In reality, he sat in the same chair for what must have been hours now; his hands pressed together and his elbows resting on his knees. His lips formed a straight line that showed no emotion but his bloodshot eyes told otherwise. His breathing was almost unable to be registered, almost as if he had gone into hibernation. But his mind was vivid and very much alive with details; the details were key. They always had been.
His narcotics induced mind palace was a towering labyrinth of books and evidence. Marble columns rose up from the stone floor to the ceiling. However, the place was dim almost in an ire way, especially for a building that was mainly used for storing evidence and antiquated literature. There were bookshelves upon bookshelves of information, some critical and some antiquated; false, there was no such thing as antiquated information.
He walked around the labyrinth of information. When he envisioned it he felt as though he was truly there. He could smell the scent of decomposing books bound in leather and he could feel the chill in the air raise goose bumps over his soft pale skin. There was a nook in the back of his library; not quite a library, really: a library would imply that the knowledge was limited; no, this was much more than a marble building filled with books: this was a vast collection of ever-growing knowledge all contained in a stone building. It was a harsh exterior that led to an overflowing, yet vastly empty, amount of knowledge. There would always be too much and yet there would never be enough to fill the need inside of him. All of these books, all of the evidence and records of cases, filled him with a temporary joy that only gave in shortly afterwards to the hollow darkness of being completely alone. Something was missing; it always had been. He knew what it was but didn't allow the thought to get deep into his mind. Things were too different, too painful, now in order to go back to how he would have liked them to be; the way that he would have died a thousand times for. All he wanted was John. He wanted John to know that he wasn't a fraud. And he wanted John to know that he would do anything, absolutely anything, to make things better; to make things easier for him. Although something deep inside of his stomach told him that things between them could never be completely healed. It would leave a scar that would be visible throughout all of their lives.
Sherlock rounded the corner of the towering bookshelves to his favorite part of his mind palace. It wasn't anything fancy; in fact, it was quant. He stepped onto the royal red carpet that covered the corner of the room; well, loft really. It was open and airy; not quite a room at all. Really, it was the corner of his mind palace but the rows of towering books on either side made it feel as though it was a room. There were two brown leather chairs adjacent to the fireplace that seemed to be stuck in the corner. This was the one place that Sherlock could rest his weary mind. He liked the idea of rest more then he thought he would, although he would never admit it.
Sherlock sighed and strode over to one of the leather chairs, the fireplace casting a tall thin shadow through the dim light. He sat and leaned his head back with his eyes shut trying to block out everything that had happened to him these past few years. But he could hear the breath of another being. Calmly and a little shocked, he opened his eyes and looked toward the chair adjacent to him. He could see the shadow of his army doctor; his John. He looked as though he'd been through hell. He sat with his legs stiff and his hands rested on the arms of the chair. There was a deep grimace of disappointment on his face that was only outdone by the sadness and loneliness of his eyes which seemed to pierce through the veil of impassiveness that Sherlock carried about himself every time that John looked at him.
"John… I-" his voice was cut off by the sudden pain in his chest. Even in his deepest state of hallucination John found his way into his thoughts. Sherlock couldn't do anything, couldn't think anything, without John being present. John waved him off and looked to the side again. Sherlock cleared his throat.
"At least… At least let me explain." Sherlock waited for a response from John. Getting none, he continued talking. "Moriarty came back. He threatened to hurt you unless I jumped. I didn't want to. I could hardly bring myself to leave you. I made the best out of a sour deal. I would have died either way because I have nothing to live for if I- I don't have the people that I care for… mainly you." His eyes became moist and his voice was increasing in anxiety the longer he spoke. John didn't reply. He didn't even turn his head back to look Sherlock in the eyes.
"John?" he desperately called. "Can you even hear me? I'm apologizing. I never apologize. I miss you and I want to come back. John, please." He got off of his chair and knelt to the ground inching his way closer to John's chair. "I know that I shouldn't have done it, John but what was I supposed to do? I would do anything to stop you from being mad at me." He was reduced to a childlike state. John had always scolded him for acting that way but he didn't know what else to do in this situation.
John looked at Sherlock who way no more than a few inches away on his knees practically begging for forgiveness. Sherlock could see the pain in his eyes. It was shrouded in a sheet of detachment; something that Sherlock had hoped wouldn't be the result of his stunt. John stood up and walked over to the fireplace. One arm was crossed over his chest and the opposite hand was pressed against his cheek. When he spoke his voice was quiet but powerful enough that it shook the very foundation on which Sherlock's mind palace was built on; John's words always seemed to have that effect on him. "Sherlock… You left me. It's not like you can come back now. It's been years."
"Only three," he whispered. He could swear that he could feel his heart shatter into pieces. He walked over steadily to John and placed a hand on his shoulder. It was cold and rough. Instantly it gave Sherlock an uncomfortable feeling and John flinched, turning to him. Before Sherlock could tell what was going on he watch as John disintegrated into dust and blew away with a wind that shouldn't have possibly been able to have a gust of such force. Panic stricken, Sherlock leapt back as the hairs on the back of his neck prickled up in a mix of fear and surprise. His legs gave out and he kneeled to the ground, stunned and confused. His mind palace seemed to close in around him until the once vast library filled with books and knowledge became black and empty.
When he awoke the next morning he knew what he had to do. There was no stopping him now; he needed to talk to John. His hallucination had made him realize how much he was hurting himself and, even more importantly, how much he had hurt John. He showered and hailed a taxi to 221B Baker Street and climbed the hallway staircase to the door. This is it, he thought to himself. This is the day that I get to come back.
Sherlock opened the unlocked door to the flat and walked silently across the room. It seemed nostalgic really; all of his papers were where he had left them. Even his microscope was still on the countertop. The only thing missing was his experiments; not surprising really considering how much John hated them in the kitchen anyways. The entire apartment hadn't been touched it seemed although it was evident that John still lived there. Sherlock noticed some of John's paperwork on the table and read the date: it was from this week. The flat had also been dusted recently and it looked as though the stove had been used that day.
He walked over to the living room where he saw him; John lay on the couch fast asleep; the steady rise and fall of his chest brought some relief to Sherlocks anxious heart. Just to be reassured that he was alright in person was a blessing to him. Sherlock walked around the couch and sat in the adjacent chair watching John sleep. He could see the worry lines that had formed under his eyes and the aging of his face was visible since Sherlock last saw him. He still wore the same sweaters as he had three years ago and Sherlock couldn't help but smile at that. His own style hadn't changed much since he left although now he was sporting a light grey trench coat instead of his black one; apparently they discontinued black. John held his right hand under his head and his left hung over the couch just barely touching the neck of Sherlock's violin. It caused Sherlock a twinge of pain in his heart to know that even after years of waiting John couldn't move on. Knowing that he made such a difference in John's life was a double edged sword: it meant that he could probably come back into John's life and hopefully fix the wound he made but, on the other hand, it put John in a great deal of danger.
Should I wake him, Sherlock asked himself feeling a bit guilty. It's not too late to leave. I can walk out that door and never come back. He glanced at the door and then back at John unable to tell which of the two choices would be better. On one hand, he could walk out the door and keep John out of danger. He wouldn't even realize that Sherlock had been there. But, on the other hand, Sherlock could see how his 'death' had hurt John. He must have moved his hand while Sherlock looked away because now John was holding onto Sherlock's violin with an almost violent force. Even in the dark Sherlock could tell that his knuckles were white and more than anything he just wanted to tell John that it was all okay; that he was back and that John never needed to worry again; even that Sherlock wouldn't leave his side unless John had commanded him to go.
Sherlock sighed and got up off of the chair. He carefully walked over to the couch and put his hand on John's shoulder. John flinched but then let his muscles relax.
"John," Sherlock whispered softly before leaning down to his ear. "John, I'm back. John." Sherlock stood back and watched as John's eyes slowly fluttered open. He could read John's emotions like a well sequenced book: first grogginess, then realization, then shock, then disbelief, and next despair.
John let out a sigh and buried his head in the arm of the couch. "Why does my mind like to torture me like this?" His voice hinted that it was a rhetorical question with a very real desire for an answer. Sherlock didn't know how to respond.
"John... I- I'm not imaginary. I really am here." He lay his hand on John's shoulder again although John didn't seem convinced.
"Stop it! Just stop it please! Sherlock is gone and... and I can't get him back." He winced as though he was trying to stop himself from feeling the grief again and for a moment Sherlock wondered if he had made the wrong decision by coming back in the first place. Not that it mattered now. He couldn't leave John like this. He knelt down so that he was face to face with John. He could see his body trembling slightly.
"No, John, look at me," he said it with a force that was all but impossible to ignore. "I faked my own death but I'm back now. This isn't a dream and you're not hallucinating. I'm real." He watched as John turned his head. He could see the hope in his eyes break out like a ray of sunshine on a cloudy day.
"Sherlock?" John stammered. "How can you even be here. I watched you fall to the ground. I watched as your head got smashed in. I took your bloody pulse as you lay on the ground as frozen still as a fucking statue..." His voice trailed off and Sherlock could see that he was almost near the breaking point.
"I didn't want to do it, John. I really didn't... I left clues. I thought that you would see them." Sherlock looked into John's eyes. They were a mist of confusion and betrayal but somewhere in there there was a gleam of hope or happiness or something that gave Sherlock confidence that he could fix things.
"My God," John exclaimed as it finally hit him that Sherlock was back. "You're really here. This isn't my imagination. You're actually right in front of me." His eyes shot open like he had just downed twenty cappuccinos. "Do you realize how much I've bloody missed you?" He was practically hysterically laughing as he sat up and grabbed the collar of Sherlock's trench coat, pulling him into a warm embrace.
Sherlock let himself relax as John hugged him. He felt relieved that he was able to finally be back. He could feel John's arms wrapped around his back even through his thick coat and he could smell the remnants of John's peanut butter toast breakfast and the tea with honey that he made before bed every night. It smelt like home to Sherlock and he couldn't help but to bury his head in the nook formed between John's neck and shoulder and inhale deeply. He could see the hairs rise on the back of John's neck as he exhaled. In return, John ran his fingers through Sherlock's matted hair.
"Sherlock?" John asked as his grip on the detective tightened. Sherlock responded with a soft hmm noise and John continued. "Please don't leave me again. You have no idea what that did to me." It sent a stab of pain to Sherlock's heart to hear that he was the cause of John's pain.
"John..." he began to say as he released his embrace. He switched his grip so that he held onto both of John's arms. "I came back because I couldn't bare the thought of being without you for another day. Whether or not you may realize it, I do love you."
"You... You love me?" John was so taken aback that Sherlock was worried he may have gone into shock for a moment. "I always thought that you tried to distance yourself from feeling things like that. All that time you would tell me 'Alone is what I have. Alone protects me'. What was all that about then?"
Sherlock looked away before responding. "I did try at first to distance myself from anything that would hinder my work." He looked back at John who still seemed too stunned to make sense of everything. "But you, John. You are the exception to the rule. I can't seem to focus unless you are in the room with me... And... I need you to be with me." Sherlock didn't know what else to say. Maybe it was too soon. They hadn't even seen each other in person for three years. Hell, up until five minutes ago John thought Sherlock was dead.
John glanced down and Sherlock realized that he was still holding his arms. He let go and leaned back on his knees. John looked at him with an array of emotions that Sherlock had never seen from John before. There was a small grin on his face and a particular sparkle in his eyes. Sherlock stayed still as John slowly leaned in closer to him, eventually brushing his lips against Sherlock's. Sherlock could feel the warmed of John's mouth and the softness of his lips. He could smell the honey in John's breath and he could nearly feel the warmth of his own blood coursing through his cheeks as he blushed. John leaned back up against the couch and let out a small giggle.
"That's a good color on you; that pink in your cheeks. I didn't think I'd ever see a color like that on you again." There was a note of sadness to his voice as he spoke but it was quickly forgotten as Sherlock leaned up against him, pressing his mouth against John's. Sherlock ran his hands through the hair on the back of John's head and John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck, pulling him in closer. Sherlock slid his right hand to the small of John's back and in return, John moved his hands to around Sherlock's waist. As their long kiss parted, Sherlock moved his lips so that they were pressed against John's ear. "I'm back now. That's all that matters."