Hi everyone (:
This fic begins in an AU in which The Sign of the Three never happened. (Aww, I know, right?) But I wanted to try my hand at rebuilding this mess they threw our way.
It's going to take a while.
I hope you enjoy the feels and come along for the ride.

I have to thank my friend Archie for being the Sam to my Frodo in all writing things, for always having a word to cheer me up and for coming along with me on this.

If you'd like to chat about this plot, or about of the show, come talk to me on tumblr: sureaintmebabe . tumblr

I really love to ramble about billions of theories, and it would be my pleasure.

~ ~ ~
This chapter:
John didn't like to dwell on how he had missed this. That's why he was trying the best he could to keep the new life he had built for himself in the past two years.


John had been sitting in the living room of 221B for more than half an hour. Not that Sherlock had acknowledged him in any way.

They hadn't exactly being around each other that much since Sherlock had come back from the dead with that terrible impression of a French waiter that left John speechless and with a torrent of unanswered questions.

From the moment John had seen Sherlock again, he knew he wouldn't stand a chance of resisting him any more than the first time. But he also knew that the git would be completely insensitive to any outburst he still felt the need to have. And, oh, he did feel it every now and again, when Sherlock's face popped up in the news, or in the papers, or when thinking about Sherlock at the most ungodly hours, especially at night, losing his sleep over something he couldn't change.

He couldn't change what had happened, he knew that. And even if Sherlock's return had been so challenging, John had to face the fact that being able to be in his presence again was still much better than visiting his grave and feeling his throat close and his eyes sting with the unshed tears he tried to keep to himself.

Right now, sitting on the sofa, flipping through the newspaper, listening to Sherlock's violin, John could sense all the contentment he should be feeling but wasn't able to for reasons he couldn't quite face yet. The slight curve of his own lips was a typical reaction to Sherlock's playing. His mind was at constant war to accept what happened, but he couldn't deny that he had always fitted Sherlock's life and 221B perfectly. It was an instinctive reaction, more than any sign of peace of mind, that made him smile while observing Sherlock's movements on the violin.

John didn't like to dwell on how he had missed this. That's why he was trying the best he could to keep the new life he had built for himself in the past two years. He had a new home, a lovely fiancée, a job that wasn't the most exciting thing in the world, but that paid the bills and had helped him to find his way back to his career. John wasn't a detective. He had had to remind himself every day for the past two years that he was, indeed, a doctor, and that that was the job for him, not running around, chasing suspects with a tall friend in a good coat. John had been almost exclusively Sherlock's doctor for all the time they had lived together. Almost a family doctor, a doctor of a family that consisted of John, Sherlock and Mrs Hudson. When Sherlock had shouted on the abandoned carriage that John had been a soldier as well, it had been a surprise. He hadn't forgotten, but he couldn't deny he had lost many hours of the previous months trying to forget and to adjust to the civilian life that was his reality now.

That exciting life wasn't his anymore. It had not been for quite some time. And the sooner John got used to it, the better it would be for him. Or so he expected.

John had had to readjust completely after Sherlock had died.

His gun wasn't in a drawer on his dresser anymore. The only way he had to know about crimes was to follow them through the media, like any other ordinary citizen. That's was his reality now: just a common person. He had had to accept it.

If he let his mind wander too much now, he would find memories that would certainly damage him more than he liked to think about. He had much to lose if he let Sherlock's madness take him over again just like that.

The doorbell ring snapped John out of his thoughts. He was surprised by the fact that Sherlock stopped playing and was now looking at him with narrowed eyes, holding his bow mid-air.

"Hadn't noticed I was here, had you?" John hid his sad smile with his cup of tea. He didn't know if Sherlock was so used to him that his mind still didn't compute his presence, or if he had got so used to being alone that he dismissed the possibility of another person being near him. John filed this thought together with the others he didn't wish to revisit.

Sherlock looked at him some more, and he was doing that thing again.

"Oh no, no, no. Stop giving me The Look," John sighed, refusing to admit that the sudden familiarity had brought a warmth he didn't recognize anymore.

Sherlock actually smirked, the bastard. "I have no idea of what you mean, John. I do hate when you talk in riddles."

Before John could say anything else, or could flip the cushion at Sherlock's head, Molly Hooper appeared at the door, holding a cooler in her right hand, awkwardly. She shifted from foot to foot, looking at John with a small smile that said a billion things John didn't want to address. He hated that Molly now always had that pained expression on her face when dealing with him, as if she was trying to apologize to him for helping Sherlock, for having his back when John hadn't even been given that option. But what he hated the most was how he couldn't forgive her, no matter how many times she silently tried to apologize. John suspected they would repeat the same dance for a long time.

"I brought what you needed," she said to Sherlock, who had already ripped the cooler from her hands and was taking it to the kitchen. Molly's flabbergasted expression made John cringe in sympathy for a second.

"Come on, Molly!" Sherlock shouted from the kitchen, which made her cheeks colour an alarming shade of pink. She ran to the kitchen, giving John the sorry look once more and making his skin crawl.

John stood up from the sofa and paced to the window. He had no idea what the hell he was doing there. Mrs Hudson had called him earlier that day, saying that Sherlock had been restless without a case for days, making a mess out of the flat. She was worried that Sherlock had been spending too much time alone, and could be using cocaine again. Apparently she thought that being in Baker Street without John would mean a terrible change for Sherlock. She was obviously wrong.

And John didn't know about the cocaine, he couldn't know. Even with his medical background, John knew that Sherlock could fool any of them, apart from Mycroft. Sherlock had fooled John about being dead, he couldn't imagine any other lie Sherlock wouldn't tell him just for the fun of it.

Besides, John didn't know what he could do about it, even if it were true. He didn't live there anymore; he couldn't enter Sherlock's bedroom and search through his clothes, his sock index, and the pile of crap he kept in a corner of his room. John chuckled and shook his head. Again, memories tried to worm their way up to his head but he kept them at bay, reminding himself that for all he knew, Sherlock could have thrown everything away. John hadn't been in that bedroom for more than two years, and he didn't plan to be back there ever again.

He sent Mrs Hudson a text asking her when she would be back. She had gone to Tesco, probably to get Sherlock those damn biscuits he liked. John knew that she had given up the not-housekeeper policy long ago because Sherlock was now alone in the flat, and he couldn't be bothered with food or such trivialities. John refused to let himself worry about that. He wasn't Sherlock's babysitter, not anymore. It wasn't his job to tell him to eat, or to make him tea, or put him to bed when he had been drugged by a random dominatrix. Sherlock had been fine for two years, he visibly didn't need John to look after him.

John clutched his phone in his hand and decided he should go home. He shot a quick message reassuring Mrs Hudson that Sherlock wasn't alone and turned from the window, without knowing if he should say goodbye to Sherlock and Molly. He stopped on his way to the door because Sherlock was there, looking at him strangely.

"What?" John asked, uncomfortable under Sherlock's gaze.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, reminding John of arguments that ended with him going out for some air. He tried to dismiss Mrs Hudson's voice asking him more than once about their domestics.

John felt wrong-footed, as if he had been caught trying to sneak out of the house. And that was the exact truth. He had been. "I'm going home. Mrs Hudson was worried, I just texted her. Now you have Molly," John stopped short, he didn't even know what he was trying to say. "I mean, Molly is here, so I'll just go," he finished in a hurry, putting on his coat.

"John," Sherlock said, simply.

John took a deep breath and tried to ignore the effect that his name in Sherlock's voice, right there in their living room – Sherlock's living room, John corrected himself – had always had on him. And apparently would always have. "Yes?"

Sherlock was looking at him intently, probably reading him like an open book. The attention that used to excite John, now unnerved him, made him worry that Sherlock would see things John no longer gave him the right to see.

"Molly was just delivering some feet," the detective said, and the corner of his lips turned up. "I don't need a handler. Mrs Hudson's concern is appreciated, but unnecessary."

"Yes, right," John said, lamely, trying to shake off the feeling of being caught again. He would just go home, he decided. "Okay, then. I'll leave you to your feet."

"Do you have something planned?" Sherlock asked, abruptly, because that's how they were around each other now: Sherlock pretending he didn't know absolutely everything that John had going on in his life by simply looking at him, and John pretending he wasn't uncomfortable with the change. John didn't know if he should appreciate it, but he didn't. He felt betrayed and fooled, and he was getting very tired of that kind of feeling.

"You know I don't. You probably know my work schedule," John said, and it didn't come out as a compliment.

"You can stay," Sherlock said, then frowned. "Can you stay?"

"What for?" John asked, surprised.

"Just to-" Sherlock stopped to clear his throat. "Just to stay," he shrugged.

John wished he could say he didn't understand what Sherlock was on about, but he did. The familiarity that ran naturally through them even when they were unaware of it was like an invisible force pulling them together. He still felt it, though he'd been hiding from it. Sherlock may be a sociopath – and John had given up defending him – but John was sure that he could feel it, too.

Could he stay?, John asked himself. Could he?, after everything that happened? Could he let his guard down and spend his afternoon at Sherlock's flat, remembering things he didn't want to, giving Sherlock the chance to slip in through the cracks in John's shell? He knew his vulnerability was visible even to the most emotionally crippled twat in the whole bloody planet. He shifted from foot to foot, looking at the carpet, flexing his hands inside his pockets.

"Please?" Sherlock asked, using those big eyes that didn't fool John for a second.

"Git," John said, which prompted a wide smile from Sherlock, one of those that John wished he could tell whether or not they were true. One of those who had once twinkled 'home' in bright lights inside John's head. "You're just going to work on the feet while I sit here, aren't you?"

Sherlock grinned. "It's for an experiment! I couldn't possibly wait."

John looked at the ceiling and smiled, feeling light headed. Something so small could mean the world to someone as shattered as he had been. "Go on then. I'll busy myself with the telly."

Turning back, John hesitated. He should sit in one of the armchairs, so he would be nearer the telly and could keep the volume down, but his legs were refusing to take those few steps. He didn't know what would be worse: sitting on the armchair that used to be his and remembering of the many times he sat there in front of Sherlock in companionable silence, or sitting on an undead man's chair.

"Sit," Sherlock said, impatiently. He had probably rolled his eyes. "On your chair."

"Not my chair anymore," John pointed out, unnecessarily. "I'll just have the couch," he said, shrugging out of his coat and hanging it.

"I don't understand," Sherlock said. "Why wouldn't you want to sit on your armchair? It's there, it's yours, it's perfect for your back, it's near the telly. You sat there before."

"Not for a long time, I didn't."

Sherlock looked at him as if he were mad. "You sat there on the 5th of November, John, do try to keep up."

"No, I didn't-" John interrupted himself, astonished. "Yes, I... I sat here before," he concluded, asking himself how that could be. Indeed he had barged into Sherlock's flat, opened the door without knocking, fluffed his – not his, he reminded himself – union jack pillow and sat there, while Sherlock paced madly, babbling to himself about the train mystery. Just like that. Just... like that.

Sherlock dismissed him with a wave of his hand. "You're even more stupid than you were before. It's your armchair, it'll always be your armchair. Now sit," he said, pointing to the chair, arrogantly – one could trust Sherlock to be a prick even when trying to do something nice.

John sat because how could he not? Sherlock had an insufferable smirk on his lips. John didn't have any other option at hand, so he flung the union jack cushion on his head. "Piss off."

It served him right.

00oo00oo00

John opened his eyes slowly, wincing at the pain on his neck. He rubbed his face, and yawned, taking in the strange surroundings. He was at Baker Street and that was a strange view for him. For a moment he didn't know what had been a dream, and what had been real life. The noises coming from the kitchen reminded him that Sherlock was back, experimenting on feet just four feet away.

He cracked his neck and stood up, stretching his back. The telly was still on, so he turned it off and decided that if he was going to stay at Baker Street for a few more hours, he could very well make himself some tea. He was tired of pretending he didn't know his way around it.

He entered the kitchen and was greeted by the image of Sherlock Holmes hunched over his microscope, of course. John had been in the kitchen before, he knew, but he couldn't help the sudden throat-clogging feeling that reached him every time he found himself being reacquainted with his previous life. Once more, he thought about how everything had seemed normal, comfortable when he had been there working side by side with Sherlock again. It had been like he was home, which only served to prove him that he shouldn't let his guard down like that. Sherlock had an unique way of getting to John, a particular pull that John had never encountered before and knew he never would.

He shook his head to dismiss the cloud of thoughts and busied himself with putting the kettle on and getting the mugs and the sugar from the cupboard. He hesitated before deciding to open the fridge to look for milk. He suddenly hated not knowing if they had milk or not. Not they, he thought. .

Oddly enough, the fridge had an ordinary amount of food and John was not greeted by any severed heads, which he chose to take as an improvement. He made Sherlock a cup of tea, without registering the muscle memory of it.

"Yes, I know, muriatic acid," Sherlock said, out of the blue.

John knew it wasn't meant for him, so he just ignored and finished storing everything in its proper place.

"Yes, from hydrochloric acid! Shut up, John," Sherlock said, in a hushed tone that made John turn over to face him. John thought he might have been noisy, but Sherlock wasn't really talking to him. At least not to the real him.

John walked over and put the mug on the table with more force than it was necessary, trying to snap Sherlock out of his thoughts. John was feeling particularly bold and didn't give a damn about annoying Sherlock in the middle of an experiment. He had just been told to shut up, anyway, he could pretend he had a reason to be pissed.

Sherlock seemed completely lost. He looked at John and then at the mug beside his microscope. And then at John again. And at the tea again. And at John.

"You are here," Sherlock said, sounding small, and John hated, hated that he couldn't trust any of it.

"Yes, I am," John answered, indicating Sherlock's mug. "Drink it."

Sherlock tried to act nonchalant, but took the mug, anyway. He sipped the tea and closed his eyes. John liked to think he was savouring the first tea John had made him after everything, and the fact that John would never forget how he took his tea.

"So," John began. "Talking to me when I'm not here again?" And John asked himself why he felt a bit smug about it. Sherlock didn't look at him, and pretended he hadn't said a word. But John couldn't control the sour way his mind was taking. "Has it ever made any difference, me being here or not, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked at him as if he didn't understand the question. His lips were parted as if he was waiting for his thoughts to come out of it at once. Of course he didn't understand, John was being silly.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Yes," he said, simply.

"Right," John said, awkwardly, because he didn't even know why he had asked him that in the first place. "So, what are you working on?"

Sherlock began to tell him all about a mystery murder that had happened twenty years ago and had never been solved. He told him about how those feet were helping him to discover where the victim had been before she was killed and John listened to everything attentively.

Two hours later, Sherlock had finished his experiment and they were sat at the kitchen table, looking afraid of disrupting the air that had favoured the quiet hours they had spent near each other. It had been more than they had done yet. It was at the same time warming and petrifying to John. A natural ambiguity of being around Sherlock, he supposed.

"Are you hungry? We could go to Angelo's," Sherlock said, strained.

John didn't know what to say. Going to Angelo's seemed much more than he could do at that moment, and even so, he wanted it, craved it. They would enter, Angelo would come and greet them by the door, he would hug Sherlock, tell him he had never believed the lies in the press, maybe he would even hug John and tell him he would fetch a candle for the table. John would tell him that he wasn't Sherlock's date, and it wouldn't make any difference. Yes, it was too much. He couldn't do that. It would open a Pandora box he knew he couldn't close. As if on cue, his phone buzzed with an incoming text. Mary asking him about dinner. That was his life now, he had to remember.

"Maybe some other time," he told Sherlock, not looking at him and walking to the living room. Sherlock was right behind him. "Okay?" He asked, unnecessarily. Of course Sherlock was okay, he didn't need John to babysit him. John felt idiotic.

Sherlock, though, smiled as if he knew something John didn't. Nothing new there. "Yes, all right. Some other time."

"Right," John said. "I'll see you, then."

John run down the stairs without looking back. Being afraid around Sherlock was not something he was used to, and it still left a foul taste in his mouth. He would have dinner with Mary, that was his life now, that was his choice. Mary.

John felt his phone buzzing again and took it out of his pocket.

Yes, I'll see you, John. –SH

Bugger.