly want to deal with him himself and not even the sniper would dare to kill him in the middle of a road in broad daylight.
Three years ago, he had known every shop, every street corner in London. But the city had changed, just like he had. He would have to take several long walks to reacquaint himself with his home. And although he tried to pay attention to the new shops and restaurants, his thoughts inevitably flew to 221B, and Mrs. Hudson.
He didn't know what to expect from his house- landlady; Mrs. Hudson had always found ways to surprise him. Right from the start, when she'd decided to take a cocaine addict back to her house and feed him simply because he'd looked "lost".
Despite the fact that he couldn't wait to see her again – an emotion that would no doubt, if it should become known, destroy his carefully crafted "sociopathic" persona, but he had long stopped caring about this – he found himself hesitating in front of the door. For some reason, he couldn't bring himself to knock immediately.
Three years. Three years he had been waiting and fighting to return, and now he was hesitating in front of his own door. He shook his head and knocked.
He heard Mrs. Hudson call out "I'm coming!" and her shuffling to the door.
Then she opened it and he looked at his landlady for the first time in three year, thankful that she hadn't changed.
Mrs. Hudson stared at him, open-mouthed, unable to say anything.
At least for a moment.
In the next, she grabbed his coat and pulled him in the house, slamming the door shut behind them. True, she wasn't very strong, and if Sherlock had resisted she wouldn't have succeeded, but he was too surprised to react.
Neither did he say anything when the first words to come out of her mouth were, "I hope you have an explanation for this, young man" and she continued to berate him for the next ten minutes, only occasionally pausing to breathe. Sherlock used one of this pauses to say "I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson, but it was necessary".
She didn't seem to agree with him – in fact, it rather looked like she was ready to start another tirade – when he added, ""I... missed you".
It seemed the right thing to say, and it apparently was, because suddenly, she was clinging to him and he could feel tears seeping through his shirt. He hugged her back, and after a while she drew back. "Look at me, making a mess out of everything..." She rubbed a hand over her eyes and beamed at him.
"I'm not saying I don't want this explanation, but – how about dinner?"
He hadn't eaten or slept in days, the wait for Moran to do anything and the realization that he could finally return having prohibited it, so he nodded and, while she happily ran around in the kitchen and made them dinner (after having made tea, of course) he explained everything to her. He was certain she would be able to take it; she was made of harder stuff than most people would suppose. And she did, patting his hand when he talked about his fake suicide and how he'd said goodbye to John and his voice faltered. She only interrupted him once – when he told her how Moriarty had made him jump, by threatening to kill her and John and Lestrade, and she had to sit down and started crying all over ago before hugging him tightly and saying "My poor boy" over and over. Then she composed herself and made sure he "had a real proper dinner" before asking, "Does John know?"
"No" Sherlock answered, "Not yet". He swallowed before asking, "How –"
"Badly" Mrs. Hudson interrupted him. Her eyes softened. "He missed you a lot. Like we all did. But John – he couldn't hold a job for a year. And his relationships – they didn't last long, either. He didn't tell me much, but I have eyes".
Sherlock nodded. He had suspected something like this, but hearing it somehow made it worse and had to clear his throat before asking, "He is going to come off his shift soon, correct?"
Mrs. Hudson looked at her watch, apparently surprised how much time has passed. "Yes. I'd say he'll come in about half an hour."
Sherlock, strangely, didn't know whether to be relieved or apprehensive. Pushing his anxiety that John wouldn't welcome him back into his life away, he took out the phone he'd been using for the past few months – he really had to ask Mycroft where his old phone was – and sent his brother a text. "Is Lestrade alone?"
"Yes. In his office" was the instantaneous reply, and he smiled. He would have to tell Lestrade about Moran, and he didn't want him to find out that he was alive in front of witnesses. Not when he was still considered a fraud officially.
So he dialled Lestrade's number from memory, and, as soon as the DI picked up, simply said, "Lestrade, it's me".
There was a pause, then the DI spoke, sounding like he was trying not to lose his temper, and Sherlock had to admit that hearing his voice again made him happier than he'd supposed.
"I swear to God" Lestrade was saying, "If this is a joke, I will find you, and I will make sure you get what you deserve, you – "
"The first words you ever said to me where, "Is there any reason you are standing over the corpse of a murder victim? And how did you get into the crime scene in the first place?"
Another pause, longer this time. Then Lestrade stammered "Sher – Sherlock?"
"Yes. I had to fake my death in order to get rid of Moriarty's network once and for all". It wasn't the whole truth, but now wasn't the time to tell the DI that he'd done it to protect him as well. He would do it after they'd captured Moran and he had been rehabilitated.
He could hear Lestrade breathe deeply, trying to calm down. The DI finally asked "Where are you?"
"Baker Street. With Mrs. Hudson".
"John is going to come home any minute" he replied automatically, and Sherlock was grateful that obviously several people had kept an eye on his blogger during his absence.
"I know".
"And do you know what you are going to say to him?"
Sherlock was silent because he didn't and his – his friend understood. "Okay, then. I assume this isn't just a social call?"
The consulting detective smiled relieved, realizing that the DI, despite the anger he must feel, wanted to make it easier for him, and told him about Moran. Lestrade listened and then said, "So you say this airgun can only have been constructed by – "
"Herder. A German. He lives in London."
"I'm going to get my hands on him and intimidate him. And I'll see what I can find out about Moran."
Normally, they would have hung up then. They had never bothered with greetings or farewells, but three years of separation and feelings hung between them.
It was Lestrade who finally broke the silence with "I – I am glad you are back, by the way".
"Thank you" Sherlock said. "When this is over, we – we should meet some time, to – to catch up".
He heard Lestrade take a deep breath and grinned; at least he hadn't lost his ability to shock his DI.
"Yeah, yeah we should do that. Bye, Sherlock".
And then, for no other reason than he wanted to, Sherlock replied, "Bye, Greg" and hung up.
Mrs. Hudson beamed at him. "So DI Lestrade is going to help?"
Sherlock nodded.
Mrs. Hudson was obviously thinking about something else already, because she suddenly asked, "You are going to move back in, aren't you?"
"Of course – if John will have me back."
She snorted. "He will. Of course he will. Why don't you go up and get some rest before he comes home?"
Sherlock, finding himself even more tired than he'd supposed, decided that this was good advice indeed and went up, looking around the flat only to find that, except that his experiments were missing from the kitchen (though he was sure that his equipment would most likely be in his room), 221B had practically remained unchanged. Even the skull was sitting on the fireplace, and his violin case was lying in a corner.
He smiled and lay down on the sofa to get a few minutes of rest before John returned.
Fifteen minutes later the sound of the front door shutting woke him and he sat up, listening to Mrs. Hudson trying to tell John something while the doctor politely excused himself and went up. So their landlady had obviously tried to prepare him, and John hadn't wanted to listen. Sherlock frowned. John had always had time for Mrs. Hudson.
The door opened and John got in. He spotted Sherlock on the sofa immediately, and like Mrs. Hudson, he stared at him as if he didn't believe his eyes. Sherlock's frown deepened as he realized how tired and worn down his blogger was. John had lost weight and looked older than his years. There were bags under his eyes, his hair was unkempt and he had a stubble on his chin, showing that he didn't pay his appearance much attention. And the way he stood – The realization hurt more than Sherlock could have prepared himself for, even if he had considered the possibility. He was putting more weight on his left leg. His right leg must be hurting him again. Even though he didn't use his old cane – maybe out of pride, maybe out of stubbornness – Sherlock was ready to bet, despite not being a betting man, that he limped some days, maybe most days.
"Oh no, you don't" John suddenly interrupted his musings. Obviously he had come to the conclusion that Sherlock was indeed alive and sitting on their sofa, and had become predictably angry. "You don't get to disappear for three years, then come back here and – and – deduce me like nothing happened!"
He strode towards Sherlock and the consulting detective stood up. Knowing John and his temper, it shouldn't have come as a surprise when the doctor punched him in the face and started shouting, but for some reason, it did.
He staggered back, holding his left hand to his face, too shocked (because John had never looked at him that way, and he'd never heard such venom in his voice) to take in everything his friend screamed, but he understood enough.
He had known John would be hurt by his "death"; he hadn't known how much. He had been utterly convinced (and had dreaded it at the same time) that John would move on, that he would probably be living somewhere else with an utterly boring girlfriend or wife, that there would be no place for Sherlock in his new life anymore –
But as it turned out, John hadn't moved on. He hadn't settled down, he hadn't decided to start a "normal" life. He had been living here, in 221B (for the most part, at least, after he'd moved back in) with the memories of their life, holding on to the bond they shared. Even though he had believed Sherlock to be dead.
After a while, John stopped shouting. He leaned against the wall, breathing heavily, and Sherlock would have liked to step over, to comfort him, but he didn't know how.
So in the end, all he could ask was "Do you want me to leave?" because he knew John liked to be alone after their fights, though he couldn't tell if this had even been a fight or if John truly couldn't forgive him. Wouldn't forgive him.
John looked up, and suddenly there was a different fire in his eyes. "Don't. You. Dare". He made a few steps towards Sherlock again, and the consulting detective expected to be punched once more, but instead John enveloped him in a bone-crushing hug. He could do nothing but hug back.
Finally, after what seemed a long time, John pulled back and smiled through tear-filled eyes. He immediately rubbed his face to get rid of them – always the good solider – while Sherlock, surprisingly, found he had to blink away a few tears himself.
Then John said just four words, but they were enough to make Sherlock feel like he had finally come home.
"Never leave me again".
"I won't" he promised, for once not caring that he couldn't possibly promise that, not with the life they were going to leave again.
John stepped back, cleared his throat and smiled. "So that was what Mrs. Hudson wanted to talk about?"
"Yes. I think she wanted to prepare you".
John laughed. "I don't think anyone could have prepared me for that." He grew serious again, although his eyes no longer looked empty and tired, he looked alive, and Sherlock found himself grinning.
"Explain" the doctor demanded, but when Sherlock opened his mouth, he interrupted him with, "No, wait. I'm going to make tea, we are going to sit down, and then you are going to explain."
Sherlock thought it best to obey, so he did.
They talked for hours, John demanding to hear everything. The only interruption was Mrs. Hudson, who brought even more tea, obviously curious how her boys were doing, before happily returning to her flat. How he had faked his suicide ("I should have known Molly was nervous by the way she treated me") to the reason he did it ("Sherlock...") to what he'd done while he'd been gone ("Just for the record, I would have helped you"). They talked until they finally came to Sebastian Moran. Just as Sherlock was detailing that he was sure the sniper knew he was in London, and that he would try to kill him soon, Lestrade called.
Sherlock picked up. "Yes?"
"We have him. Herder claims that he doesn't know who ordered the gun, but he remembers who picked it up – he identified Moran from a photo in his service record. We haven't found him yet, though".
"I think" Sherlock answered, standing up and cautiously peering out the window – he'd made sure neither John nor Mrs. Hudson came near it in the course of the evening – "You will find him in the building opposite our flat".
"The one Moriarty put the bomb in?"
"Exactly" Sherlock answered, sitting down on the sofa again. "He is mostly likely there already, waiting for an opportunity."
Before he could say something else, John had snatched the phone from his grasp. "Hello, Greg?" He laughed. "Yes, don't worry, all's well... well, almost. I already did. There's quite a bruise forming. Of course we'll wait for backup. Bye". He hung up and looked at Sherlock, eyes sparkling. "We are not going to wait for him, right?"
"Of course not" Sherlock answered matter-of-factly. "Ready to climb out the window at the back of Mrs. Hudson's living room?"
"Always" John answered, almost jumping from the sofa, all pain in his leg forgotten.
"But" the doctor wanted to know while they opened the window, having explained to Mrs. Hudson what was going on and that she shouldn't turn off the light in their living room, even though they weren't in the flat, "wouldn't Moran expect something like this?"
"He isn't thinking clearly" Sherlock answered. "He wants to avenge his best friend."
"I know the feeling" John commented. "Moriarty was lucky to have shot himself".
Sherlock flinched, the thought of John becoming a murderer because of him extremely unpleasant, and climbed out the window without another word.
Moran was almost insultingly easy to sneak up on, although it felt good to catch a criminal with John at his side again. He didn't even say anything, he simply shouted insults at them – but then again, he wasn't Moriarty, he had never been. Thankfully. Finally their game was over, once and for all.
Just as they brought Moran out of the house, two police cars stopped in front of them, and John hissed, "Sherlock, run. Don't worry, I can – "
Sherlock looked at him and raised an eyebrow. "No. I promised not to leave you, remember?"
John fell silent at that.
Luckily, at this moment, a black limousine came to a halt behind the police cars and Sherlock sighed with relief. This surely made everything easier.
Mycroft got out and strode towards them, and it was obvious that he had already been successful in rehabilitating him.
Sherlock had to admit that had been quick, even for his brother.
"I assumed you would want to stay in Baker Street" Mycroft replied to the unspoken question in his eyes, and John answered for him. "Of course. Thanks, Mycroft".
Someone cleared their throat behind the British Government, and Mycroft stepped aside to reveal Lestrade, grinning. "I just heard that proof has been found you didn't invent the crimes, Sherlock. You are rehabilitated".
"I know".
"Of course you do. Donavan, would you please take Colonel Moran to the Yard?"
Donavan, while staring at Sherlock like he was a ghost – he could have sworn she looked almost relieved, maybe she had felt a little guilty all along, he realized – did as she was told.
"We'll need to pull you in tomorrow for your statements" Lestrade said, advancing towards them, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
"Tomorrow?"
"Yes" Lestrade answered, "He isn't going to run away".
The next thing Sherlock knew, Lestrade was hugging him, and he realized that he'd been hugged a lot today and didn't really mind. He hugged back, seeing Mycroft politely walk off, deciding that he would have to thank his brother after they had dealt with the sensation his return to the land of the living would inevitably create.
The DI pulled back, grinning, and said, "And then you'll have to explain everything to me. And. I. Mean. Everything".
"Don't worry" Sherlock answered, "You will".
Lestrade grinned even more and clapped John's shoulder. "You were never really going to wait, were you?"
John shook his head, also grinning.
"Thought so." Lestrade cleared his throat. "Well then, I'll see you tomorrow at the Yard."
He left them with a spring in his step, and Sherlock realized, not for the first time, that through the years, more people than he'd supposed had wormed their way into his heart.
He turned to his right and looked at John, smirking. "Angelo's?"
"Oh God yes" his doctor, his blogger, his friend answered, and as they made their way to the Italian's restaurant, prepared to give another man the shock of his life, Sherlock decided, looking at John, that he truly didn't mind being utterly human after all.
Not if being human meant having a home.
Author's note: I had fun writing this. Who am I kidding? I always have fun writing. Anyway, it's been a great half year. I never realized when I started writing on a whim all those months ago what fanfiction would come to mean to me.
This is a thank you to all of you, my wonderful readers.
Have a few wonderful days.
I hope you liked it, please review.
Hekate