There's no tomorrow for people like me

by Madness in a tissue box

When someone jumps off a roof, they don't come back wandering into the streets of London like fucking Jesus in Jerusalem. (meant as an OS, ended up in two parts)

1. Chapter 1

This is a story that has been stucked up my mind for quite some time and cried to be written, so here it is. I'd like to remind that I'm not a native English speaker (French roots never lie) and since I had some troubles with my beta, this is completely uncorrected and more than likely full of grammar mistakes (which for I apologize). This fic is meant as a gift for a tumblr friend, Maria (achilliades) whom I dearly love :)

Before I leave you to it, I'd like to add a few precision : 1) this is no way a happy story, it even tends to be a bit angsty. 2) this text is a chronological disaster : the story has been torn between several pov's (sherlock's, john's, lestrade's, and mycroft's) and the timeline is utterly wrecked (so you'll get a lot of 'three days earlier', 'two hours later', 'now') and if you want to understand what'll follow, you'll have to pay a carful attention to those indications. 3) Finally, it was originally supposed to be published as a one-shot, but since the website has been quite annoying with the doc size, I had to split it in two parts. The actual angst and all begin at the second part.

I'm done with my ranting I guess.

Enjoy your reading :)

THERE'S NO TOMORROW FOR PEOPLE LIKE ME

It has been four months now since Sherlock turned out not to be dead, four months that John tried to forgive the detective for tricking him the whole time. Of course he did tell him he had on the phone, but they both know it wasn't quite true. John couldn't merely accept Sherlock's presence back in his life after two years of mourning, believing he was dead and gone forever. He just couldn't.

Every day, John woke up in his own flat, feeling like a stranger in a bed way too big for him, his nostrils full of the scent of a woman who had left him weeks ago, pictures of the dark-haired detective running in front of him as they were launched into a chase, dancing behind his eyelids. The material of his sheets always felt odd under the palm of his hands as he was removing them from his hot and shaking with adrenaline body, and he had to force himself not to think about the floor under his bare feet, a soft carpet, instead of the familiar squeaky parquet he was used to.

Every morning, he had to stop himself from pouring two cups of black coffee, suddenly remembering he was alone in his kitchen. Every morning, he opened his mouth to yell at Sherlock to get out of his couch and come eating something before sharply shut it, feeling bitter and upset.

The detective wasn't there. Sherlock was back in his flat, back to his life in London, 221B Baker Street, as if nothing ever happened, as if he had never jumped off that bloody roof before disappearing.

It was both comforting and extremely annoying. On one hand, John finally felt complete again after two years wandering in life as if he was nothing more than a soulless walking body. He could lie as much as he wanted to, he wouldn't fool anybody : he needed Sherlock the way an addict needs his heroin. Sherlock was, well, is, a drug. He was the planet and John was the satellite, attracted to him, gently following Newton's law.

But on the other hand, John was also furious. And he had to admit it, he was a bit sad too. He felt betrayed, left behind. He always thought, wrongly apparently, that he meant something for Sherlock. That he was a tiny bit more than a common doctor among the other people, that he was standing out of the crowd. He obviously overestimated himself. No one meant anything to Sherlock Holmes, the man who always walked alone. Why would he ?

Sometimes, John believed he could disappear and Sherlock wouldn't even notice it, but then, he remembered he was just lying to himself, and drank his coffee.

He closed his eyes and put his cup down.

With the detective coming back in his life, John both ceased and started to live again.

oOo

Sherlock had never texted John since he was back. He wanted to, of course, but he already knew it would be pointless. John was gone, it was a fact. He could send him as many messages as he wanted to, he could call a million times if he felt like it, John would never answer, not anymore, not after what Sherlock did to him.

The detective had never been a man of sentiment, he didn't understood the concept of letting a few chemicals rule the potential of a brain but, since the day he had met the other man, things had been a bit different. He learnt what friendship meant. He learnt what caring about somebody else meant. He couldn't believe it at first, that he would be able of such a thing as feelings, and yet…

Of course he knew he wasn't a sociopath, that was a lie he would tell people to prevent himself from being left alone. Acting like a heartless bastard kept people away from him, and it was perfect this way. Because if you have nothing from the beginning, then there's nothing you can possibly lose.

However he broke the only rule he submitted himself to, he let his affection toward John Watson fill his unused heart and let the man pass through the walls he had erected around himself.

The few years he lived with the doctor were probably the best years of his life. He had discovered the pleasure of being considered as something else than a smart machine, the pleasure of laughing with another human being instead of at somebody, the unpleasant bite of jealousy when John left him alone in order to go out with some random and boring woman, the warm sensation in his belly when the doctor smiled to him, the strange mixed taste of red wine with Chinese food at late hours.

To put it simply, Sherlock had learnt to love thanks to John Watson.

But the thing is, by learning what love and friendship meant, he also learnt about pain, and loss.

oOo

Four months sonner

After the events of St Bart, John often dreamt about Sherlock. Sometimes he dreamt that none of that ever happened, and he would see Sherlock, in his dressing gown, sleeping on the coach while he was reading the papers or writing on his blog. Sometimes, they were solving a case, or having dinner, or watching TV, even yelling on each other because life was also made of arguments.

His reunion with Sherlock, John also dreamt it multiple times. He imagined the detective walking slowly towards him, bathed in a mystical light, smiling and explaining that he had never been dead, that it was merely another trick to fool everybody, including the greatest criminal mind of England, Jim Moriarty. He would have never thought though, that such a scene would actually happen, right down his flat, as he was going out buying tomatoes.

At first, John couldn't believe that he was really seeing the man in front of him, that this face and this body wrapped into the characteristic long dark coat were actually there, in flesh and bones, and very much alive.

His heart had stopped for a bit, and he dropped his phone and his cane.

He had blinked, several times, as if he wanted to whip away a tricky illusion from his eyes. But no matter how many times he blinked, nor how hard he would dig his nails into the palm of his hands, the illusion wouldn't go. After a few seconds, John had to face the truth : this man standing still in front of him, looking genuinely surprised, was real. Sherlock Holmes, whom he had buried and mourned, was real.

He slowly picked his phone and cane up.

His mouth opened then closed, and opened again, the way a fish gasping for air out of the water would do. His voice felt like it was stuck in his throat, his heart had fell in his stomach, and his mind was a mess. He tried to force words out, he wanted to ask, to yell, to shout. How ? Why ? "John... had started the detective, breaking the awkward silence between them.

- No. No it can't be, it can't… You were… I saw you… I saw you, on that roof. And then you were…" He inhaled a deep breathe "You were dead. Dead, Sherlock. You were dead, I checked your pulse, I saw your bloody body at the morgue, so tell me, how ? How can you be here now ?"

For the first time in his life, Sherlock hadn't answered. He had kept standing still, looking down, his arms uselessly hanging along his sides.

"I didn't know you were… in… town." The detective had finally said.

John had looked completely stunned. He was torn apart between the urge to punch the dark-haired man or merely laugh at him.

"I beg your pardon ?

- I uh, didn't you were… in town. Otherwise I would've…

- You would've done what, Sherlock ? You would've wait onto your own grave for me to bring you flowers the way you know I do every Thursdays ? Then invite me to have dinner in a restaurant maybe, tell me how you faked your death ? It's been two years, two bloody years Sherlock, and there wasn't a single day spent without mourning you ! Now how dare you wandering into London as if nothing ever happened, as if you didn't jumped off that fucking roof leaving me alone with nothing more than an empty chair and an aching leg ?! How dare you show your face like that, in the very same town which saw you die, and then tell me that I am the one who's not supposed to be here ?!

- I'm… sorry. I'm sorry John.

- Yeah well, so am I ! I mean…" John had sighed and looked away for a couple of seconds. As he spoke again, his voice was trembling, and sounded more high-pitched. "How could you do this do me ? To me, Sherlock, how could you ? You could've texted me, you could've emailed me, give me clues, why didn't you ? You let me grieve, for two years. Do you have any idea how hard these two years have been for me ? The dreams, the nightmares, the pain of your loss… what have I ever done for you to inflict this to me ? No, don't speak, don't you dare say a word !

- John…

- I said, don't you dare say a word !" John had shouted, threat vibrating through his voice. It hadn't prevented the other man from replying though.

"I'm sorry John. Really, I am, I should have told you I was alive. I thought that if you didn't know anything it'd be safer for you. I was wrong, I guess.

- No shit Sherlock" John had said in a lower voice than his usual one.

A silence had settled for a few seconds, before the ex-army doctor broke it anew.

"I gotta go" he had said before turning on his heels and limp away.

And that was it. His reunion with the great Sherlock Holmes, his best friend, summarized to an argument.

oOo

The detective put his phone back to his inner jacket pocket and sighed. Even to such information, Mycroft's reaction had been incredibly calm. No questions, no protests, no cynical comment, nothing. As if his little brother merely told him it was raining in London. He gazed at the empty chair in front of him, ignoring the part of his mind which yelled at him how wrong this whole situation was.

The detective poured himself another drink. He hated the taste of whiskey, the burning sensation as the liquid fell down his throat, but right now, alcohol turned out to be his only option. Maybe if he drank enough of the unpleasant beverage, his mind would merely accept what had happened, and he would stop feeling his guts wildly twisting into his body.

He heard someone moving downstairs, and deduced Mrs Hudson finally accepted the news Sherlock just brought her with his sudden appearance at 221B. She reacted quite well in the detective's opinion. At first, she couldn't believe it, she thought it was impossible. "It can't be, she had said. Sherlock... it... it can't be." But well, as Sherlock had once said, once you have eliminated the impossible whatever remains, however improbable must be the truth.

Then, the old lady had considered what she had just learnt and as she made sure she wasn't dreaming, she started to feel weak and had fainted. She had sat on the closest chair and hadn't moved since then... until now, obviously.

Sherlock emptied his drink once more and looked at his glass. The few drops of alcohol left in the bottom of his drink reminded him the color of John's hair and he sighed.

In his inner pocket, his phone produced a soft vibration. He smirked a bit.

Speaking of the devil...

oOo

Now

"Do you want some tea ?" asked Sherlock.

"You never make tea", replied John while taking the cup in his hands anyway.

" Mrs Hudson made some.

- Oh… How is she by the way ? I haven't seen her when I came in.

- She's fine, and currently out buying some apples for her pie… Or something of the like", added the detective as he was filling his own cup.

Sherlock sat in his armchair, and crossed his way too long legs while blowing cool air on his tea. He couldn't help the feeling of comfort from running through his veins at the current situation despite the actual tension between the two men.

Hat-man and the bachelor, back in Baker Street, sipping tea in their armchairs, just the two of them against the rest of the world. Just like it used to be.

"What have you been up to then ?" inquired John, breaking the silence.

"Come on John, small talks are hardly your thing.

- How would you know ? It's been two years Sherlock, maybe I've changed. Maybe small talks are my thing now.

- No, I don't think so.

- Okay you're right, as always. Satisfied ?

- No."

The doctor stopped reaching his cup to his mouth a few inches from its destination and looked up at the other man's face to find him gazing at his own beverage. The sugar he himself just added was slowly sinking, swallowed by the hot water and previously dried leaves. Why did he add sugar ? He usually never added sugar to anything.

"Look John, I admit that I may have made a mistake by not telling you I was alive, and for that, I want you to know I am-

- It's been four months Sherlock, cut the sandy-haired man. And like I told you on the phone the other day, I did forgive you.

- But we both know it's not true, isn't it ? You haven't forgiven me for the fact that I let you think I was dead."

John put down his teacup on the low table in front of him and leant forward, as if he wanted to lessen the distance between the consulting detective and himself, his elbows resting on both his knees, the palms of his hands pressed together, fingers crossed.

"Okay, just, listen to me. I'm not going to say this twice so you better pay attention. Yes, I still believe you could have told me sooner that you weren't dead, indeed. You left me completely alone, Sherlock. And I spent two years, the two longest years of my life, mourning you, glaring at your stuff in our flat, keeping making tea for two before slapping myself with the memory of your death. During the night, I thought I was hearing you playing the violin and I would get up to find an empty living room, the Stradivarius silently resting against your empty couch. I had nightmares where I would have to see you jumping off that roof again and again, and I couldn't do a bloody thing about it !

"And it turned me absolutely mad, you know, because I was so sure, so damn sure that maybe, I could have done something to prevent this from happening.

"And I was thinking "You could've helped Watson. You should've helped, you're a bloody doctor, you're a bloody soldier ! How could you let this happen ?" And it killed me, that feeling. Then I started to, you know, have some hallucinations.

"I lived in denial, I was thinking "Come on Watson, this is Sherlock freaking Holmes you're talking about, he can't die, not like that. Nothing can kill him, he's invincible, right ?" I would see you in the middle of a crowd, at the corner of some random street. There wasn't any long coat or any curly head I wasn't mistaking for you, even if the height, the weight, or even the gender, didn't match.

"But then I had to come back to reality, and in the reality, you were just a man. And men can be killed. So I had to accept the truth, that yes, you were dead, that you weren't playing the violin at night and that you weren't playing hide and seek in London.

"You died trying to make me believe you were a fake, that none of this, none of what we had was real. Who do you think I am Sherlock, to think that I would believe such bullshit ? You can convince Lestrade and the integrality of Scotland Yard if you want to, you can convince Mrs Hudson, all the clients you ever consulted, you can even try to convince freaking Mycroft that you were a fraud Sherlock, but me ?" John chuckled a bit and gazed at an invisible spot somewhere on the low table for a couple of seconds. "Me, who had lived with you, who had to bear your mood swings, the violin at 3am, the mess of your papers, the clients invading our living room and therefore, our privacy, who suffered your deductions about me whenever you felt like it, who had to stand you ruining every single relationships I would ever bother starting… basically me who had to bear you being an annoying prick on twenty-four/seven, and you thought I could ever come to believe that none of this was real ? Please Sherlock, we both know I don't have half of yours nor your brother's brain, but I'm not completely stupid either.

"Do you want to know something that was really, really real though ? My pain.

"There was no more wars for me, no more cases, no more thrill of the chase, no more geniuses to annoy me. You were gone taking everything in your fall, and there was nothing left for me ! Nothing at all ! I thought I was done here, that nothing could ever make me feel alive again. I spent hours sleeping with different women, spending all the money I had in pubs drinking until I would forget my own name but still managed to remember yours, I tried to get into minor fights with dealers and little punks just to feel something again, anything !

"And finally, after a whole year of denial, sorrow and self-destruction, I accepted it. It was over, and I had to keep going, to keep walking on my way, with or without you. The pain was still here, but I eventually felt peace, and remembering you could at last draw a smile on my face instead of some painful and angry expression.

"I still didn't understand why you had done it, but I was sure you had a very good reason to leave me behind like you did. So I forgave you. Because you were my friend, and to be honest, you were the best friend I've ever had. You were the kindest and the wisest man I've ever known, and no matter what anyone kept saying about you, to me, you would always be the great Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, the annoying genius who can't keep his thoughts for himself, and the most human, human being this planet have ever bore.

"Now four months ago, I realize I need some groceries and I go down in the streets, and who do I see, almost hitting me with his rapid walk ? The very same Sherlock Holmes that I thought I had buried two years ago. And I pinch my arm "You must be dreaming Watson, another hallucination, it's been awhile since the last one" I tell myself. But the hallucination doesn't want to go, so I pinch my skin harder, I bite my inner cheeks, I dig my nails into the palms of my hand, and yet, you're still here, and I don't understand. Then you tell me I wasn't supposed to be where I was while you were the one supposed to be dead. Makes messages, you see ?

"And here we are now, sitting in our old armchairs, with tea and Mrs Hudson out buying some apples, as if the two last two years and my tremendous pain were just a bloody dream. It looks a lot like a joke right now.

"But well, this isn't the point I'm trying to make.

"What I'm saying is that I forgave you once already for killing yourself and leaving me on my own with my old psychosomatic pain in my leg and a couple of nightmares, so trust me when I say that I do forgive you for being back here, Sherlock.

"I was hurt, and bitter, I thought you hadn't missed me… But you're still my best friend, and seeing you back in this flat makes me the happiest man in the whole goddamn world."

John went silent. In front of him, Sherlock wasn't looking at him, but he noticed the fingers of the other man shaking slightly against his tea-cup.

After half a minute which seemed to last for ages, the detective finally managed to open his mouth :

"I huh, really don't know what to say…

- You don't have to say anything. I told you what I had to, that's it" said he as he leant backwards.

The dark-haired man smiled a bit and emptied his teacup in a quick gulp, exposing the pale skin of his neck as he was tilting his head back to swallow the last drops. His phone vibrated on the low table where he had put it. He checked the screen and with a sigh, grabbed the piece of technology and looked at John for the first time since the sandy-haired man had stopped talking.

"I'm sorry, I must take that call.

- Yeah sure, go ahead."

Sherlock nodded and walked toward his bedroom, the phone still vibrating in the palm of his hand. Once he had made his way and closed the door, he finally answered.

"What do you want Mycroft ? he said with the usual aggressive ton he reserved to his brother.

- Good afternoon little brother, replied the crackling voice of Mycroft through the mobile phone. I believe you already know why am I calling you for, don't you ? - John.

- How is he ? - He's fine. Slightly angry but fine.

- I see… And how are you ? - I'm fine as well.

- Sherlock, do not start playing this childish game, you perfectly know it has never worked, not with me.

- I'm not playing any game Mycroft, and I said I was fine.

- Yes, of course you are."

Silence

"You do realize of course you'll have to tell him, at some point," broke the man on the phone.

" I'm aware.

- I mean it Sherlock.

- I know you do.

- Otherwise he'll learn it by himself, and I'm quite certain this isn't what you want.

- Since when do you care about what I want ?

- I always did, little brother."

New silence.

"Are we done now ? asked the consulting detective.

- Almost. But tell me first, do you remember Redbeard ?"

Sherlock heard his teeth grinding before he realized how tight his jaw was.

"I'm not a child anymore Mycroft.

- This situation won't last forever and you know it just as well as I do. The sooner you'll talk to John Watson, the better it'll be for the both of you. - I know.

- Allow yourself some peace Sherlock. Allow the both of you some peace. - Goodbye Mycroft."

The dark-haired man hung up the phone before his brother could say anything else, then he threw it violently on his bed. The object bounced twice and landed on the floor, probably dismantled, but the man didn't care.

He took a deep breathe, waited a couple of seconds, and came back to the living-room where John was waiting for him.

"Your brother, I suppose ?", asked the sandy-haired man as the detective walked in.

"Yes, he's being quite annoying these days.

- He's always annoying according to you. Why was he calling for ?

- Nothing, just a case he wanted to give me. National security, highly secret, very complex…

- Did you take it ?

- Of course not.

- Why ?

- Because I'm already working on something.

- Since when ?

- This morning. I read it in the papers : male victim, early fourties, teacher in a primary school and sometimes he worked at the pharmacy on the same street he lived in, found dead in his flat. No efforts has been made to hide the body, yet the killer hadn't left any messages so the man's death wasn't a warning but an example, so he's trying to scare someone with this murder. The questions are who and why ? The teacher isn't linked with any big company, doesn't have any powerful name in his family tree, not married, no kids, his colleagues all described him as a calm man, patient with the children. In short, the type of person you don't remark. No criminal record, not even minor offences in his young years, no extra-money in his bank account that would betray any illegal activity, he always had the same habits, nothing unusual has been found in his place. This man seem to be no one at all, he's almost too transparent to be real, so why has he been killed ?

John had felt the nostalgia filling up his veins as the detective talked. The rapid ton, the low voice, his way to tell every piece of information that was coming through his mind to expose the facts and build theories… The doctor missed it, more than he would ever admit it.

"Then why aren't we on the crime scene already ?" he asked.

" Why would we be on the crime scene ?" answered Sherlock, as if going on a crime scene never was an option.

" Because you're a detective, that's what you do. Actually, that's what we've done for several years until you… well, you know.

- I know, I merely have planned to go there alone."

The sandy haired man blinked several times, as if the movements of his eyelids could have any sort of impact upon what he just heard.

" Are you fucking kidding me Sherlock ?" he finally said.

" What do you mean ?"

For the second time in less than a minute, the doctor looked utterly taken aback. He crossed his arms upon his chest as his back straightened.

"What do I mean ?" he repeated, as if it was a joke he wanted to understand. "You're back as if nothing ever happened, you tell me about a murder that happened recently, but then all of sudden you plan to solve it alone, what the hell is wrong with you ?

- I assumed you wouldn't… do that anymore considering, you know, what… um, happened." stuttered the detective.

" Yeah well, you assumed wrong. It seems you do that quite a lot recently."

Then after a few seconds of silence :

"Off we go then ?

- Yes, yes of course, just let me grab my phone, I left it in my room."

oOo

Four months ago

John couldn't believe it. He just couldn't. It was impossible, right ? Sherlock couldn't be alive, he was dead for Christ's sake ! He saw him die, he had bloody buried him, he had visited his grave every goddamn week, he was dead ! Sherlock Holmes was dead !

That was the first time the doctor had this thought without feeling any pain, but a total incomprehension. John wasn't a man of science, but he didn't believe in miracles either. He used to have faith, of course he did. But then, he went to war, he'd seen things no man is supposed to see, he's seen death in the eyes of his comrades and he even almost touched Her at some point. He knew enough about it.

When someone jumps off a roof, they don't come back wandering into the streets of London like fucking Jesus in Jerusalem.

He could feel his heart pounding into his chest as if it wanted nothing more than breaking his rib cage and meet the fresh air of an English morning. A million bees were buzzing into his head and it felt like his skull could explode at any moment under the weight of his thoughts, his too many thoughts. His lungs were full of air and yet he was suffocating, his cheeks were burning his face as if a someone was pouring lava on his skin, and the cold sweat running down his spine wasn't even helping. His legs were so weak, he had to lean on the wall next to him with his shaking hands.

As he felt a violent nausea rising, he gagged and quickly covered his mouth with the hand that wasn't resting on the wall to prevent himself from throwing up in public.

It's impossible, his mind kept screaming, he's dead, I saw him die, I saw his lifeless and broken body lying on the floor, covered in his own blood, still warm, I checked his pulse, he was dead, he was dead, he was fucking dead ! "Are you okay, sir ? asked a man who was passing by.

John realized he yelled his last thought out loud, and the peasants were looking at him with both concern and fear on their faces.

The sandy-haired man knew he had to control himself before his little crisis turned into an utter panic attack. He took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly before repeating the process three times more in order to calm himself.

By the fifth long breath he exhaled, his hands were still shaking, but his heart seemed to have slowed down in his chest, the bees weren't buzzing a millions thoughts at the same time in his head and his cheeks wasn't burning him alive anymore.

" Yes, yes I'm fine, thank you." managed to pant the sandy-haired man in a raspy voice.

The other man looked at him for a few more seconds, checking him eye to toe. From his point of view, John was a mess, and the doctor was aware of his current physical state. He looked pale, which contrasted with the redness of his eyes and cheeks, a few drops of sweat were dripping on his forehead and jawline, and all of his being was shaking, not just his hands.

"You look like you've seen a ghost, mate." he said while offering his hand to the doctor to help him straightening on both his feet.

John grinned and chuckled as he accepted the other man's hand.

" I guess you could say that, yeah." he spat, bitterness streaming out of his voice.

The other man looked at him with an obvious lack of understanding in the eyes, and his eyebrows slightly frowned but he said nothing and after making sure John was stable on both his feet and cane, he wished him a great day, and left.

John sighed deeply and rubbed his hands on his face. At least they weren't shaking anymore. He whiped away the single tear that dared come out of his eye and decided to turn around and come back to his flat. He needed to think, and more than that, he needed to be alone.

As John sat on his bed looking at the wall before him but seeing nothing but his own thoughts, he felt incredibly calm. All the things he had felt sooner, all those sentiments of emergency, of incomprehension, of betrayal, and pain, it was all gone. There was nothing left in his quietly beating heart now, as if someone came in and dug into his feelings until only a mere feeling of emptiness, and the unsettled sensation of numbness were the only thing he was aware of.

How could Sherlock do this to him ? Hell no, how could his best friend do this to him ? Wasn't he supposed to be somebody Sherlock cared about ? Wasn't he supposed to be the only one the detective acted human with ? Wasn't he supposed to be the only one he trusted ? What was all those speeches Lestrade gave him on how Sherlock had changed since John got into his life about ? What was the point of all this sick mascarade ? Did Sherlock think it was some kind of stupid game ? Did Sherlock think he could play with people's hearts like that ? Was he even thinking at all ? Yes, of course he was, he's Sherlock, and Sherlock always thinks about everything.

Not about me apparently… Three years ago, Sherlock Holmes died. He jumped off a roof. John saw him.

Three years ago, Sherlock Holmes disappeared and John lost his best friend.

Three years ago, Sherlock Holmes made a fool of John Watson. He had him think he cared about the doctor and he left with nothing but a phone call.

"He's alive." The sandy-haired man heard himself whisper in the silence of his flat, and he was surprised to hear that his voice sounded relieved. "He's bloody alive."

John felt himself smiling as the pain in his leg suddenly disappeared, then, he burst into tears.

oOo

Now

The ride to the crime scene had been quiet, and Sherlock has seemed nervous from the moment John grabbed his coat to come with him until now on. He looked sunk into his own thoughts, his long and thin body remaining completely still apart from the constant tapping of his fingers on his right knee.

" Did you tell him ?"

The detective jumped a little at the sudden noise next to him, and turned his head as if he was surprised to see john sitting here with him.

"Did you tell Greg you weren't actually dead ?

- Greg ?" repeated Sherlock, obviously confused.

John laughed then sighed.

"Lestrade. Greg Lestrade. You still can't remember his name, can you ?

- Greg Lestrade, yes of course, that's his name. I guess I'll get accustomed to it someday.

- Of course you will, after all, it's not like you've known each other for ten years, or something of the like, isn't it ?"

Sherlock laughed a little.

"So you haven't told him, didn't you ? That's why you seem... nervous" said John with a concerned look in his blue eyes.

- No I... I haven't told him anything about any of… that.

- Ah well, at least I wasn't the only one not to know about it" accused John, and before Sherlock could reply anything, the taxi stopped and John was already out of the car.

The dark-haired man inhaled as much of air as he could until his lungs couldn't take any more of the oxygen he was filling them with and held it all back for a few seconds. When he let it all go, he grabbed the door handle and got himself out of the car.

This will be one hell of a situation to explain to the Detective Inspector.

He joined John who was waiting for him a few steps ahead. Their roles seemed to have been reversed. John was the one who was excited about the case, the mystery, who was leading and who couldn't wait to see the body and deduce things about the murder, while Sherlock seemed a bit more reluctant. His walk was slower than usual and he wasn't saying a word.

"It's okay Sherlock, I'm sure Lestrade will understand. John said with a smile while calling the elevator.

- Of course he will. The question is, will he understand the way you did ?"

John sighed and didn't replie as he remembered their reunion four months ago."

When they arrived at the dead man's flat, a heavy silence fell and all eyes suddenly focused them. Donovan, Anderson, Lestrade, and two other men neither Sherlock nor John had seen before looked at them both with wide eyes, and mouths slightly open, completely mute, as if something had broken in and had stolen their voices.

"You… You were… began the Detective Inspector.

- Dead ? No, don't worry about that Inspector, I checked that myself and it turns out that I'm perfectly alright. Thank you for your concern though, it's um, highly appreciated." Sherlock quickly answered.

"No, I mean-

- I'm not dead, Lestrade. I've never been. I faked my death. None of what any of you thought had happened is true." Sherlock took the gray haired man's hand in his own and placed it against his neck, where the artery was so that he could feel his pulse. "See ? You're not hallucinating, and I, for myself, am very much alive.

- Don't worry Greg, it was weird for me too but you'll eventually get used to it. John added with a smile.

- Yeah, yeah, I uh… I suppose I wasn't… God Sherlock, could you- could you give me a moment please. stuttered Lestrade while looking at both the doctor and the consulting detective, one at the time.

- Yes of course, you can go the other room while John and I take a look at the body.

- Sure…" accepted Lestrade while gesturing the other one to come with him, letting the two friends alone in the flat.

As they were making their way to the dead man's bedroom where he had been killed, John couldn't help thinking about the differences between the way Sherlock had reacted towards Lestrade and himself.

With him, he had looked nervous and confused, whereas with Lestrade, the detective acted like the arrogant prick John knew. He smiled.

"Our man has been shot at close range through the head with a browning, probably the M1911." started to deduce Sherlock while dancing around the body. " He knew his murderer, otherwise he wouldn't have neither let him in his flat, there's no sign of break in, nor let him come this close to him. They weren't familiar though, according to the state of the flat. Everything has been recently cleaned for the occasion, so it must have been someone he felt inferior to. Not his official boss of course, in this case they would have met somewhere else, somewhere less personal. It seems there're bits of… what looks like aluminum under his nails, why would he have aluminum under his nails ?

- I don't know, you said he worked in a pharmacy. Maybe it's from uh… a pallet of medicine. Maybe he had a headache, or something of the like.

- Maybe… mumbled Sherlock between his teeth.

The detective kept moving around the body for three more minutes, then he stood up straight and said he was done with the crime scene.

oOo

Four days later

06:11 : Sherlock ? JW (delivered)

06:15 : Yes ? SH (delivered)

06:16 : I was wondering, since you're back, if I could, you know, maybe go back to the flat. I used to share mine with somebody right after I moved away but now there's way too much room for me. JW (delivered)

06:43 : Sure, suit yourself. SH (delivered)

06:45 : You don't really seem enthusiastic about that. Look I don't want to bother you if you prefer to be alone, I'm just asking, that's all. JW (delivered)

07:12 : Why would you bother me ? SH (delivered)

07:15 : Did Mrs Hudson took your skull ? JW (delivered)

07:16 : She did. SH (delivered)

07:17 : OK, I should be here in a couple hours then. Do you want me to grab something to eat before I get here ? JW (delivered)

07:18 : I'm working on a case, John. SH (delivered)

07:19 : The one about the man dead in his flat with no apparent motive ? I thought you've solved it two days ago while I was applying at the clinic. JW (delivered)

07:25 : I did solve it, it was a mere, but very well hidden drug traffic : our man was the one passing cocaine via the pharmacy he worked in. The drug was hidden in pallets, which explained the aluminum under his nails. He screwed one delivery, as he mistook a stock of hidden drug with actual medicine and sold the drugs to the clients and aspirins to the traffickers he worked for, which they didn't really appreciate, of course. He was paid in cash which is why we didn't find anything suspicious in his bank account. It was very simple once I had the analysis of the aluminum from the lab, nothing really entertaining, almost boring actually. But anyway, I'm working on another case now. SH (delivered)

07:28 : Any interesting ? JW (delivered)

07:30 : Not really, it's for my brother. SH (delivered)

07:31 : Alright, you'll tell me more once I'll be here. JW (delivered)

07:33 : Are you certain you want to come back though ? SH (not delivered)

oOo

Sherlock looked at the clock. The doctor should be here in less than half an hour. He knew he should be happy about his friend coming back living with him. With John away, he realized he had missed the smell of tea when he woke up, the mumbling when John silently complained about his experiments or the slight noise of crumpling paper as he read The Times. He craved the other man's presence, the smell of the cheap aftershave, the sight of his horribly knitted jumpers and the regular noise of John's typing on his keyboard as he wrote a new article on his blog. He needed him to put food into his plate and to sigh when he managed to find his cigarettes. He wanted this life back, he really did. And yet, the idea of John being back here only inspired him an awkward feeling of discomfort.

The detective shook himself mentally and sighed. Next to the laptop he was currently using, his phone vibrated twice as he received a new text from his brother.

He rose up from his chair without paying any attention to the message and moved towards the kitchen cupboard. He hesitated for a couple of seconds before eventually opting for a six years old bottle of red wine. He picked two glasses and put them on the table with the bottle and a corkscrew.

Next to the laptop across the room, his phone vibrated a second time as the piece of technology reminded him he hadn't open his brother's text. Sherlock however, kept ignoring it as he already very well knew what Mycroft wrote him.

08:03 : You're not choosing the easy way, brother dear. MH (delivered).

oOo

Four days earlier

02:12 : What the fuck was that Sherlock ? GL (delivered)

02:14 : I'm aware that I should have warn you before coming to the crime scene and I'm sorry about it. SH (delivered)

02:15 : No shit Sherlock ! GL (delivered)

02:16 : I get that a lot these days. SH (delivered)

02:17 : I wonder why… Anyway, we need to talk about this, it ain't a situation I can allow myself to take lightly. GL (delivered)

02:19 : I know. But now isn't the proper moment to have this discussion. We'll talk about this later. SH (delivered)

02:20 : Fine. But you won't get away with this easily Sherlock. GL (delivered)

oOo

" Oh, you even brought out the wine ?" said John as he removed his coat. A few rain drops crashed on the parquet as he did so and his hair was flat and wet above his head. The water had darkened his natural sandy-blond color which gave the doctor a paler look.

" I thought it was a suitable occasion to, yes." replied Sherlock as he uncorked the said bottle.

" The consulting detective and the doctor back on the road, just like the good old days. We're doing quite the pair, Sherlock, aren't we ?

- Indeed."

The detective poured the liquid in both the glasses and handed one to John while keeping the other one for himself.

The two men then headed for their respective armchairs and if Sherlock merely sat on his, almost carefully, John collapsed all his weight into his with what sounded like a sigh of relief. His anger towards the detective was still there, of course, somewhere in both his heart and mind, but right now, as he was feeling the soft and used material of his armchair beneath him and the warmness of the alcohol in his trachea, all submerged in the familiar dimmed light of the flat, this anger was simply floating far away from his current trail of thought.

"So you eventually took your brother's case ?" stated the doctor while sipping on his wine.

Sherlock merely raised a dark eyebrow.

"The first time we talked here, your brother phoned you and wanted you to take care of something for him but you refused at the time. Sooner you told me you were working on a case for him, hence my previous assumption. When was the last time you slept for you to get confused in the facts ?"

A light of understanding flashed in Sherlock's pale irises.

"Oh yes of course. I did take his case, out of boredom if I may say. It's really none of interest.

- You might as well sleep, you look terrible." joked the sandy-haired man.

Indeed the detective didn't look his best. He clearly had lost some weight, not so much to worry the doctor but it was an observable fact nevertheless. His skin was paler than

usual and he had dark bags under his eyes from sleep and food deprivation. None of those statements were too drastic, at least not yet, but a well medically trained eye such as John's couldn't miss these.

"It's just a cold, nothing to worry about. But tell me instead, how did it go at the clinic ?

- It went well, but you probably already know that, you always know everything.

- No, otherwise I wouldn't have asked you."

A short silence took place as Sherlock emptied his drink and John didn't reply immediately, a strange smile which illustrated his interior debate on whether the detective was joking or not, frozen upon his face. As the other man didn't show any sign of pleasantry, he merely decided not to dwell on it and moved on :

"Okay then. I was hired for a part-time job on mornings. Salary's good, my boss doesn't look like a twat unlike the previous one. It's gonna be great, hopefully.

- Sounds boring.

- What doesn't sound boring to you anyway ?"

oOo

Five months earlier

04:36 : I forgive you. JW (delivered)

05:43 : However, we still need to talk about this. JW (delivered)

05:59 : I think so too. SH (delivered)

06:12 : Your flat, in thirty days exactly. Noon. JW (delivered)

06:13 : Alright. SH (delivered)

oOo

Now

The end of the previous night was nothing but a blurry and indistinct memory in John's mind as he woke up the following morning. He vaguely remembered talking with Sherlock around a nice bottle of red wine, but what happened next was a total mystery to him.

As he stretched his aching limbs, he noticed he was still sitting in his armchair. What was new though was the thin blanket which laid over his body, and a tender smile spread across his face as he pictured Sherlock laying it on his sleeping form. On the table next to his chair, he could see several empty bottles of several kind of alcohol lying there quietly, contrasting with the tipping noise he was hearing. He slightly turned his head to the right and saw Sherlock, who obviously didn't have as much sleep as John did according to the even darker circles under his eyes and the messy curls around his pale face, browsing on his laptop while taking notes.

"Working on your brother's case already ?" mumbled John with a raspy voice.

To his great surprise, Sherlock jumped a bit on his chair, like a kid who got caught by his mother doing something he wasn't supposed to do. The detective ran a nervous hand in his dark curls, tangling them even more than they already were.

"Yeah, yeah, I couldn't, you know, sleep" he eventually replied, his pale eyes fixed on John's feet.

"With everything we drank last night, you couldn't sleep ? Really ?

- My body doesn't work like yours John, you should know that by now. How's the hangover ?

- Surprisingly fine, to be honest" replied John while getting up from the softness of his armchair. The doctor was indeed doing quite well for someone who drank way more than his usual as he stood stable on both his feet, alert and incredibly well-rested. Maybe his tolerance for the adult juice, as his mother used to call it, had increased during the two years he spent alone, visiting all the pubs of London. He didn't know, and didn't really care either.

He walked towards the detective who didn't move from his spot, and laid a hand on his friend's shoulder to take a look at his notes. Sherlock though, violently flinched away from the touch.

"What's the matter with you ?" exclaimed John, slightly hurt by the other man's reaction.

" I'm sorry, it's just… I have a bruise here and it's still a bit painful." justified Sherlock, massing his aching shoulder.

" Do you want me to have a look at it then ?" proposed John, and the detective recognized the doctor side of the other man speaking. The calm tone, the professional but concerned look in his eyes, the relaxed muscles and the soothing attitude… it all screamed 'doctor' to Sherlock, but the stiffness of his back also reminded him of the soldier, and the eight missing pounds in his friend's frame whispered 'I'm a broken man'.

" I'm fine, it's a mere bruise.

- Okay." surrendered John. "But it doesn't change the fact that you've been acting weird since I came through this flat's door yesterday. Once again, if you don't want me back here then this is all fine, I'll find something somewhere else.

- No, not at all. I must lack of sleep or something of the like, I never quite know. Just… don't worry." reassured the detective, massing his forehead with his long fingers.

" 'You sure ?

- Yes.

- Alright then. I'll get my things back into my room, while you keep working on that. Unless of course if you want me to help ?

- I'm almost done with it, it's actually very boring."

John nodded then turned on his heels and went to get his bags which he had left in the hall. He didn't wanted to, but he accidentally looked at Sherlock's notes for a half second when he was standing above him, and caught the words 'Newport Cemetery' which he found odd since it was the cemetery in which the detective was supposed to be buried in.

oOo

Two days later

08:45 : I have the results of the analysis of the samples you gave me the other day. Molly (delivered)

08:48 : What does it say ? SH (delivered)

08:50 : I think you should rather come here. Molly (delivered)

08:51 : I'm on my way. SH (delivered)

oOo

The following morning

"Come in" shouted Sherlock after somebody knocked on the door twice.

The door opened, and a man in his early fifties entered the room. He shivered a bit when he saw the detective's form bending over his laptop, not from fear but from sadness. Sherlock looked like a madman with the three nicotine patches lying silently on his left arm and his eyes frantically reading the webpage he was currently on, his mind saving everything it could save. That look in the young man's eyes reminded him of the time when he was being forced by his brother Mycroft -such a ridiculous name- to quit drugs and the sight of this look being back into the pale pupils and dark irises broke the Inspector's heart.

"What do you want Lestrade ?" finally asked Sherlock whilst keeping his eyes focused on the computer screen.

" I have a case for you." merely responded the DI.

" Not interested."

Lestrade feigned a surprised look but he actually was expecting this reaction.

"Really ?

- As you can see, I'm already quite busy.

- What is it ?

- A case for my brother."

The older man highly doubted the detective's last reply but didn't argue on it. It would be pointless anyway.

"Molly called me yesterday night about some analysis you asked her to do… I uh… don't know what to think about the results either.

- You don't have to think anything about it, it's for my case, and therefore none of your business.

- I could help you with it.

- Of course not, I'm the one who helps you, not the other way round.

- As you wish. But if you need, anything, really-

- Thank you very much, I'll be fine, now go." sharply cut Sherlock.

Lestrade opened his mouth to say something, but he shut it just as quickly when he realized there was nothing he could say which would change the detective's mind for the moment. As he was about to open the door to get out of the old flat, John came out of the bathroom, dressed in a jean and what appeared to be his favorite jumper (and the ugliest one according to Sherlock), hair still wet from his recent shower.

"Oh hello Greg !" he called merrily, a smile on his face.

For a split second, the DI was amazed by the contrast between the two men he had in front of him. While Sherlock looked ill and a bit hysterical, John was radiant with good health and what seemed to be sincere joy. Only the slight hollows under his cheekbones could tell he had lived through a harsh phase, but the life glimmering in his eyes was so strong and genuine that it could make it all disappear.

"Hey John. How are you doing ?" he replied, his hand still on the doorknob.

" I'm great, thanks. Do you want some tea, Sherlock prepared a kettle this morning.

- That's nice, but I was leaving.

- Okay then. Don't hesitate to come over for a drink someday.

- I sure will, thanks.' agreed Lestrade, then he left.

John grabbed the newspaper on the pillow of his armchair before sinking into it.

"What was Lestrade here for ? he asked.

- He had a case for me, but I told him I was already working on something.

- I thought you found it boring ?

- It is, but it also needs to be done." responded Sherlock.

" Since when do you care about this kind of thing ?

- Since my brother is harassing me with it."

John's eyebrows frowned in suspicion but he said nothing else and started reading today's news.

oOo

A week later

At first, John had been happy to share the flat with Sherlock, his old flat mate and best friend, anew. It felt like being reborn : the familiarity of the flat, the smell of chloroform in the kitchen, the sight of both their armchairs, the yellow smiley on the wall, the noise of Sherlock's footsteps late at night, God! he had even missed the human parts in the fridge. Being bathed in that strange but comforting atmosphere once again was everything John had wanted without admitting it.

But as the days had passed, he came to regret his decision of coming back as he grew more and more worried about his friend everyday. A part of him told him there was nothing to be worried about : he was talking about Sherlock after all (the man bloody came back from the dead). But another part of him, the doctor's probably, kept telling him something awfully wrong was going on between these walls. Something felt odd, almost unnatural.

The chloroform scent was strong in the kitchen, and jars full of thumbs and eyeballs had their places in the door of the fridge. The armchairs were still in place and so was the painted smiley on the wall, but he still hadn't hear the violin yet since he was back here, not even once, and Sherlock's footsteps sounded more like he was pacing nervously than merely going straight from a point to another, usually to get what he could need to solve a case.

He barely ate, well, even less than his usual, and John could swear he looked paler. Maybe he got a cold from that day he went to the lab a week ago on a freezing morning without nor his coat nor his scarf, he tried to reassure himself. If he didn't know the detective better, he would say the case he was working on was driving him insane, but he was Sherlock, wasn't he ? The powerful and brilliant Sherlock Holmes. Nothing could ever drive this marvelous brain insane, nothing at all. Even when they had worked on the Hound of the Baskerville he had managed, apart from one little episode in a pub, to keep his head clear.

Maybe all the detective needed was something to change his mind for a second. John got out of his room and went to the living room where he knew Sherlock was, still working on his brother's mysterious case.

"Sherlock ?" he called and he saw his friend's body noticeably tense at the sound of his voice.

"Hum ?" he mumbled back between his teeth.

"I know this will sound weird from me but… could you play something for me ? On your violin."

Sherlock stopped typing whatever he was writing and turned around to look at his friend across the room.

"Why ?" Sherlock seemed incredulous and John felt a bit proud of that for a second, if it wasn't for the embarrassment he was feeling.

" I don't know, I just, you know, feel like it."

The detective arched one of his eyebrows but eventually sighed and got up from his chair. Standing up, John was able to remark that his friend had lost more weight than the last time he paid attention to his frame, and it saddened him, in a way.

"My body is nothing but a shell for my brain John, stop worrying, I know my limits." suddenly declared Sherlock as he was reaching for his violin, on his couch. He had noticed John's insistent look over him, and it felt uncomfortable.

"I'm not so sure you do, but anyway, I won't force food down your throat.

- No, indeed. Now sit" he commanded, pointing John's armchair with the tip of his bow. He then wedged his instrument under his chin and on his shoulder, and started to play.

Sherlock's melody was deep, melancholic and genuinely heartbreaking, so much so that something inside John's chest started to ache terribly.

oOo

03:08 : Greg, I think something's wrong with Sherlock. JW (delivered)

03:15 : I'm starting to worry about him. JW (delivered)

04:02 : Did he tell you something, anything ? JW (delivered)

04:18 : ? JW (delivered)

tbc