Disclaimer - I don't own anything you recognise.

Part of my Mass Christmas(ish) Post - I hope you enjoy :P Have a very Merry Christmas (If you celebrate it. If not, have a lovely day!)

I've just binge watched Sherlock, and kinda fell a little in love with it. Johnlock is present and obvious from the very first episode if you ask me, and I reallllly didn't like that John got with Mary. At all. So... there's this. My first attempt at Sherlock Fanfic, so please be gentle. I hope you enjoy :)

Back To Baker Street

John stared out of the window unseeing as rain pounded the street below. Should anyone look up, they'd believe him to be waiting for something, or someone, but he wasn't.

There was no one for him to be waiting for anymore.

He sighed, leaning his head against the frame. The weather was dismal and it matched his mood perfectly. Of course, if any of his few friends were asked, his mood had been perpetually dismal for almost two years.

Ever since Sherlock fell...

Ever since Sherlock died.

"John, dear, I fetched you some tea and biscuits," Mrs Hudson called, walking into the living room with a tray in her hands.

John startled at her voice, so immersed in his thoughts that her approach had surprised him. He turned to look at her, offering her an approximation of a thankful smile, though he was certain it looked more like a grimace.

"Thank you," he replied, his voice slightly gruff.

"No work today?"

He shook his head. He often felt guilty that he couldn't bring himself to chat with Mrs Hudson like he used to, but it all just seemed pointless. Endless chatter for the sake of chatter, with no rhyme or reason. He saved his words for his patients at the clinic. At least there, he still felt like he had a purpose. A point. A reason.

"Okay, dear, well, I'll leave you be," Mrs Hudson murmured, the smile fallen from her face. "Just call out if you'd like some company."

"Thank you," he repeated.

They both knew he didn't want company. The only one he'd welcome was the one who would never walk through the door again.

The security cameras were following him. He was sure of it. As he turned onto Baker street, a shiny black car slid up beside him, confirming his suspicions. When the door opened, John wasn't at all surprised to find Anthea, cell in hand, waiting for him.

"Mr Holmes would like to see you, John," she told him when he didn't get into the car immediately.

John rolled his eyes. "Mycroft knows where I live. Honestly, I don't believe we have anything to say to one another, Anthea. Please, pass on my apologies, but I'm not interested."

Closing the door, John continued down the street, letting himself into 221b and closing the door behind himself. He closed his eyes briefly. Seeing Mycroft wasn't a good idea. He always reminded John of Sherlock, and while John didn't exactly need a reminder, he always felt worse after meeting with Mycroft. Still, he knew what the elder Holmes brother was like. He was sure he'd have a visitor before the end of the evening.

"What do you mean, he refused?"

Mycroft snorted. "Exactly what I said. He refused to accompany Anthea to see me. I believe the good doctor no longer wishes to associate with us."

"Why did she even give him a choice? Since when do you ever give people a choice?"

"Since he earned the right to a choice," Mycroft snapped. "Two years, and yet he mourns like a widower rather than one who's lost a friend. If he is finally moving on, I say let him."

"Not. Likely."

A knock on the door woke John from his doze. He blinked a few times in confusion before it sounded again.

Mycroft.

John shook his head but got up, walking down the stairs at a leisurely pace to the front door. Opening it, he leant against the door frame, his arms crossed at his chest.

"What do you want?"

"You won't even allow me entrance now?" Mycroft asked, an odd smile on his face.

"What do you want?"

"The subject is sensitive, John. Do stop being childish and let me in."

John rolled his eyes but moved out of the way for Mycroft to pass by him. He didn't take his seat when they entered the living room, he stood by the window instead, his eyes once more on the street.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" He asked for a third time, ready for the conversation to be over.

Mycroft took out a sealed, plain envelope and put it on the table. "I need you to look that over and get back to me as soon as possible. It's of vital importance that you read it tonight, although I suppose I may give you some processing time before you reply. I... I'll be honest, John, if it was up to me, I wouldn't be bothering you but... Just read the letter. Tonight."

John raised an eyebrow, his gaze moving from the letter to Mycroft and back before he nodded once.

Mycroft nodded. "I'll be in touch."

"You delivered it?"

"Of course I did."

"Did he read it?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "I have no idea if he's read it or not. I left it with him. It is up to him what he does with it."

"Why on earth would you not tell him to read it, Mycroft? Must I do everything myself?"

"I told him to read it, you irritating twit," Mycroft snapped. "I'm sure he will do so. Show some bloody patience."

"Coming from you, that is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard."

John twirled the envelope between his hands. What was the importance of the contents, and more importantly, why the hell hadn't Mycroft stayed to force him to read it straight away? That was the overbearing man's usual way. He slit the envelope, pulling out the paper inside it. When he saw the elegant calligraphy, his heard dropped to his feet at the same time as it started beating so fast in his chest that John was almost certain it would be visible if one were to look at his bare chest.

He recognised that writing.

He knew that writing.

Dear John,

I always hoped I would be writing this letter one day, although I confess that I don't know how you will react to it after such a long time and I'm sure you can imagine just how much it is annoying me that I don't know.

I... am alive, clearly. When you saw me fall, I... I do wish I could attempt to explain this to you in person. You see, I would have just turned up at 221b, but Mycroft is of the opinion that I could well induce a heart attack in you if I did such a thing, so this letter is all I have.

Please tell me you'll see me, John. Allow me to explain? Please?

I await your answer,

Ever Yours,

Sherlock

John read the letter three times before it slipped from his fingers to float down to the floor. Alive. He was alive. Alive.

Dammit! He was alive, all this time!

Tell him to come to Baker Street. JW

Mycroft slid the phone across the table to an anxious Sherlock. It was the first time he'd seen his brother smile since his return. He was almost at the door when Mycroft called him back.

"Sherlock."

"What, Mycroft?"

"Tell him the truth. Tell him how you feel. He'll reciprocate."

"You're sure?"

"Of John and yourself? Of course."

John was sitting on the stairs, his head in his hands. He'd been waiting for almost two hours when the knock came. He opened the door slowly, his eyes taking in everything they could about the man standing in front of him.

"John. I... It's good to see you."

A gasp. A sob.

"Sherlock."