First complete Sherlock (BBC) fanfiction, post Reichenbach. Enjoy!
John tripped as he staggered up the stairs of his flat. The old wood groaned horrendously at his sudden weight, and John silently cursed at it.
'So much for not waking Ms. Hudson.' he thought in annoyance. He'd been out late, celebrating the new year with Lestrade and Molly. Even though he'd had a merry time, and gotten rather drunk, he hadn't been able to enjoy himself as much as he'd hoped. The whole time, he had been imagining his ex-flatmate sitting next to him at the bar, smirking at the silly jokes and pointless stories.
Three years had passed, and yet, John could still see Sherlock's face perfectly, as if he had never left. The pointed cheekbones, the flashing blue eyes, the mess of dark curls, the perfect teeth. Oh, God, how he missed Sherlock Holmes.
John woke up in his bed, not quite sure how he'd gotten there. He rolled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling, trying to ignore his throbbing skull. After a moment of thought, he decided that he must have unfortunately awoken Ms. Hudson, who had somehow managed to get his deranged self up two flights of stairs. The ex-military man glanced at the clock, finding it to already be eight in the morning. He sat up quickly, expecting to get up and get dressed for the job he was already running late for. Sharp pain, however, assaulted his head, and he yelled out, clasping his head in his hands.
'Guess I'm not going in today.'
He sat for what felt like an hour before he reached over to grab his phone to text Sarah. After completing the task and having no further obligations for the day, he slowly made his way to the shower.
"Well, that was a waste of a day." John commented to himself as he glanced at the clock. "Thirteen hours later and finally no headache."
He'd spent the majority of the day napping, reading the paper, and taking medication for his hangover, all the while trying to ignore the spitting image of his non-existent flatmate that was occupying the chair opposite his own. John was still dressed in his pj's, feeling there to be no reason to wear anything else.
Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. John hauled himself from his chair, pulled on his slippers, and hobbled over to let in who he assumed was his landlady.
"Ah, Ms. Hudson, I was just thinking of thanking you for–." As he swung open the door, John found that the person who'd come calling was certainly not Ms. Hudson.
"Are you trying to pull some sort of stupid joke, because if so, this is not funny." John snapped, glowering at the slender man before him. The reason for this hateful reaction was that the stranger was wearing the long black trench coat, leather dress shoes, and the dark blue scarf, which was wrapped around his neck in Sherlock's signature fashion.
"John, I'm not a joke." Sherlock said. His familiar voice was all the proof John needed to keel over in a dead faint.
John coughed and sputtered as he felt cold water trying to pour down his throat.
"John, you scared me! I had no idea you'd be this affected!" Sherlock exclaimed with a hearty chuckle.
"Sherlock Holmes, you complete bastard!" John shouted, but smiling just the same. Sherlock set the glass of water in the table next to John's chair. The detective was crouched in front of John, who he's moved to the chair after the doctor had fainted.
"Three years, Sherlock, three bloody years! This is still not funny."
"I had to, for your own safety as well as mine. Moriarty had a hired assassin tailing you, and it was either I died or you did."
"Why didn't you tell me? Why wait three years?"
"He had to believe you though I was dead. Face it, John, you aren't the best actor, and if this killer saw through you he'd have shot you on the spot. I couldn't risk that."
"So I take it you've found this killer, then?" John asked after a few minutes of taking in the story. Sherlock shook his head.
"Not quite, but we'll have him tonight. Lestrade and his boys are all set up, and Molly should have dropped the decoy off with Ms. Hudson, and I've already told her what she's supposed to do–."
"Hold on," John interrupted, "you mean that I'm the last to know?"
"Know what?" Sherlock looked at John quizzically.
"To know, Sherlock, that you are in fact not dead."
"Oh. Yes." Sherlock's face molded into one of partial amusement mixed with regret.
"John Watson, you have no idea how much it has pained me to keep my best-mate out of this fiasco until the very end. Right, now, we really must be off, things to do, murderers to catch. Care to join me?" Sherlock asked, clasping his hands together and looking eagerly up at his flatmate. John heaved a sigh, and he and the detective both stood up. However, his head disagreed with the idea, and John swayed on his feet at the brief moment of disorientation.
"John, you aren't going to faint again, are you?" Sherlock asked, quickly moving to steady his friend.
"No, no. I've just got a bit of a hangover left."
"I can't leave you here, John. There would be a very likely chance of you getting shot. I've only got one decoy." Sherlock sounded panicked, but John just laughed.
"I'll be just fine, Sherlock. But would you mind helping me get ready, like find my shoes and coat for me?"
"Yes, of course. Oh, this is a good one, John, this will be exciting!" Sherlock crowed, and then dashed off to find John's shoes and coat.