So I was at my friend's graduation party when I was talking to a fellow Sherlock fan and basically exchanging Reichenbach feels. She mentioned this little piece of headcanon that she saw floating around Tumblr, but couldn't remember who had it or who posted it. So if this is yours, please do let me know so I can edit this document and give you due credit! Because it really was a lovely piece of headcanon that she told me about, and I elaborated on the little I heard.
Please, if you guys know who this is at all please let me know! I would love to give them due credit!
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or even this basic plot idea. I only own the power of my words.
If you would come back home,
We could start all over.
If you would come back home,
I swear it would be better.
-"if you would come back home", william fitzsimmons
The first time he sees Sherlock, he's not quite sure what he's high on.
It could have been anything really- the long hours he's been pulling at the hospital (three all nighters and seven twelve hour days in the last two weeks, the nurses had had to force him to sleep in the lounge), the five hour let's-get-together-and-commiserate-over-how-bloody-awful-our-jobs-are session at the bar with Lestrade, or the caffeine he's literally been absorbing in order to stay conscious on the job.
Or maybe it's just a combination of all three.
At any rate, John staggers into the apartment to see a tall figure at the window. "Get out," he says grumpily. He doesn't even care that it might be a burglar come to steal his measly computer or two boxes of paltry belongings. (A small part of his brain scoffs- because a burglar would really be standing by the window, looking down at the streets.)
"That's one way to treat your houseguest," his ex-flatmate remarks dryly.
"Sherlock, you-" John retches. "You're not real!"
He rushes to the bathroom just as his dinner threatens to make a reappearance. (Dinner- if the overwarmed spaghetti he'd brought to work counts as dinner.)
When he exits the bathroom, coughing, Sherlock's nowhere to be seen.
…
He comes back the next day to find Sherlock on the couch, feet propped up on the table. "Hello again," Sherlock says, turning a page.
"I'm ignoring you."
"Why?" Sherlock's voice floats in from the living room as John goes into the kitchen to make tea.
"Because, Sherlock, you're a figment of my imagination. What do you think?"
"How do you know I'm a figment of your imagination?"
"Tell me something, then."
"You've been pulling long hours, the Tube was too busy, Molly's gone out to lunch with you today and Lestrade hasn't shaved in a week."
John laughs bitterly as he rifles his cupboard for a cup. "Even in my deluded mind, you're still showing off."
He studiously avoids Sherlock as he stomps past the living room and enters his bedroom. Once the door shuts, John lunges for his phone and begins dialing his therapist's number.
He's lost it, he's sure, seeing dead people in his living room certainly isn't something he's keen on doing.
…
"And you say he's been sitting in your living room this whole time?" His therapist leans back, steepling her fingers together.
John rubs his eyes. "Clear as day. He just sits there and talks in that annoying way of his. And when I come back, he's just… gone."
"Hmm."
"Hmm?" John's voice is desperate. "That's all you have to say? Am I going mad or not?"
"Perhaps the idea of Sherlock being tethered to your living room has some sort of significance," his therapist suggests.
"Other than he used to treat our old living room like some sort of grotesque experiment-"
"But did the both of you spend much time in the living room together?"
John is getting impatient. "Of course we did. Tea and breakfast and lunch and clients and solving mysteries- where else would we have spent our time together? The bedroom?"
The therapist moves to make a note on her notepad and John snaps, "No, don't write 'highly antagonistic' on there again."
"All I'm saying, John, is that perhaps you have formed a strong attachment between the idea of Sherlock and your living room. Perhaps you miss him more than usual. Is there a significant date coming up? An anniversary perhaps?"
"I'm not actually gay," John says, the words coming out more naturally than he expected.
His therapist flashes him a puzzled glance. "I never said you were, John, I only meant an anniversary of some sort, maybe of your moving in?"
"Oh." John clears his throat, suddenly feeling adequately awkward. "No. Nothing important."
He goes back that night feeling like the therapist hadn't helped and they're all just a bunch of quacks and really he should stop going back and- He stops when Sherlock looks up from his seat on the sofa, reading John's copy of Anna Karenina. "Out late?" the taller man drawls, flipping another page.
John throws his keys at Sherlock as he storms into his room. "GO AWAY," he bellows through his door, "YOU'RE NOT REAL, YOU'RE NOT REALLY HERE."
He doesn't bother to hear the thunk of the keys as it hits something solid.
…
It's Saturday morning when his mobile goes off, an obnoxious ringing at nine in the morning. John groans and fumbles around in his sheets for the screaming mobile before picking it up. "What?" he all but growls into his phone.
"Happy birthday!" Lestrade says cheerfully. "Up and at em, John, and get your arse down to the station. We have a surprise for you."
"Not much of a surprise if you tell me, is it?"
"Well, I know how much you hate surprises, so I thought I'd give you a head start." He can almost hear the smirk on Lestrade's face. "Now try and act surprised when you get down here, eh mate?"
"Bugger off, Lestrade."
"Cheerio!" He can almost hear the Detective Inspector snicker as he throws his phone across the room.
The door opens and a curly head peeks in. "Happy birthday?" Sherlock offers.
A pillow smacks the door and the deceased detective retreats as John curls up in bed and mutters, "You're not real you're not real you're not real you're not real go away go away go away go away."
True enough, he leaves the room to find his living room empty as usual. The only thing unusual is the simply wrapped present outside his door. It's small and plain and John sighs. I told Molly and Lestrade I didn't want gifts.
But he locks up and leaves anyway to face whatever surprise Lestrade's cooked up for him this time.
…
Surprisingly, this year Lestrade and Donovan have been unusually tame with their celebration, only getting ten balloons and a small cake instead of the huge party they pulled out last year. (John wonders if maybe that had something to do with the cleanup involved after the fact.) Sally declines their invitation (okay, Lestrade's invitation) to go out later, citing her major pile of work to get through, so Lestrade ends up dragging John to a new pub near Scotland Yard.
"And guess who came along just for the ride," Lestrade grins right as he turns the corner into a booth.
Molly jumps up, smoothing down her sweater as she scrambles to give John a hug. It's all limbs and she trips about five times, but it's still the same endearing, adorable Molly as she finally reaches John and gives him a quick hug. Mrs. Hudson follows after, glancing around her nervously as she timidly embraces John before whispering in his ear, "D'you reckon this is a safe place to meet? Maybe we should all meet at Baker Street for a cuppa instead?"
No amount of reassurance will soothe Mrs. Hudson's spirits, so they end up trudging back to John's place. John notices the present still outside his door and remembers to berate Molly and Lestrade- but the former looks confused and the latter looks bored. "I didn't buy you a present, mate. I know how you get with those things. Plus, I threw you a surprise party."
Thoroughly confused, John swings open the door only to see Sherlock lounging on his chair. "Oh, you're back," the detective says, not looking up from his book. "And you brought friends."
Aware that responding to the detective might earn him some queer looks, John simply ignores him and takes off his jacket, throwing it onto the couch and deliberately aiming for Sherlock's legs. "Have a seat, I'll get you a…" His voice trails off when he sees the pale, gaping faces at the doorway. "What's wrong with you lot? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"S-Sh-" Lestrade stammers.
And then realization dawns on John. "Bloody h-" He scrambles away from Sherlock, who hasn't looked up from his book once. "You can see him too?"
"I'm not surprised," Sherlock says dryly, finally deigning to glance up from his book, "I've been here the entire week."
"But you- I- why didn't you say anything?" John actually thinks that he might be going mad for real this time, so he pinches himself. Then he pinches Lestrade, who only smacks his hand away while still gaping at Sherlock. "This whole time I've been yelling at you to go away-"
"You thought I was a ghost," Sherlock says simply. "There was simply nothing I could do to convince you otherwise."
"But-" John splutters. "This whole time- but I came out- and you weren't- but-"
"You made it very clear that I wasn't to linger around here," Sherlock shrugs.
Molly is the first one to take a step forward and reach for Sherlock's arm. "You're real," she says dazedly.
John follows behind her, reaching out to touch Sherlock's hand. "And… you're warm."
Sherlock is just about to make an annoyingly condescending quip about how real people are generally warm and tangible-
-when John draws back and punches the detective in the jaw.
"Oy!" Lestrade bellows, lurching forward and grabbing an enraged John Watson before he lands another blow on the stunned detective. "Are you off your rocker?"
"He deserves it-" John grunts, straining against the Detective Inspector.
"Stop-" Molly exclaims, inserting herself between the two ex-flatmates. "Stop, stop this right now!"
As John subsides and Sherlock stands there awkwardly rubbing his jaw, Mrs. Hudson finally pipes up. "Does this mean that I'll be getting you boys back as tenants anytime soon, then?"
So yeah. Hope you enjoyed this!
Much love,
ohlookrandom