Author's note: Happy first of December! Since I adore Christmas, I thought it was time to write a Christmas story.
So here, have some Post-Reichenbach angst.
I don't own anything, please review.
Only Sherlock Holmes would have the audaciousness to show up on his doorstep at the first of December, declare he was alive and that he needed John's help to bring down the last and worst of Moriarty's henchmen in one breath.
As he was talking and gesticulating as of old, John stared at him and wondered absently if the consulting detective even realized that it would be Christmas soon.
And that he had just fulfilled any wish John could have had.
However, the joy and disbelief of Sherlock being alive were soon swallowed by the anger John could feel cursing through his veins.
He slammed the door in his still talking best friend's face.
A moment later, he realized what he had done, and threw it open again, his heart beating wildly. Had he imagined it? Was he so desperate that he'd only fooled himself into believing he was finally moving on just so his mind could conjure up Sherlock at his doorstep?
But his best friend was still standing there, thankfully silent, staring at him, deducing him like in the old times, and there were too many emotions running through John's veins, relief and happiness and anger and confusion, and he couldn't say a word.
He wanted to scream.
He wanted to punch Sherlock.
He wanted to send him away.
But he wanted him to stay.
He wanted to solve crimes with him again.
He wanted to tell him that he should not ignore his body's needs –
It was then that the doctor realized how haggard Sherlock looked. He was thinner than John had ever seen him; there were dark circles under his eyes; he was pale.
This realization was enough for John to drag him into his flat and decide not to punch him because he was afraid he might break him if he did.
He had never seen the consulting detective so vulnerable.
Even if he only concentrated on his body.
He hadn't looked Sherlock in the eyes yet, some unexplainable dread keeping him from doing so; but now, with Sherlock standing in his living room, he did, and he didn't like what he saw.
Sherlock was not on drugs; he was not crying; but he looked –
If John didn't know any better, he would have said that Sherlock looked haunted, haunted by things he had done, by the dread that John wouldn't welcome him back, by something like regret.
There were so many things John could have said, but he remembered that Sherlock had been trying to explain something to him while he'd been busy staring, so he took a deep breath, decided to wait until they had done whatever the consulting detective considered necessary, and asked, "What did you say about "Moriarty's bosom friend"?"
Sherlock immediately started telling him about Moran, how he was going to try and kill Sherlock, because according to the ex-soldier, he was to blame for Moriarty's death, and for a moment, John thought that there was something like a thankful look in his eyes.
Of course, that was utterly impossible.
Sherlock might regret that he hadn't come back sooner, or that he had left at all, but he could have contacted John at any point in the last three years.
No; Sherlock probably regretted not being in London to solve more cases, was haunted by the opportunities he could have had of showing of. He hadn't missed John. Even now, now when he finally decided to come back, all he talked about was a case.
Even if Moran certainly sounded dangerous.
John clenched his fist as the anger returned and took a few deep breaths. They would talk about this. Once they had put Moran behind bars, they would talk about this.
He allowed Sherlock to ramble on and put on his jacket after he had finished.
He was surprised at how calm he was, and Sherlock seemed – something like worried.
They drove to Baker Street in silence; they waited for Moran in the old flat Moriarty had once put a bomb in opposite 221B without speaking; and even when the sniper appeared, they managed to subdue him without communicating.
It was astonishing how well they still worked together.
Not that there was any reason to think they would continue to do as they had done. First of all, Sherlock had to explain himself; and then –
John had moved on. True, there was a part of him that would always miss what they had been, but he had a new life, a job, a girlfriend. And he and Mary might actually settle down in time. Have a family.
After Lestrade (who hadn't been surprised to see Sherlock, and John had realized that he hadn't been the first the consulting detective had visited after his return) had taken Moran away, Sherlock led the way into their old flat, and John didn't protest.
Mrs. Hudson only greeted them happily, not offering tea or bustling about as usual, and John understood that she meant to give them space.
He tried to tell himself that she couldn't expect him to simply move back in.
He found himself automatically sitting down in his old chair, Sherlock making the tea for once. When each of them had a cup in their hands, he put it on the table and said, "Explain".
And Sherlock did, but John didn't think he understood how much the explanation hurt the doctor.
He could understand, could feel honoured, that Sherlock had wanted to protect his friends.
He could understand that destroying Moriarty's web had been a dangerous task.
He could not understand that Sherlock hadn't considered him trustworthy enough to contact him. He couldn't understand that Sherlock hadn't thought him capable of looking after himself.
Especially since he had trusted his brother, his brother who had betrayed him to Moriarty.
When Sherlock had finished he nodded and stood up.
Sherlock looked at him.
"John?"
"I understand, Sherlock, but I can't. Not now. I suppose – " and some of the bitterness he felt seeped into his voice, "I suppose I thought I was as trustworthy as your brother."
"You are, John, but –"
"No "but", Sherlock" John said, tiredly.
He had assumed he would finally start shouting when Sherlock was done explaining; but in fact, he was only tired.
And disappointed.
He cleared his throat.
"I am going to need some time to – wrap my head around this. I'll – I'll call you."
It sound so wrong, it felt so wrong, to talk to Sherlock like an old acquaintance, but that was what he was. An old acquaintance. John had a different life, a Sherlock-free life, and had to figure out how to fit the consulting detective in there.
"You are going – to your flat?"
"I'm going to Mary." Before Sherlock could say anything, he added, "My girlfriend. Bye" and left.
And he couldn't say if he had wanted the consulting detective to know that there was someone in his life who was more important to him than his best friend or if he had to remind himself of that fact.
It had started to snow, but John didn't pay any attention to the flakes coming down from the sky.
Although normally it was his favourite part of the season.
Mary was understanding and listened to him, just as he had known she would.
He decided, much later, in the darkness, listening to her breathing, that he could be happy like this, that he was happy like this. Sherlock had survived without him for three years; Sherlock would always be his friend, but he had to accept that people changed.
And this was what John had always wanted: a normal life, a life where he could have a family and friends and a job that didn't involve running after a madman at all times.
That's what he told himself over and over again as the snow fell down.
He had never paid so little attention to the Christmas cheer around him, not even after he'd returned from Afghanistan, not even after Sherlock had died.
Sherlock was back.
Everything else just paled in comparison.
He lived his life; spent the night at Mary's, went for a pint with his colleagues after his shift, and eventually, after a few days, he called Sherlock.
The consulting detective was at St. Bart's (of course9 and John went to see him there.
He didn't stay long.
"I'm glad you are back" he said quietly, "but I have a life now."
"I understand" his best friend answered calmly without raising his eyes from the microscope.
John must have imagined the resignation in his voice.
They saw each other now and then, never for longer than half an hour, but they were still friends, and Sherlock still told him about the cases he had started solving as soon as his name was cleared.
Sometimes, when John met Greg, he had the feeling the DI wanted to ask him why he didn't accompany Sherlock anymore, but thankfully, he never did.
They had reached an equilibrium; Sherlock was still his best friend, but at the same time, John had his own life.
John was contemplating introducing him to Mary when she asked him to invite Sherlock to their Christmas party.
For a moment, he sought for an excuse not to invite him. In the next, he hated himself for it and called Sherlock.
The consulting detective sounded a bit hesitant but accepted.
And so, John got treated to the sight of Sherlock actually trying to make polite conversation with one of Mary's colleagues.
He could live like this, he repeated to himself. Only being told about the cases, seeing Sherlock now and then. People like Mike Stamford (who was spending Christmas with his wife and infant son) had done it since meeting the consulting detective. It couldn't be that difficult.
He saw Sherlock retrieving his phone – he hadn't heard it ring, but that wasn't surprising, considering there were twenty people in Mary's rather small living room – and frown.
He knew immediately what was going on.
He watched Sherlock excuse himself and walk towards him.
"Gregson" he told him, "he's the one who has been stuck with the Christmas shift this year, and they just found a young woman murdered. I have to go; please make my excuses".
"Of course" he said, nodding, "take care of yourself".
Sherlock cleared his throat, said "Merry Christmas" and was gone before John had a chance to reply.
He watched him walk away and finally admitted to himself that living a normal life shouldn't be difficult.
But it was.
Every instinct in him was crying that he should follow Sherlock, that there was a case, that it was his job to –
Only it wasn't. Not anymore.
Someone nudged his elbow and he turned around to find Mary stare at him sadly.
"Go".
"Mary – "
She shook her head. "No, John. While he was – gone, it worked. We could have worked. But now – Tell me you could live like this. Tell me you could live with me, and have children with me, and not want to investigate cases at all hours, and I'll marry you now, if you want."
But John couldn't.
Once upon a time, this had been the life he'd wanted.
Not anymore.
She smiled sadly and kissed him and he told her that he didn't deserve her, because he didn't.
On his way out, he caught Lestrade's gaze; the DI was already apologizing to the person he'd been talking to and taking his phone out of his pocket. And he was obviously trying not to smile.
John ran.
He managed to get in the cab right behind Sherlock – thank God it was Christmas, and even the consulting detective had trouble finding a cab – and breathed out, "I forgot to tell you "Merry Christmas"".
Sherlock frowned. "While I do appreciate –"
"Stop talking and let's get to the crime scene. There's a murderer running around."
He should probably have been concerned to find that he and his best friend grinned at one another less than five minutes after he'd broken up with his girlfriend, but he wasn't.
A few hours later, the murderer caught, they were sitting in 221B, drinking tea and watching the snow fall.
"Sherlock?" he asked. "Can I move back in?"
Sherlock didn't answer, because he didn't have to; John saw his smile, and for the first time in over three years, he felt like he was home.
Author's note: There is something about Christmas in there... sort of. That's just how it happened.
I hope you liked it, please review.