Hello, my dear readers! This is my first Sherlock fanfic. It was something I came up off the top of my head while I was supposed to be doing homework. Please read and review. Note: this does not have any slash! Goodness, the thought of Sherlock/John makes me sick. They're just friends! Anyways, Sherlock does not belong to me, no matter how hard I wish. Now, on with the story.
A tall man approached the black door labeled as 221B. The man took a small golden key from his pocket and unlocked the door. He chuckled. They didn't change the lock after so many years. Typical. Quietly, he came into the doorway and closed it behind him. Upstairs, he heard the sound of fingers on a keyboard and the occasional footstep. Carefully the man climbed the stairs. He walked up with confidence until he hit a step. It creaked. He stopped, worried that he was discovered, but the continuous typing persisted and so he carried on. Each step of the way brought back memories, him running up these steps always thinking of those creaks as nothing more than old wood. He never thought they would be more than background noise.
Finally, he reached the top of the stairs. The door to the room was left slightly open and the man could peer inside. It still had the mismatched wall paper and the ugly couch. Everything was still the same. He put his hand out and slowly pushed the door open. The man stepped into the room, not caring about the sound he made now. He wanted a little noise.
Dr. John Watson heard him enter and turned around. He still had that daft look on his face. The man remembered it well. Every case he solved John had that look, every deduction he made would be plastered on to John's face. The man realized just how much he liked that look. One thing the man did not like about John's face was something new. John had a mustache, a horrible, thick mustache. God, it looks awful. "Hello, John," the man said, breaking a minute of awkward silence.
John Watson stood there for a minute more staring up at the tall man. Finally, he said, "Sherlock?"
Sherlock Holmes gave John Watson a large smile.
John Watson gave Sherlock Holmes a punch in the face.
Sherlock stood back up and wiped a little blood from the corner of his mouth. "Nice to see you, too."
"You're not dead," John said.
"No, I'm not."
"You're alive."
"Yes."
"You're real."
"God, you're worse than Anderson!"
John sat down on the couch as Sherlock took of his coat and scarf and tossed them on the nearest chair. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, the presumed-dead-until-minutes-ago detective stood and watched his former flat mate.
"I see you changed a little," Sherlock said, referring to the mustache.
"So?"
"I don't like it."
"You didn't like anything I did."
"True."
Another long silence. "Why?" John finally asked.
"Sorry?"
"Why did you jump, Sherlock? Why did you fake your death and not tell me or Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson?" John's tone went from sad and questioning to angry and demanding in seconds. Sherlock sighed. He knew John wanted to know, but should he know? John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson were alive now, but if they knew all the details, their lives could be in danger once more.
But as Sherlock looked into John's eyes, he knew the truth must be told. Mycroft had hunted down anyone who might have been connected with Jim Moriarty at one time and made sure they were not the hired assassins. Luckily, the would-be assassins had taken off when they realized the man who was paying them had a bullet in his head. But, just to be on the safe side, Sherlock stayed hidden with the help of Mycroft. He took on fake names and went all over the world helping people, usually for money. Only now did he find it appropriate to return to Baker Street and confront his old friends.
"I did it for your own good," Sherlock finally said.
"No, I don't believe that," John said, almost immediately. "No, because if you really did do it because of that you wouldn't have just called me up and then jump. You would have told us what was going on. You would have not killed yourself and act as though we were alright with that. You would have told someone, but you didn't. You just killed yourself and left me and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade with no reason why. And don't say you told me over the phone because you, Sherlock Holmes, are not a fake. We knew that. So what's the real reason why?"
"I did it because Moriarty had guns trained at your head."
John stopped, obviously surprised. "What?"
"Moriarty wanted me dead, of course. He also knew I would not kill myself easily. So he hired gun men to kill you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson if I did not comply. Now, I knew he would try to force me to jump so I organized a scheme to fake my own death. He anticipated my every move except that one."
"Why did he shot himself?" John asked. John always asked questions, and Sherlock loved to answer them.
"Oh, I tried to force him to order the gunmen to stand down. Not a big deal, I also anticipated that move."
"No wonder you're so good at chess," John remarked.
Just outside the door, both the men could hear the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. "John!" a voice called. Sherlock smiled. It was Mrs. Hudson. "John! Did you leave the front door unlocked?"
"No, I have a visitor." John flashed Sherlock a smile.
The door to the flat opened and Mrs. Hudson appeared at the doorway carrying a bag of groceries. "All right, dear. I just wanted to make sure you were alright. Do you need…?" Mrs. Hudson caught sight of Sherlock standing in the room. She stood there, mouth agape, and whispered, "Sherlock?"
"Hello, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said pleasantly.
Poor Mrs. Hudson fainted in surprise.
Sherlock and John hurried over to their landlady and checked to see if she was alright. "She's in shock. Probably because you just gave her the surprise of her life," John said. Sherlock picked her up and carried her over to the old couch. John put a blanket over her and said, "Let's let her sleep."
About an hour later, Mrs. Hudson awoke. She sat up, still a little dizzy from fainting, and looked up at the gentleman sitting next to the fireplace. There were three men sitting there, each with a cup of tea in their hands. Each of them was laughing and Mrs. Hudson smiled. It had been such a long time since that had happened.
John Watson caught sight of the now awake landlady and rushed over to help her. She sat down in another chair as Greg Lestrade brought her own cup of tea. Sherlock Holmes smiled at her. "Nice to see you, Mrs. Hudson," he said.
Mrs. Hudson smiled. "Welcome back, Sherlock."