Just a little one shot alternate version of The Empty Hearse that started beating me over the head. It might become a chapter fic if enough interest is generated. Please enjoy!
Mrs. Hudson escorted John upstairs, they stood in the doorway of the empty, dark flat and silence descended around them in a very uncomfortable way. John leaned back against the wall next to the door and looked at Mrs. Hudson. The dust flowing gently in the air as they stood there both of them letting their emotion swirl around their hearts. Mrs. Hudson coughed as she opened the curtains, trying to let sun into the darkened space. Deep down she hoped John was coming home, coming back to bring life back to these rooms.
"Why now, what changed your mind?" She asked cautiously, coughing and sighing about the level of dust.
"Well, I've got some news." John offered cautiously, he wasn't sure how she would take it and he certainly wasn't about to tell her: Oh I've come to talk to Sherlock's chair and pretend it's him.
"Oh God. Is it serious?" Mrs. Hudson asked with concern, her face tightening.
"What?" John paused. "Oh, no." John smirked. "I'm... Moving on." He offered.
"You're immigrating." She sighed sadly. John looked at her with some confusion.
"Uh no, I've... I've uh.. I've met someone." She let out a squeal of joy.
"Oh lovely." She exclaimed moving towards him with a smile.
"We're getting married. Well I'm going to ask anyway." John looked down, away from that empty chair.
"So soon after Sherlock?" Her tone betrayed her worry.
"Uhm... Well, yes." His confusion deepened and he looked up, surveying Mrs. Hudson as he tried to follow her train of thought.
"What's his name?" She looked eager, grinning wider. John let out an exasperated sigh.
"It's a woman."
"A woman?" She asked incredulously.
"Yes of course it's a woman!" He tensed, clenching his fist and looking down.
"You really have moved on haven't you?"
"Mrs. Hudson, how many times... Sherlock was not my boyfriend."
"Live and let live. That's my motto."
"Listen to me I am not gay!" Mrs. Hudson sighed and walked passed him, patting him on the arm. He clenched his fist.
"Well, I'll let you alone for a bit. I'll just be downstairs if you need anything." She was still smirking as she went on. That smirk infuriated him.
He sank down into his old, dusty armchair, pinching the bridge of his nose. He took a deep breath as her footsteps disappeared and the silence swallowed him whole, his eyes falling on the empty chair across from him. His face tightened, his hands clenching against the arms of his chair as he tried to quell the storm rioting in his chest. He didn't want to admit it. To admit how much this dusty old flat, even now after two years of echoing silence, felt more like home than his own sparse, clean one. He'd come to say goodbye. He knew Mary would have come with him if he had told her the truth, but just now he didn't want her with him. Not here. Not in this place...
In a sparse office across town Mycroft watched his brother pull himself back from his rugged convict look and back into the clean, somewhat respectable Englishman he was. Smirking as Sherlock mused over his plans for returning home.
"I think I'll surprise John. He'll be delighted." Sherlock said softly, Mycroft watching him with a smirk.
"'M, you think so?" He asked darkly, his face betraying him.
"Drop over to Baker Street, pop out of cake. Who knows?" Sherlock gestured widely, smirking.
"Baker Street? He isn't there anymore." Mycroft's voice betrayed his slight amusement as Sherlock looked at him incredulously. "Why would he be? It's been two years. He's got on with his life."
"What life?" Sherlock demanded, his tone soft because he did not understand this at all. He looked down, contemplating things as Anthea spoke up from the door.
"Actually... CCTV just recorded John entering Baker Street." She added softly.
"I..." Sherlock turned to Mycroft who quirked an eyebrow. "What life?" He demanded darkly, knowing that something was going on.
"I've kept a weather eye on him, Sherlock. He has his own flat now and a girlfriend. Mary Morstan. If his recent behaviors are any indication he intends to ask her to marry him tonight." Mycroft said softly, handing Sherlock a file. He enjoyed how his brother's eyes darkened and he tightened.
"I have to go to Baker Street. Now." Sherlock looked around. "Where is it?" He demanded, dancing around the room.
"It?" Mycroft demanded. "Are you certain you should..."
"I have to stop him! He's making a mistake." He shouted as Anthea brought him his coat. He threw it on his shoulders and tore out of the room.
John had no idea if it had been five minutes or three years. The silence was thick, like molasses. He heard a car door slam down in the street, somewhere the barking of a small dog, and the utter silence that meant his whole world had to change. He couldn't keep chasing the demons of this place, no matter how much it felt like home. He sighed, taking a deep breath as he heard a door open somewhere nearby and close. He closed his eyes, with them shut tightly he could imagine the flat as it had been two years ago. When it was full of the anxious energy of a high function consulting detective sociopath. Violin music rained down on his ears for a few minutes before the Sherlock in his mind waltzed over and dropped down into his chair with a huff.
"Sentiment, John?" His voice floated in the air as John opened his eyes. "It's unbecoming of you."
"I came to say goodbye." He whispered to the air, his eyes fixed on the chair in front of him. He didn't see the shadow at the door behind him, all he saw what the ghost of an image his mind provided him, sprawled over the black leather seat in front of him.
"Goodbye? Are you leaving?" There was that incredulous tone.
"Something like that." John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and looking down. "I have to move on Sherlock. I can't keep chasing these ghosts. I had myself believing for awhile that you weren't really dead. That you'd waltz in one day with that stupid smile on your face, your coat collar turned up, and expect me to just pick up where we'd left off. But it's been two years. I can't..." His voice cracked slightly and he looked down. He felt insane, talking to the shade of this man in his mind.
"John..."
"My life... My life was amazing. For a year and a half it was absolutely incredible, because of you. I realized too late that I wouldn't be happy with anyone other than you. That's why I stopped dating after the whole incident with Irene."
"The Woman, John. We discussed this."
"Yes, 'The Woman.'" He sighed again. Sherlock's brow furrowed as he looked in on the scene before him. As he began to realize the extent of the damage he'd done to John. "She was right Sherlock." He sank down, sprawling out in his chair, crossing his hands on his chest. "I'm not gay, you weren't my boyfriend, but I loved you."
"Obvious." John sighed heavily.
"I've met a woman, Mary." A snort echoed in his ears. "She saved me. I was at the bottom, one step away from the end. I went up on that roof Sherlock, Moriarty's body wasn't there."
"Yes it was."
"No, because if it had been I would have pumped the damn thing full of bullets." He growled and from the doorway Sherlock's eyes went wide. Not there? NOT THERE? Suddenly John was speaking again. "So whatever he did that made you jump destroyed me. I didn't want to go on without you. Without the bloody work. I got a new flat and a new job, but I didn't try to date anyone. Then one day our nurse quits, for no reason. Just gets up and walks out. The next day Mary was there and she looked me right in the eyes and asked me how I was. And she meant it Sherlock. She wasn't like everyone else who was just asking because they were supposed to."
"Get to the point John."
"Right..." John sighed again, looking at his hands. "She's not you. No one could ever be you. But she makes me at least somewhat happy and I figure it's better to be somewhat happy than to be ruined for life. So... I'm going to ask her to marry me."
"No." Sherlock spoke from his position by the door, his voice thick in his throat. Every muscle in John's body tensed as he sat up straight, taking a slow shaking breath before slowly, very slowly turning to look at the door. Sherlock stood there bold as brass, his cheeks barely flushed with pink, his eyes dark and angry. His coat collar turned up and his eyes flashing in the low light.
"W-What?" John gasped out, clenching and unclenching his fists. He swallowed hard and his eyes hardened. Sherlock took two steps forward, into the room.
"No, John. You can't." His voice cracked. John slowly stood.
"You..." John swallowed again, clenching his hands.
"Me." Sherlock nodded eagerly. "Uhm... You were right?" He offered when John didn't speak again, not sure what else to say.
The loud thud that sounded through her floor made Mrs. Hudson jump. She considered going upstairs but when she opened the door and saw one of Mycroft's men she simply shut the door again and prayed John was alright. John however was trying to choke the detective, punching him where ever he could reach. Sherlock's lip and nose were bleeding, but he simply lie there and let John hit him repeatedly for several minutes. Tears coming from John's eyes as he slowly lost the will to continue.
"Are you quite done?" Sherlock demanded angrily.
"HOW COULD YOU?!"
"When I'm done being punched, I'll explain." He promised as John raised his fist again, but his anger bled away. He crumbled until he was laying over Sherlock, his face against Sherlock's chest and his arms shaking.
"You bastard! You complete and utter ass!" John shouted, but his voice was muffled against Sherlock's chest. Sherlock slowly, tentatively wrapped his arms around John, sighing with relief when he didn't pull away. "Why did you do this to me?! WHY?!"
Sherlock was alarmed, he didn't know how to respond to John's emotion. He only knew he had to convince John not to ask Mary to be his wife. He couldn't stand that thought. He couldn't allow it for an instant. Not that he would admit there was something sentimental crawling around inside his chest. He didn't want to admit how he felt, but he knew he couldn't allow John to walk away.
"John please..." Sherlock whispered, his face hurt. "Let me explain what happened."
"I don't care how, Sherlock. I want to know why. I know you're bloody brilliant and I know Mycroft helped you... But why Sherlock? Why have I had to suffer like this? Why have we had to suffer?" Sherlock forced himself up, John easily allowing Sherlock to direct him. He moved over and sat John on the couch before watching as John jumped up and disappeared into the kitchen. He found a towel and ran water over it before coming back and dabbing at Sherlock's face.
"You were in danger." Sherlock forced out. He explained everything that happened, the whole plan. Lazrus, the alternates, who knew, everything. He went on for at least an hour, until his voice was hoarse.
"You didn't say a word to me Sherlock. All this time, not one..."
"I couldn't John! You wouldn't have been safe!" He sighed softly. "Tell me you'll come home." He begged, his eyes pleading.
"Sherlock I've got a life now." He looked away.
"Not one you're happy with. I heard what you said John." John looked up as Sherlock tentatively slid his hand over top of John's, squeezing it gently. "I'm home. For good."
John turned and surveyed Sherlock's eyes for a long, silent moment. Sherlock was holding his breath, waiting for the answer he hoped John would give. His eyes eager for it. John licked his lips slightly, looking confused and concerned as he searched Sherlock's eyes for the answer to so many unasked questions. The ring box was heavy in John's pocket, a weight of shame and doubt that felt like it was only growing heavier with each passing moment. He reached up, two fingers gently touching Sherlock's cheek - as if once again seeking proof this was real. Sherlock responded in kind, two long fingers gently exploring and stroking John's cheek.
"Please." Sherlock asked again quietly, his voice barely a whisper. He couldn't say it any other way. He couldn't say he loved John. Not yet. Maybe in time, but now he couldn't speak those words. John could read them however, in every line of Sherlock's face, in the way he begged John to come home, and in the soft caress of those two fingers against his cheek.
"Sherlock..." His eyes darkened, his emotion threatening to drown them both.
"This is home, John. You, me, Mrs. Hudson, the work... This flat." He pleaded, his voice shaking.
"It's been two years," John protested weakly, his eyes betraying how much he wanted to say yes. How much he knew it would hurt Mary but how his heart begged for everything Sherlock was offering him.
"You belong here with me, John. Please come back home. Back to me." John's eyes went wide as Sherlock spoke, watching almost transfixed as Sherlock leaned closer to him.
"M-Mary..."
"You are part of the work, John." Sherlock saw the exact moment those words melted John's resolve and he leaned forward sharply, pressing his mouth to John's to claim the entirety of John Watson's heart. He pulled back, barely a space of breath between them. "John?"
"Oh God yes." John's voice was a soft whisper as he pulled Sherlock back and kissed him hard.
"The moustache goes." Sherlock replied firmly before he would let John kiss him again.
Neither knew how to explain it but suddenly Baker Street felt alive and thriving. The cool silence melted away as the flat filled with the golden glow of life. The life of Sherlock Holmes and his John Watson.