A/N: Just a little reunion oneshot inspired by some depressing posts I saw on facebook. Wasn't actually sure about the ending. Tell me what you think.
ALIVE
"Ah, Sherlock," John said, entering the kitchen. "You're here."
"Yes…" he answered in a strange tone. John glanced away from the tea kettle to glance at his best friend.
"You okay?" he asked.
Sherlock nodded. "Perfectly fine. You though. This was not the reaction I was expecting."
John wondered what he meant, but at that moment, the kettle whistled, and he poured himself a cup of tea, forgetting Sherlock's strange behavior. He went to his chair and sat, taking a sip of tea and opening his laptop.
"John," Sherlock said, catching John's attention once more. "I'm not dead. I'm real."
A patronizing smile crossed John's face quickly. "That's what hallucinations say." He closed his laptop, apparently finished. "Now, if you don't mind, I've got to get to work."
"You idiot!" Sherlock snapped, and more insulting words fell from his mouth, but John blocked the words out. Melancholy and happiness warred once again, as he hailed a cab. He saw his best friend, but his best friend was still gone. But he couldn't bring himself to call his therapist to tell her about the hallucination. It felt almost like having Sherlock back- really back, and he didn't want to lose that feeling.
*6*6*6*
John exited the hospital and had just hailed a cab when his phone rang with a call from the DI Lestrade.
"Hello, Lestrade," he answered. "Want to go grab a pint?"
Lestrade chuckled. "Maybe tomorrow. I wanted you to come down to this crime scene. It's a puzzle."
"Greg, you- you know I can't," John whispered, his chest tightening and his leg aching.
"Just come down and see if you notice anything," Lestrade said.
John hesitated. He wasn't Sherlock. He couldn't make deductions. He wasn't a genius. But if the DI thought he could help, then he was willing to try. "Fine."
A minute later, John hung up and told the cab where to go. Before the cab left, a body slid in next to John.
"You're back again," John said.
Sherlock stared at him impassively. "How observant. What did the dear Detective Inspector want this time?"
John shrugged. "Some murder. Asked me to take a look at it." Maybe the hallucinating wasn't such a bad idea. Maybe his hallucination would notice information like the real Sherlock and be a help on the case.
"I hope Anderson's not there," Sherlock muttered, and John grinned at the familiar insult.
*6*6*6*
He avoided looking at everyone's face when he entered the crime scene, certain their faces would bear the same pity as they always did. John didn't want that. Didn't need that.
"Dead for around eight hours," he remarked to Lestrade, who he'd glanced at briefly and nodded to before focusing on the dead woman's naked body. "Cause of death… bullet to the heart." John turned to Sherlock. "What do you think?"
"I agree with your assessment so far," Sherlock said. "What else?"
"You're the genius hallucination," John muttered. "You do it." But he knelt down anyways and observed the body, pretending he was the real Sherlock.
No clothes. No identification. Married though. She wore a ring on her left index finger. If it was a robbery, why would that be left? Strange bruise mark along the vein on her right medial cubital vein. He looked at the amount of blood on the ground. Blood donor. Donated recently.
"She donated blood before she died. Probably about two hours before she died. The bruise on her inside right arm. Married," he told Lestrade and Sherlock.
Sherlock nodded. "Good, Watson." And then he began to spout off all the different facts about the woman, but John didn't process the words, just listened to the cadence of the Sherlock-hallucination's voice.
It was like he was really here.
John robotically repeated Sherlock's deductions to Lestrade and, when Sherlock finished, turned to Lestrade with a smile, hoping his hallucination (though Lestrade didn't know about him) had impressed the Detective Inspector.
Gaping mouth. John turned to Donovan, wondering what was wrong with the Inspector. Her mouth was wide open. He glanced around. Gaping mouths, like carp, all around in his direction. He glanced behind him, but saw only the Sherlock-hallucination.
"What are they looking at?" he whispered to his hallucination. He checked around Sherlock. Nothing. The people there were staring this way. "Have I done something wrong?" Sherlock only raised an eyebrow.
He turned back to Lestrade, frustrated. "What is going on?"
Slowly, Lestrade lifted up his arm and pointed. John followed his point. Directly. To. Sherlock. Around him, the police followed suit, pointing at John's hallucination.
"You guys can see him too?" John asked, confused. He faced Sherlock, who just gazed at him, waiting impatiently for the meaning to sink in. The blood drained from the Army Doctor's face, his legs lost all the strength to support his body.
"Holy shit," the words flew from his mouth. John stumbled forward and touched the hallucination- no, Sherlock's arm. "You're real. You're real. You're alive."
His best friend was alive! Was standing right there in front of him. Alive! Alive. And had been without telling him for the past THREE YEARS. Anger, rage, fury, all the sadness, and other volatile emotions.
"You bastard!" he snarled, drawing back his fist and punching his very much alive best friend, Consulting Detective, flatmate in the face.