A/N: First Sherlock fanfic. Please read and review! Thank you! Also, I have no beta, so any mistakes are mine, and mine alone.
Would you believe me if I said I was sorry?
He stood above a bleeding body, wondering if Moriarty was watching from the depths of hell.
Sebastian Moran.
The last and final assassin.
And by far the most dangerous one, because he was after the most important person in Sherlock's life.
John.
Instead of guilt filling him, not that he had expected any, there was only excitement.
Excitement of being alive again. Of shaving off his beard and letting his hair fall back into its natural dark curls.
Excitement to see John.
/ / /
He stood right outside of 221B, where he knocked on the door to find Mrs. Hudson who looked a little older, but she still smiled widely and pulled him into a tight hug.
"Oh dear, I knew you couldn't be dead," she cried, inviting him in for a cuppa.
After Mrs. Hudson had put the kettle on, they sat around her flat's table.
"So where have you been?"
Sherlock decided that there was no way he could tell her about the assassins that were hunting for her, Lestrade, and John, even if he'd killed hers first.
"Travelling lots," he decided. And at last, the burning question that he'd held in for the last year and a half burst out of his mouth. "Where's John?"
/ / /
Mrs. Hudson.
John answered his phone quickly, seeing as he'd asked her not to call unless it was an emergency.
(It wasn't that he had a problem with the woman, of course not. She was linked to Sherlock, and he couldn't bear to think of Sherlock or 221B or violins. Even though he did every day.)
"John, I have friend that needs to speak to you. Do you think you could meet him for tea at Speedy's in ten minutes?"
He smiled softly and nodded, even though he knew she wouldn't be able to see.
"Of course, Mrs. Hudson. May I ask—"
She had hung up the phone, leaving John in the dark.
He looked at the clock quickly, 11:45, and padded into his bedroom to go get changed.
"John, where are you going?" a soft voice spoke from the kitchen as he threw his coat on.
"Just off to Speedy's, love. I'll be back soon," he replied, pressing a kiss to her head. "I love you, Mary."
And with that, he shut the door.
/ / /
There he was.
There was his best friend, standing in the doorway of Speedy's, looking around calmly.
He flattened down his blond hair, wondering how John would possibly react.
Like Mrs. Hudson, John had aged, but he also seemed younger in his mannerisms.
He was so calm, much calmer than he'd ever been.
Calm.
The look that Sherlock finally received when his eyes brush past him is anything but calm.
It's angry and happy and sad and relieved and terrified all at the same time.
He tried to contain his excitement that continued to bubble up inside of him.
And the bubbles fell flat when John shook his head and walked back out of the café.
/ / /
He's alive.
/ / /
Sherlock stood up, pushing his table away from him, causing everyone to stare at him as he walked out.
John was crouching against the wall, his head in his hands.
"John?" he whispered.
When he gets no response, he leaned against the wall with his friend and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"John," he repeated, and finally, Sherlock assumes the position of folded hands under his chin, and John crouching there, his eyes gazing at nowhere in particular.
"You're dead," his friend finally breathes. "You're dead."
/ / /
It was almost scary how different he looked.
No.
It was scary.
Where were his dark curls?
Where was his pale skin?
Where was his complete an utter Sherlock-ness?
Where was he?
His hair was blonder than John's, and his skin was tan, probably after spending months in different tropical places.
His hand felt heavy on John's shoulder, but neither pushed nor pulled.
/ / /
"Would you believe me if I said I was sorry?" Sherlock whispered after a few more seconds (which really felt like eternities) of silence.
John simply shook his head.
"You're unbelievable. Why didn't you tell me?"
He stood, leaving Sherlock in a strange position.
John being taller than him, and it was almost terrifying, except that John's eyes were softening ever so slowly.
Sherlock followed his lead, now the taller, and still feeling like the tiniest, even as John wrapped his arms tight around Sherlock.
A sigh of relief left Sherlock's lips, and he felt his breathing return to normal.
"It was dangerous," he replied simply as John released him.
John smiled, shaking his head.
"Danger's never stopped me before, Sherlock. Really, I'd like to know."
"We should go back to the flat," Sherlock whispered, putting his hands in his pockets.
John looked down at his watch.
"How about you just come with me?"
/ / /
John still wasn't sure if this was a good idea.
After all, John had been absolutely in love with Sherlock, which he realized the second his body grew limp on the pavement, and now he was with Mary.
But here he was, standing on their flat's doorstep with Sherlock, fumbling for his keys.
Eventually, he pushed the door opened, and both of the men's noses filled with the aroma of brilliant exotic cooking that neither could identify.
It threw Sherlock off and immediately he felt uncomfortable.
"John, is that you? How was your walk?" Mary asked, appearing before them in an apron with a wooden spoon in hand and her blonde hair tied in a ponytail.
John smirked, pulling her into a quick kiss before introducing Sherlock.
/ / /
The way she talks to John indicates a relationship. Not just flat mates.
This information alone is enough to give Sherlock's heart a tiny ache in the very back. Small enough to wave off, and yet big enough to remind him constantly of its presence.
The kiss and the cooking, obviously a romantic relationship.
As the evidence pops up, Sherlock has to remind himself that John is not his—was never his. Sherlock Holmes is simply a man. And John Watson is a different man.
For a year and a half, they have lived separate lives, and still, the taller supposed that he was the only of the two to have feelings that grew stronger because of it.
Ponytail. She's comfortable.
Of course she's comfortable. It's their flat.
Their.
"Mary, this is Sherlock. Sherlock, this is Mary."
Left-handed, seeing as that's the one she sticks out to shake Sherlock's. Right hand has a silver bracelet, and then two that are homemade and made of string. Primary school teacher.
Engaged. Ring on her fourth left hand finger.
"Pleasure to meet you, Mary."
"And you, Mr. Holmes. I'm glad to finally meet you," she replied as both pulled away respectively. "No offense, but I thought you were dead, Sherlock."
"I was."
He didn't say anything further, because she was walking into the kitchen to attend to whatever poultry was sitting on their kitchen counter.
"Well, what do you think? Nice, hm?"
No bullets in the walls. No red and grey arm chairs facing each other. No skull. No violins playing. No books scattered everywhere.
In anyone else's eyes, it was perfect, yes.
But to Sherlock Holmes, there was only one "nice" flat in all of London, and that's 221B Baker Street, but without John, it would not be "nice" or "good" or even "okay". It would just be, like all things pre-Watson, "boring".
"Yes," he lies, standing in the middle of the hallway, feeling like a complete intruder.
"Anyway, I had a question, and I know it's sudden, but Mary and I are getting married in five months," John began, handing Sherlock a cuppa.
"Oh, are you?" Sherlock said in false surprise and enthusiasm.
"Isn't it wonderful? But yes, we are. Anyway, I was wondering if you'd like to be my best man."