Mornings on the outskirts of London were generally quiet. Occasionally, John Watson would wake to the sound of a police siren or the sound of neighbors yelling at each other. Today it was the birds that lived outside of his window. It usually was, the loud little bastards.
He checked his phone as he got out of bed; nothing of course. He glanced down at his photo of him and Sherlock like he always did on his way to the bathroom. Greg had taken it when Sherlock had been drugged by that Adler woman. Yeah, Sherlock might have been completely out of it, but John was helping him out of the house and they were smiling at each other. Greg had sent it to him after everything that had happened. John had had it printed out because it was a real picture of them, not the ones used for all the scandals in the papers.
It was probably stupid, but it made John happy now and again.
He lived in a small three room flat now. It was close to the hospital where Sarah had graciously let him return. Life was simple. He got up, he went to work, he came home and went to bed. God how he hated it. At least Mycroft left him alone for the most part.
He had just sit down at the table for breakfast when the doorbell went off. He frowned at the noise, not expecting any visitors. He made his way to the door, opened it and immediately slammed it closed.
No.
No, no.
He opened the door again and a man who looked impossibly like Sherlock stood there. His hair was shorter and red, he had a black leather jacket on and jeans. But the face was unmistakable, though it had a scar on the cheek now. "Who the fuck are you?"
"John you know who…" and there was that voice.
"How do you know my name and how the hell did you find me?" John shouted. Tears welled in his eyes. This was a joke, the sickest joke anyone could ever think to play.
"John, do you honestly think you could hide from me? I don't even think you tried." The man who was probably, but impossibly Sherlock retorted.
This was unbelievable. "You're dead. I have no reason to try and hide from you." Why did he continue to bait this man? He was just getting angry and terribly sad.
"Yes, well, I'm not anymore, obviously. Can I come in?" The man raised his eyebrows expectantly.
John punched him in the face hard. "Why should I let you in?"
The man held his cheek, blood spilling from his lip. "All right, I deserve that."
John punched him with his other hand. It didn't land quite as directly, but it did the job.
The other man blinked his eyes from the impact. "I deserve that, too."
"Are you not even going to apologise, you sick, stuck up, sadistic arse?" John didn't know why he didn't expect this, especially from a Holmes. All the resources he had, all the money probably stowed away, why Mycroft never really seemed torn up about it. "I hate you. Everything I went through, the interviews, the nightly specials on the news, the pitied stares from the Yarders. You could have at least told me or had Mycroft tell me! Something!"
"You don't hate me, John. And I couldn't tell…"
"SHUT UP!" John screamed. Sherlock shrunk back. "One year and one month and you just walk up to my flat like you're still invited? I spent my time mourning you, trying to get my life back from the shambles in which you left it and you think you can waltz back in like you never even left?"
"That is what I was hoping for." Sherlock admitted quietly. John's lip twitched as he glared down at the other man. He wanted to kick the teeth out of him. Sherlock reached over to the side of the door where he had a bunch of balloons, all reading 'I'm sorry' on them. John paused and snorted at the ridiculousness of them. "Of course I was going to apologise to you John. You are more precious to me than I care to admit and what I did to you is unspeakable. I have my reasoning and I will share that with you when you are ready. But I am so very sorry."
John reached out and grabbed the leather jacket and pulled Sherlock close, putting his lips roughly against the other man's. He was a bit surprised when Sherlock returned the kiss, but enjoyed it nonetheless. "I've wanted to do that for a very long time." He said quietly once the kiss was broken.
"Good, now I won't feel as foolish giving you this." Sherlock mumbled, feeling around in his pocket. He pulled out a small velvet box.
"What is that?" John asked nervously.
Sherlock opened it and there sat a thin silver band. "A promise, that I will not leave you like that ever again, that I will work to make life a bit easier for you if you take me back, and that you have been and will continue to be one of the most important facets of my life. Even if it took me faking my death and a year to figure that out."
John was nearly struck speechless. That was the sincerest thing he'd ever heard out of the ex-detective's mouth. Finally he looked up, eyes still filled with tears. He almost couldn't believe he was doing this, but then again he could hardly believe that Sherlock was in front of him again. "One year and one month you wanker." He nodded his head and stood aside in the door way. "Get in here."