"SHERLOCK!"
John woke himself up with his scream. Three years and, though less frequently now, his mind still plagued him with visions of Sherlock's suicide.
He looked to the clock next to the bed. 4:37 in the morning. "Well," he sighed, "I was only going to get up in another three hours anyway."
The doctor showered and dressed, made his tea, and sat down to stare at his blog. Nothing had been posted in three years (despite his therapist's requests) - what was there to say?
A knock at the door grabbed his attention. He closed the computer, grabbed his cane, and limped down the stairs. John opened the door to see Greg Lestrade. They hadn't spoken since the funeral, so he sounded more than a little surprised when he greeted the man with a formal, "Detective Inspector?"
"John! Sorry to bother you – just wanted to drop this off on my way to the office," the DI explained, handing over a package. "This was with it," he added, pulling a white paper from his pocket. "Cleaners found it behind the copier."
"Oh. Um, thanks."
Lestrade glanced at his watch. "I've got to go, but don't hesitate to call me if you need anything. Really." He nodded a farewell at John and then got back into the cab waiting for him at the curb. John waited until the car had turned the corner before heading back upstairs.
He set the box on the coffee table and unfolded the paper. Heavy white paper, sharp creases folding it into quarters, flawless handwriting in black ink inside. "For Doctor John H. Watson," it read. It wasn't signed or anything, but something about the message was nagging at him as he stared at the page, but what? After a few minutes he still had no idea what it was about the writing, so he set the paper on the table and turned his attention to the box. Underneath the wrapping (plain brown paper, no label, clean folds) was a white shoebox. He set the lid aside and pulled back a few layers of royal blue tissue paper to reveal... a skull?
Yes, it was a skull. The very same skull, he realized, that had mysteriously vanished from the mantle the day after the funeral. And then he remembered why the handwriting had bothered him so much - he'd seen it all over the flat for years; he just hadn't recognized it at first.
It was Sherlock's handwriting.
Anger hit him first. What was this, someone's sick idea of a joke? Why on earth would anyone do this to him? He dropped the skull onto the couch behind him and pulled the tissue paper out of the box, hoping for something, anything - another note, a signature, some sort of clue to trace the box back to someone. But it was empty, and the interior of the box was just as white as the exterior. He was half-tempted to call Lestrade and ask who it had been. Anderson? The man always had seemed to hate him. John threw the skull across the room and into the kitchen and turned towards the window, waiting for the crash that never came.
"You could have just said you didn't like it."
John's eyes flew open. That voice... but how? He turned around and his eyes confirmed it. The great detective stood in the kitchen, skull in hand, looking just the same as ever. "No," the doctor started. "No. You're not real. You can't be real. I saw it – I was there. You're dead, Sherlock!" He took a deep breath. "I'm hallucinating. Oh, bet my therapist will be thrilled. Maybe I should've kept the blog going. Might've helped me keep my sanity."
"John, it's me. I'm real. I'm right here."
John started laughing. "So this is what three years does to a person. Nightmares. Hallucinations. What's next, an all-out mental break down? They'll be locking me up in a psych ward before I know it."
Sherlock crossed to the living room and set the skull back on the mantle with some force. "John, I'm right here. Look at me! Why don't you believe me?"
"Because you died, Sherlock! You called me on the phone and expected me to believe you when you said you were a fraud and then you jumped off the roof of St. Bart's and you died! Your body is rotting six feet under right now, has been for three years!"
"Dammit, look at me!" Sherlock grabbed John by the shoulders. "I'm real, I swear. I faked my own death three years ago because Moriarty was going to kill you if I didn't jump, and I couldn't let that happen. Now listen to me when I say that I'm real, I'm really here, and I'm sorry I ever left you, and I need you to forgive me." His voice softened considerably. "Please."
John searched the man's face. "But how can you be real?"
"Just tell me you believe that I'm really here."
A moment of silence filled the room. "I – of course I believe it," John finally said.
Sherlock straightened up and took two steps back. "Good," he said, shoving his hands back into his pockets. "Good."
"Hang on," John started when Sherlock turned to leave the room. "You can't do that!"
"Do what?"
"You can't just show up like that and blurt out a one-sentence explanation for everything that's happened in the last three years."
The formerly dead detective sighed. "Then what do you want me to do?"
"I want you to start at the beginning and tell me exactly what could possibly have possessed you to fake your own death, you bastard!" The anger was back in his voice, winning out in the turmoil of feelings.
Sherlock's voice remained calm. "That day, on the roof - Moriarty was there. I wanted to talk to him about what he was doing; I thought I'd figured out how he was doing it."
"Right," John interrupted. "You'd rather die than be so incredibly wrong about something."
"If you would let me finish!" He paused and sighed. "Moriarty's web was more complex than I thought. The whole world was going to be convinced he was just Richard Brook and I'd hired him to play a role so I could impress them with my genius the minute the papers hit the streets. I couldn't have cared less what anyone thought of me for it, but I couldn't let him win like that. Then he told me the rest of his little plan, and - I have to admire him, he really thought it through…. He had assassins on Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and you. The only thing that would call them off was the sight of me falling off that roof. I knew there was some sort of signal he could give to call them off, but he put a gun in his mouth and shot himself. That's when I called you."
John didn't say anything for a minute as he let it sink in. "You faked your own death."
"I feel like we've been through this before."
"How? And don't try to brush it off like it doesn't matter."
Sherlock took his coat off and hung it on the back of the door, followed by the scarf. "When I left you the night before, I went straight to St. Bart's. Molly had told me that if I ever needed anything, she was there. She wanted to help however she could. I went to her and I told her I was going to die. Then I added that I had no intention of actually dying. We went through the necessary paperwork – all the little legal matters I'd never bothered with – and it was decided that she'd be the one to sign off on my death certificate. She did everything that had to be done to convince the world I was dead. When I actually fell, though, it couldn't be said for sure who would be first on the scene, so I had to make sure that as far as anyone would be able to tell, I was dead. Remember the ball I was bouncing off the cabinets just before you left the hospital? Does a wonderful job of cutting off a pulse when tucked under an arm. And as far as actually surviving the fall, it was a lot of math and science and little things done beforehand. Satisfied?"
John nodded and just as Sherlock started to tell himself that John was taking the news much better than Molly had said he would, his face became very closely acquainted with John's fist. Sherlock didn't say anything. He just looked a bit shocked and reached a hand up to rub his jaw. John's punches had improved since he'd been gone.
"You've been alive this whole time? You called me and said all that, and then you just… you just go and pretend to die and then come back after three years like nothing happened?"
"I said sorry, okay? I had to make sure Moriarty was no longer a threat. Why can't you – ?"
"Stop it!" John shouted. "Just – stop trying to explain everything like it's all black and white." His phone beeped with a text and he glared down at the screen. "And tell your brother to stop with the charity. I don't need his help," he snapped before walking out of the room.