The lock pick hadn't been necessary after all. Sherlock had surmised as much, but brought the tool along in case he had misjudged the situation. With John, miscalculations were always a possibility.
But this time I'm certain.
If John had moved away, Mrs. Hudson would have rented the flat to new tenants. Once the newcomers unearthed the identity of the flat's former residents, they would have adamantly insisted on the replacing the locksets.
The fact that Sherlock's key still worked contributed a substantial piece of evidence in favor of his theory.
John stayed. Of course he had.
His theory would easily be confirmed when he opened the door.
Sherlock paused with his hand on the door knob, his mind racing through potential consequences of his next action.
John is away. Survey flat. Prepare for later encounter with John.
Probable, considering lack of detectable noise emanating from flat. And he should be at work at this time.
Or, John is home. Meeting occurs. Several potential outcomes, many unpleasant.
Possible, but highly unlikely. John should be at work.
Reassured in his brief analysis, Sherlock opened the door and stepped over the threshold before the confusing sensation building inside his stomach could stop him. He blinked several times while his clinical observations fought to be heard over a wave of emotions that crashed through his body.
Carpet: clean. Table: clear, except for remains of breakfast. Half-eaten toast. Cold coffee. Crumpled napkin. Clearly John's handiwork. Theory confirmed. He still lives here.
I'm home. At last. No more running.
Sofa: one cushion more worn than the others. Frequent use. Discarded jumper over one arm. Open laptop on seat.
John's alive. Safe. My mission complete.
Sherlock took a step further into the flat and shut the door. He moved to the sofa and brushed his fingers along the touchpad to revive the sleeping computer. A familiar webpage shone from the screen.
Our blog.
The blog had not been updated since the day of the Fall. Sherlock had visited the site whenever he was able, just to be reminded of his friend.
And because he could almost hear John reading the silly thing aloud.
Since nothing on the site had changed over the course of the past year, John's voice had faded with each subsequent visit Sherlock paid. That didn't stop his frequent checks.
If John hadn't kept up with the blog, what purpose could he have for looking at it now?
Combined with the opened bill on the side table, only one conclusion: therapist.
John's in therapy, again.
Sherlock grimaced. He'd hoped John would have realized by now that he didn't need a shrink. John simply needed to occupy his mind and body with a puzzle, a case to be solved, complete with danger and intrigue. John's therapist couldn't possibly prescribe a better antidote for his psychological ailments.
Perhaps removing himself from John's life had cut short his friend's supply of excitement. Forced him to return to the pseudo-sciences for help with his war trauma.
What if his limp returned?
Sherlock whipped his head around to detect signs of the detestable contraption. The cane was nowhere to be seen.
Took it with him? Possible.
No signs of cane depression on flooring. No scuff marks on furniture indicating contact with cane.
Sherlock's mouth twitched upward. His friend had not gone back to needing such means of support. His eyes continued to roam over the furniture, spotting details that left him frowning once more.
Worn area on coffee table. Similar spots on dining table, countertop and walls. Places used to steady someone unsure on his feet.
Conclusion: John's limp has returned. Too proud to use cane again. Most likely masks it in public.
Sherlock tore his eyes from the upsetting evidence around him and walked into the kitchen. His mind had been silently cataloging details into a disturbing pattern that culminated into a solid fact when he opened the refrigerator.
No body parts. No beakers. No slides.
No experiments. Anywhere.
No trace of me.
Sherlock retreated quickly back into the living room that now felt devoid of his comforting clutter. He searched out the one small piece of himself that remained in the flat, but noticed another disheartening detail.
My chair: unused. Dusty? John's chair: same state.
He reached down to touch the back of his chair.
Tactile evidence confirms. Thick layer of dust. Furniture has remained unused for some time.
Sherlock swallowed. He needed to sort through his gathered evidence, to make deductions, and the chair was emitting the most appealing siren song. He beat half-heartedly at the cushions twice to chase off the worst of the dust, then settled down comfortably.
My chair. It's been too long.
Tired. So tired – of running, hunting, silence, solitude.
Concentrate!
Sherlock closed his eyes and steepled his fingers.
Level of flat cleanliness points to Mrs. Hudson's intervention. Why? To care for John. John needs care. Fact? Or Mrs. Hudson worrying over nothing? Unnecessary worry more likely. John can take care of himself.
Lack of my things points to John. Removed them out of necessity? Possible. Experiments would begin to smell after a time.
Removed them for emotional reasons? Likely. John did tend to react emotionally.
Anger? Perhaps.
Sadness? Maybe.
Emotional cleansing? Probable. By now he will have healed. No need to keep reminders of me.
This conclusion struck Sherlock as right. Good. John should heal. He should begin to build a new life apart from Sherlock. This would perhaps make the revelation of his return easier to accept. Once John realized that he could survive without Sherlock, forgiveness for the deceit would come easily.
Will take time. No possible projected outcome contains instant forgiveness.
Sherlock was weary. The thought of the uncomfortable road to regaining his former place in John's heart, combined with the familiar comfort of his chair, drained the last dregs of his energy. A litany of potential reactions from John at finding Sherlock in their flat ticked through Sherlock's mind, lulling him into a desperately desired sleep.
The sound of a footstep registered in the part of Sherlock's brain that remained awake even as he slept. His consciousness began to surface slowly – he was exhausted, after all. Another step sounded before the details began to register.
Male. Young, but weary. Not getting enough sleep. Halting steps. Hint of a limp? Doesn't take care of his shoes.
A third step. Sherlock's mental faculties clicked into place.
John. Footsteps different. Lost weight? Need visual evidence to conclude.
Sherlock's eyes popped open in time to see his friend begin another step.
Weight loss: confirmed. Illness? Possibly. Pallor and posture seem to corroborate. More grey hairs at temple. Stress.
The deductions continued to hum in his head as a new sensation began to wash over Sherlock: relief. He was truly, finally finished. John was verifiably safe.
And here.
And so am I.
Sherlock could finally talk to his friend again.
"John."
He had missed saying that name out loud. It had been too long.
No verbal response, but John quit his forward movement.
Odd expression. Blank. No eye contact. What is so fascinating about the kitchen wall? Nothing. Not staring at something, then. Refusing to look at something.
Me.
Emotion: unclear.
Joy: unlikely.
Sadness: perhaps.
Anger: probable.
Sherlock had expected John to be angry. If Sherlock knew anything about John at all – and he knew more than most – he knew that John would see his actions over the past year as a betrayal of trust. The secrets. The lies. But Sherlock also knew John would forgive him. His disappearance was necessary, after all, and John had always been a reasonable man.
John's brow furrowed in concentration, reminding his friend of the way he looked when trying to follow Sherlock's leaps of logic. If he could only see John's eyes, he would be able to tell what his friend was thinking.
Look at me!
"John, please."
His words seemed to kick start the doctor, bringing him within Sherlock's reach.
Trajectory: that damned kitchen! E.T.A.: 4 seconds. Must act now. This cold shoulder routine is beneath you, John.
Sherlock thrust his hand forward to stop John before he could walk any further.
"Don't touch me!"
Anger: confirmed.
Forcefulness: unforeseen.
Likelihood of yelling: 55%. An emotional speech: 25%. Violence: 10%. Tears: 7%. Continued cold shoulder: 2.75%. Welcoming handshake: 0.25%.
Sherlock withdrew his hand. No matter which way the explosive comment led, Sherlock was sure to be discomfited. If he could only explain himself, John would understand. Calm down. Sherlock's second highest reason for befriending John was his ability to think rationally. Though sometimes his rationality was clouded by emotion.
He's only human.
"Listen, John – "
"Don't. Don't speak. Don't you dare."
Sherlock found himself lifted from the chair by his shirt front. Whatever illness John might have did not affect his strength.
Increase likelihood of violent response to 50%.
"What gives you the right to be here?"
It's my flat, too.
"To sit in his chair?"
It's my chair.
"To follow me again after all these months?"
Haven't been following. False accusation.
Sherlock's mental calculations were cut off before he could begin to unravel his friend's meaning. John had begun to shake him. Sherlock felt John's mobile phone land against his leg and slide into the crevice between the chair and cushion. His friend didn't even notice the weight suddenly absent from his jacket pocket.
Further evidence that emotions cloud his perception.
"I'm getting better! I'm moving on. Why can't you? Why can't you?"
Better? From illness? Possible, though not contextually applicable. Emotionally, then.
Therapist must be doing her job.
Moving on? From what?
Why would I want to move on? This is my life. I'm moving back.
John wasn't making any sense. Sherlock supposed it was due to the initial shock of the situation.
The detective saw the madness slowly drain from John's face, the light die in his eyes, the creases in his forehead soften. He took advantage of the moment.
"John, stop. Let me explain."
The instantaneous release of his shirt sent Sherlock falling back into the chair.
"I said, don't."
Sherlock watched his friend sink to his knees beside the chair. Stare at the carpet. His tone sounded so broken. Something spasmed in Sherlock's chest. It was obvious John was not handling this reunion well. Perhaps Sherlock should have called before showing up in the flat.
But it's my flat, too!
Besides, John had seemed keen to ignore him earlier, indicating a petty resentment. The anguish now on display was incongruent with his previous emotional state.
Unless I misjudged.
If he would only let me explain!
"Why can't you leave me alone? Leave me in peace?"
Oh.
Moving on.
It wouldn't be the first time someone had changed their mind about being Sherlock's friend, especially as a result of his own actions. The previous experience didn't make the pain any easier.
Not John. Oh God, not him.
John's meaning was unmistakable, however. He had moved on from the life he shared with Sherlock only a year ago. Moved on, taking his trust, his respect, and his friendship. Once John had begun to live his life without Sherlock, he realized he liked the change. Most people felt that way.
Sherlock wasn't certain how to proceed, but it was obvious John no longer desired his company.
"You want me to go?"
If it was what John wanted, Sherlock supposed he could do it.
Find a new place to live. Go back to life before John. Dull, devoid of laughter.
Sherlock wasn't entirely sure what path he would take in his friend's absence, though he could surmise the details.
Boredom. Silence. Loneliness. Downward spiral. Relapse.
His focus would surely increase, but his thoughts would become trapped inside his mind, building in pressure, seeking a suitable outlet and finding none. Temporary peace could only be found in a drug-induced haze.
But if John couldn't stand to be around him anymore, then so be it.
As his friend, I will respect his wishes.
He stood, and made to move toward the door.
For you, John.
John shuddered and grabbed Sherlock's leg.
"Don't."
Confusion.
Don't what?
Joy.
Don't leave!
John was clearly still upset but wasn't ordering Sherlock to leave.
Yet.
Heartbeat: elevated. Breathing: unsteady. Color: flushed.
John is still very upset.
Sherlock sighed. Now that his – obviously irrational – fears were quieted, his frustration began to grow. Would John finally let him speak?
"Will you let me explain, John?"
Sherlock was surprised by his friend's sudden movement. John rose – almost before Sherlock could complete his question – and headed for his chair.
Expression: wistful. Satisfied?
The chair is more comfortable than the ground. Logical.
John was still staring at the carpet.
Annoying.
But he wasn't stopping Sherlock from talking, which was good. He seized the opportunity to explain.
"I've come back, John. My work is finished. You're safe now. You're all safe. I can finally reveal myself."
Those words felt so sweet, so right.
John is safe.
Now he can finally understand. I had to do what I did. To protect him.
He heard John laugh.
Not a happy laugh. Not relief at the truth.
"But only to me."
What? Of course not.
After any pesky legal kinks were worked out, Sherlock fully intended to reclaim his position of consulting detective. That meant revealing himself to Lestrade and the people at the Yard as well. To Mrs. Hudson – he would have to tread carefully here to avoid scaring her to death, but it would be good to have her back in his life as well.
Only to him? Ridiculous.
Deliberate misunderstanding? Not likely.
Emotions inhibiting his understanding? Definitive.
Sherlock proceeded with his explanation more slowly.
"No, John. To everyone. I'm ready to go back to work, to start living my life again. But you had to be the first."
Surely he knew that.
That's what friends did after all. They came to each other first with big news, such as "I'm not actually dead."
John's voice cut off his wry musings.
"When did you become so cruel? Talking, touching. You should stick to jumping off of rooftops. It's easier to handle."
Sherlock felt like he'd been slapped. John would rather he stayed dead?
Surely not.
We're friends.
Had been friends.
He's moving on…
Sherlock must be missing some piece of the puzzle. John had a gentle soul. There had to be some other meaning behind his words.
He watched John pinch the bridge of his nose like he had a headache.
"I don't understand, John."
The phrase slipped out before Sherlock had a chance to stop it.
Sherlock had had no trouble conceding to John in the past when an emotional situation confused him. Why then did this admission cause him instant remorse?
I don't want to understand.
The internal confession came as a shock. Sherlock, the man who sought answers to everything, suddenly had no desire to unravel the truth behind John's statement?
Get a grip, Sherlock! Truth is infinitely better than ignorance.
No matter what pain it might bring.
Sherlock refocused on his friend when he grimaced and began to explain.
"My hallucinations have never been this corporeal. I've never interacted with one. I would just stand by and watch them jump. Watch them fall."
Hallucinations.
Watch them fall… them. More than one.
Limp. Hallucinations. Therapy.
Oh, God.
Sherlock surveyed his friend with new eyes.
Weight loss. Grey hairs. Slumped shoulders. Anemic complexion. Deep-set bags under eyes. Limp. Hallucinations. Therapy.
Hallucinations.
John hasn't moved on. Still in mourning.
A sudden nausea threatened to overwhelm Sherlock. His best friend – only friend – was still grieving after all this time. John was in pain and had been for months.
Pain. Physical pain, emotional pain, psychological pain.
This was worse than Sherlock could ever have predicted. He was so sure of John's strength – the strength of a solider – that he had overlooked the power of John's attachment.
Not surprising, in retrospect.
Never before had anyone had such an emotional connection to Sherlock. Without such precedents, how was he supposed to formulate reasonable conclusions about how quickly John would recover? The doctor cared more deeply about Sherlock than anyone the detective had encountered.
And all it brought him was pain.
The most vile part was that John had grown so accustomed to the pain – to frequent visions of Sherlock jumping from rooftops – that he was unable to see the reality of his current situation.
"John."
This is all my fault.
But it was necessary to keep you safe.
He had to make John see. To look.
"John, look at me."
John narrowed his eyes at the carpet, like whatever he saw there demanded every ounce of concentration in his body.
"I'm getting better. Or, I was. I haven't had a vision in months. Then you show up. It had to be the scarf this morning. Brought you back. But I can't go back to this. To seeing you. It's not safe. It's not sane. I came so close to… to the edge. But the therapy has been working. I can't go back to that place."
What edge?
Surely John hadn't –
Sherlock stopped that horrible thought before it could fully form. Whatever torture John had suffered, he would surely have seen an end in sight – a positive end, one that included a happy life, a family even. John would surely know how valuable his life was.
At the moment, however, John felt like he was slipping back toward whatever edge the visions had pushed him toward. He said it wasn't sane. Wasn't safe.
But you are sane, John. And finally safe.
He had to look. Must be made to see.
"John, please. Look at me. I'm not a figment of your imagination. I'm alive."
John's eyes came up to meet Sherlock's.
Finally! He'll be able to see now. To see reason.
The agonizing look in John's eyes unnerved him.
Worse than John being used as target practice for Moriarty.
Knowing he had been the cause of John's terrible distress this time.
John's supposed 'friend'.
It was never his intention to hurt John so deeply, and it still wasn't, though John seemed to think that Sherlock was a dangerous hallucination. One trying to drag him back into the Hell he'd clearly occupied for the past year.
John's breathing ceased. Not good.
Sherlock changed tactics – tried asking a question instead.
Get John talking. Get him breathing.
"What can I do, John? How do I convince you that I'm the real Sherlock Holmes, not some apparition come to pour acid on your wounds?"
The questions had started off calmly, but built in frustration with every word. This was not at all what Sherlock had prepared for during his return. His mind started blazing through the possible ways to convince John that he was real.
Touch him again? Increase likelihood of violent response to 98%. Last resort.
Eat food? Too slow, and not hungry. Dismiss.
Cut myself and bleed? Convincing, but painful. Might hurt John. Dismiss.
His mental list was cut short when he heard John resume breathing. He waited.
"I'm afraid nothing can be done, Sh – "
John cut his reply short.
How was that sentence going to end?
"Surely?" Dismiss. "Shortly?" Dismiss.
"Sherlock?" Probable.
Sherlock.
Why the pause?
"I know what you are saying isn't true. It can't be."
Ridiculous!
As if Sherlock would lie to him.
Then again, on the rooftop –
"You think I'm lying to you, John?"
Sherlock, for the second time in the last hour, regretted asking a question. He wasn't sure he could bear John vocalizing his lack of trust.
"I think my mind is trying to cope with the memories that resurfaced today at the coffee shop. It's projecting my emotions into that chair, telling me what I want to hear. Trying to escape the truth. Trying to be kind."
Of course.
John, ever faithful to his friend, projected the distrust onto himself.
At least he admits that he wants me alive.
That was a start.
Some start. Still thinks I'm a ghost.
Sherlock was getting a headache. The absurdity of the situation, combined with his own onslaught of emotions, was interrupting his focus. He needed to concentrate.
"Please don't. Don't cover your face."
Sherlock had only bowed his head out of habit, to think. He slowly lifted it to look back at John.
Why?
Sherlock searched John's eyes for an explanation of his strange request.
His friend released a sigh.
Relief? From what?
John's face was serene.
At least my presence brings him some small comfort.
But not the comfort of truth.
There had to be a way to sort this out. Sherlock's brain ticked through all the actions he could possibly perform to prove his reality. Few were appealing choices, and all carried the risk of John's continued disbelief.
Sherlock sincerely hoped the others wouldn't react this way to his reappearance.
Of course!
Sherlock plucked John's forgotten mobile from the seat beside him.
"I know what needs to be done, John. We must call a witness. Maybe you will believe someone else's word over mine."
Sherlock's fingers moved swiftly over the keys.
"Found some case files Sherlock must have kept. Thought you might need them back. Can you stop by tonight? -JW"
"I can't. The first time was bad enough. The worry, the whispered concerns over my mental health. If anyone knew that I'd actually spoken to you – touched you – I'd be locked away."
So, John had gone public when his hallucinations began.
They thought he was crazy.
The first time…
He stopped reaching out. Did no one notice? Try to help him?
"I'm sorry, John. It must be done." Sherlock dropped the phone slowly so it would catch John's eye.
His apology had little to do with the current situation and everything to do with John's secret struggles.
"What did you do?"
Panic registered on John's features.
"You summoned Lestrade. He thinks he's coming to collect some old case files that you found in my things. Trust me, John. Everything will be alright."
Trust me.
Was John still capable of trusting Sherlock? It didn't matter because Lestrade would open John's eyes. Sherlock was 90% sure his plan would work.
"Sure, everything will be alright for you. You'll fade, like you always do, and leave me to clean up the mess. Again."
85% sure.
Sherlock needed to reassure his friend. He needed to reassure himself.
"I won't leave, John. Not ever again."
Unless you want me to, once you come to your senses.
"And when you do leave? How am I supposed to go on? How am I supposed to work, or sleep, or stand?"
75%.
Was John truly so reliant upon Sherlock for the ability to remain upright? It was hard for Sherlock to reconcile this dependence with the self-sufficient army doctor from the past. He knew John was rather damaged by the war when they first met. He also knew that John seemed to glean enjoyment and a sense of purpose from their cases. But that had been the thrill of the chase, the adrenaline of danger. Sherlock had come to depend on John for a great many things, but his friend had always been so independent. He didn't rely on Sherlock. He had friends, family, and girlfriends to fill his time and give him the intimate companionship that Sherlock wasn't capable of providing.
Sherlock wrestled with his thoughts in silence. Several minutes went by, unbroken by either man.
Eventually, Sherlock heard Lestrade's steps on the stairs. His hope was revived. Soon John would be made to see that Sherlock was real. That he'd come back.
Lestrade's knock seemed to startle John. He looked panicked again at the thought of revealing Sherlock to another human being. He continued to stare at Sherlock, making no move to answer the door. Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood.
This only works if we let the man in.
He waved a hand at the door.
"John, you must answer the door."
Sherlock couldn't be the one to invite the Detective Inspector in.
Lestrade causes a scene on the landing. Mrs. Hudson responds. Potential negative health concerns from sudden shock. Unacceptable odds.
John had to be the one to do it, and do it quickly. The sooner Lestrade could confirm Sherlock's reality, the better.
"I can't."
But we're so close to the truth.
"You can, and you must, John."
Sherlock determined what needed to be done, but nearly rejected the idea. It was depraved.
The only way. Will help him, in the end. Ends justify means.
If John's feelings for him went so deep as to cause such destruction in his absence, only one thing would make his friend open the door.
It killed Sherlock to manipulate John in such a way. Especially since John's current state stemmed from similar manipulation, also by Sherlock, also in a desperate attempt to make John's life easier.
Sherlock lowered his head to hide his expression of self-loathing. He inhaled, steeling himself for the atrocity he was about to commit.
"I've no right to ask it of you, John. But do this. Do it for me."
John's face spasmed, then softened. He rose to answer the door.
Sherlock almost wished John had put up a fight. His willing submission, even after the hell Sherlock had put him through, was another ruthless reminder that John would always be the better friend. Would always deserve more – deserve better.
Better than me.
Sherlock noticed John pause briefly before opening the door.
Lestrade was blocked from his view, but Sherlock could hear the note of worry in his voice as he greeted the doctor.
"It's good to see you, John. I'll admit, I was surprised by your text. But I'm proud of you. It's time. Time to go through his things."
Lestrade moved past John into the flat and came face to face with Sherlock.
The Detective Inspector looked almost exactly the same as the last time Sherlock had seen him.
A new crease by his left eye. Different wrist watch. Back with his wife.
Almost comically, Lestrade dropped his mobile when he registered Sherlock's presence.
Sherlock had devoted little time to predicting Lestrade's reaction to his reappearance but knew little time was needed. Shock. Confusion. Happiness. Grim as he considered the fallout from Sherlock's return.
Simple. Easy.
"Impossible!"
Here we go.
"Not entirely, Detective Inspector."
Sherlock saw John react sharply.
Good. Lestrade can hear me, John. Put the pieces together.
Lestrade gaped back and forth between Sherlock and the doctor.
"It can't be! It's him. It's you! You're here. How? John, it's him!"
Really, he sets himself up sometimes.
"Thank you, Lestrade, for being perceptive as always."
In truth, he had missed the Detective Inspector. Sherlock also felt responsible for Lestrade's safety. He was on Moriarty's short list of Sherlock's friends, after all.
"John? Where did you find him? How? John? It's him, John. It's Sherlock!"
John looked down at the floor again.
"Don't say that name. I can't – I can't bear it."
Sherlock ignored the pang of guilt he felt at John's admission and settled for exasperation.
Good Lord!
Still denying the evidence in front of his eyes!
What will it take to make him believe?
"John."
It seemed to take a lifetime for John's gaze to lift, but once he regained eye contact with his friend, Sherlock began to move across the room to Lestrade. Obviously, things would have to be explained very clearly.
"He can see me, John. Hear me."
He reached out and put his hand on the detective's shoulder.
"He can feel me, too, John."
Lestrade resumed bouncing his glance from John to Sherlock.
"I don't understand. John? Sherlock? What's going on?"
If Sherlock wasn't careful, he was going to explode.
Why does no one comprehend the situation clearly?
He turned from the pair and studied the back wall.
"You see, Detective Inspector, John doesn't believe I'm actually here. Thinks he's hallucinating. Again."
All of Sherlock's frustration came out in that last word. Frustration at John for refusing to acknowledge his return. Frustration at Lestrade for remaining unaware as John struggled in the dark. Mostly, frustration at himself, at his unavoidable decision to jump that tore John's world apart.
"It's my fault, Lestrade. I was never a very good friend. I tried my best, a year ago. By jumping."
John's sharp inhalation and muffled groan landed on Sherlock like blows from a prize fighter. He began to defend his actions.
"I'm sorry, John, but I did it to protect you. All of you. It was the only way to keep my friends safe. But look what it did to you."
He turned to face John, desperately seeking his friend's understanding.
"I knew it would hurt you, John. For a time. But you would move on. And I would return when you were safe. You would be angry for a few weeks. But you would forgive me."
That had been the plan. The way it was supposed to go.
Not like this. Not with John paying such a price.
Believe me, John.
John turned slowly to face Lestrade.
"Detective, you can – "
He paused.
Believe!
Sherlock could sense the moment of illumination coming.
'You can see it, too? You can see him?"
Sherlock noticed Lestrade's expression darken. The Detective Inspector had finally grasped the situation. But while he looked grim, Lestrade showed no sign of surprise.
He's not surprised.
He knew. Knew what John was suffering.
Probably the first person John told. Made John feel crazy.
If he wasn't so crucial to making John see sense, Sherlock would have thrown the Detective Inspector bodily from the apartment.
"I can, John. This time I can see him, too. Because he's here. Actually here. Alive."
Sherlock's flash of anger subsided as he saw Lestrade's words hit John and sink in.
The slow dawning of realization in John's eyes would have usually caused Sherlock to smirk at his inability to keep up with such an obvious conclusion, but this was the very antithesis of an amusing situation.
Please, John.
John turned to Sherlock.
"Alive?"
"Yes, John. I'm alive. I'm really here."
His words were slow, measured. It was imperative that John understood them. Believed them.
Please believe me.
John staggered forward.
"Sherlock?"
My name.
The use of his name told Sherlock all that he needed to know. It meant belief, acceptance of the truth.
It felt good to hear John say his name. Right. More comforting than crossing the threshold into 221B for the first time in a year and collapsing into his favorite chair.
Sherlock realized that John was waiting for an answer. Funny, his name had sounded to Sherlock's ears like a joyous exclamation, a sigh of sweetest relief, and the crack of a gunshot. Not a question. But the inquisitive look in John's eye – the last shard of doubt whose jagged edges continued to glint even after truth had shattered John's denial – needed an answer. It needed to be extinguished, crushed into dust.
"Yes, John."
When John reached Sherlock, he once again fell to his knees. This time he was crying.
"Sherlock. Sherlock! You're here. Sherlock, you're – "
Sherlock sank to the carpet.
He grabbed John's shoulders, as much to steady himself as his friend. He was overwhelmed with emotion: relief at John's long-overdue acceptance of the truth, joy at John's apparent liberation from grief, and an intense sorrow.
Sherlock knew it was all his fault. All of the agony John had endured over the past year was due to Sherlock's inability to find a better solution to Moriarty's final game on the rooftop.
He had to make sure that John recognized his regret.
"Can you forgive me, John? I didn't know. I didn't think it would hurt you like this. I didn't know, but I should have. I'm so sorry, John."
John began laughing, and Sherlock's relief gained the upper hand.
A good laugh. Happy. John's happy.
"Sherlock's alive, Lestrade. He's alive, and he's here!"
Sherlock looked up and saw Lestrade smile, though whether it was because he, too, was happy over Sherlock's return, or whether it was in response to seeing John so happy, he couldn't be sure.
Perhaps he's less overjoyed than predicted. Analyze reactions later.
"He is, John. He really is."
"Detective? Just so you're aware, I'm going to murder him tomorrow."
Joking. Good sign.
Sherlock chuckled. His amusement increased as he envisioned the headlines: "Consulting Detective Alive, Cleared of Crimes, Murdered by Flat Mate". Lestrade would have a mountain of paperwork to file for such a convoluted case.
Sherlock saw the opportunity for another dig at the Detective Inspector. Too good to resist.
"Even with the head's up, it will take him a week to solve the case."
Lestrade turned, heading for the door.
"If the insults are going to start again, I'll let your murder go unsolved for a month."
Reason number 3 that Lestrade is a tolerable detective: not easily offended. Not seriously, at least.
Lestrade's light tone turned dark as he looked back at Sherlock.
"We are going to have to talk about what happened, Sherlock. On that roof."
John stopped laughing and reached for Sherlock's arms, which were still resting on John's shoulders.
Leave it to Lestrade to interrupt a pleasant moment with reality.
Unavoidable reality.
Sherlock knew there would be real consequences to his return. The pain on John's face at the reminder of the Fall was simply one of at least 157 hurdles Sherlock knew he would have to face in the coming days.
Media speculation. Interrogations. Donnovan and Anderson. His odd relationship with Molly. The wrath of Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft.
He locked those thoughts into his mind palace, where, no doubt, the list would continue to grow.
"Of course, Lestrade. Tomorrow, at the Yard."
"Tomorrow, then. I'm really glad you're back, Sherlock."
A sincere sentiment.
As Lestrade left, Sherlock knew the Detective Inspector would fight in his corner again. It might take some time for the residual anger to die down, but it would pass. Lestrade wasn't one to linger on emotions.
Reason number 5.
"Sherlock."
John's voice pushed all thought of Lestrade from his mind.
"Yes, John?"
"Sherlock. It just feels good to say it again. Sherlock."
Sherlock recalled his own similar reaction when he called to John from across the room earlier that evening. It was both endearing and discomfiting to know John shared the same relief when saying his name.
"I know, John. I'm so sorry."
Sorry for everything I put you through. Sorry there is more still to come. That it isn't over yet.
"Don't. Not right now. Be sorry tomorrow. Be here now. Sherlock, you're here."
Here, with John.
John is safe.
"Always, John."
Always.