*Author's note* This is one of the first fics I've ever written, so my writing style is a lot different here. I'm not going to update this one, but I thought it would be fun to post it, so here it is!
It was a cold night, and I was walking home from the bar. As the wind picked up, I wrapped Sherlock's old blue scarf tighter around my neck. His scarf was the only thing I kept after his death; the only thing I couldn't bear to see locked away in the closet under the stairs in my flat on Baker Street. Technically, it was still our flat; Sherlock's and mine. But he wasn't here any more. Even though he was gone, it still felt like he was here. Every morning when I go to make coffee, I can still see him reclining lazily on the couch, sleeping, or spewing off synonyms for "bored". When I'm trying to fall asleep, I can still hear him practicing his violin from the rooms downstairs. When I come home from a long day of work, I can still seeing him sitting in the kitchen doing another one of his experiments. And when I'm writing, I can still hear him asking me to go buy milk, because we're out again.
My brief distraction of nostalgia has ended when I realize that I'm home again. When I turn on the lights, some part of me expects to see him sitting in his chair in that peculiar way of his; legs stretched out in front of him, and his hands clasped together in front of his face, as if in prayer. But he's not there, as the other part of me knew that he wouldn't be.
I take off my coat and Sherlock's scarf, and head for the wash room to brush my teeth before I go to sleep. As I go to put my toothbrush back in the cabinet, I hear footsteps on the stairs. I creep back to my room to grab my gun, as there has been a string of robberies lately, and I don't want to be unprepared. I sneak out of my room with my gun in my hand, excitement bubbling in the pit of my stomach. I haven't had cause to touch my gun ever since Sherlock died, and I missed the feel of its familiar grip in my hands.
I walk slowly and quietly to the landing outside of my flat, hoping that whomever I heard has passed by Mrs. Hudson's rooms. I walk out onto the landing, sweeping my gun back and forth so that I would be ready if I saw someone. There was nobody on the first floor, so I head upstairs to the second. As I'm walking up the stairs, I hear the step behind me creak. Too late, I try to swing around as my attacker puts one hand over my mouth and the other around my arms, pinning them to my sides. How did I miss him? I think to myself. There was nobody down stairs! And how did he sneak up on me? Only one person has managed to do that! And as realization dawns on me, my attacker slowly releases his grip on my mouth, whispering to me with sarcastic disbelief, "You're not really planning on shooting me, are you?"
As he lets go of my arms, he slowly takes my gun out of my hands. I'm too shocked to realize this, because the man standing before me is none other than Sherlock Holmes. The Sherlock Holmes, who was supposed to be dead for the last three years. The Sherlock Holmes, who has caused me so much grief after his "death", I didn't leave my rooms for a month. The Sherlock Holmes, who's been my best friend ever since I moved in.
I watch the man before me slowly put the gun on the ground behind us both as if to say 'I'm not going to hurt you, but I don't trust you to promise the same.' The look on my face must have given me away. This makes me wonder, because Sherlock has never been good at reading emotions. What has he gone through these past three years to make him realize such a thing? I finally ask him the question that has been bouncing around in my head when I realized that it was him I was seeing, not just some look-a-like.
"How are you alive?"
He answers me simply, but in his old fashion of obvious simplicity.
"I faked my death, John," he says.
"Well, I can see that! But why? And why didn't you tell me?" I ask, irritated now.
"He was threatening to kill you! To kill all of you! To kill all of my… friends," he says this last word slowly, as if it's causing him physical pain.
"Friends? I thought Sherlock Holmes didn't have friends," I reply bluntly.
"I didn't think so either," he says.
"Then what am I to you, Sherlock? Am I just another form of amusement?" I ask, trying to control my rising anger.
"No, John. You're my-"
"Your what, Sherlock? Your flat mate? I watched you die, Sherlock. I watched the only friend I've known after the war die! I thought I had gotten away from all of that! I thought I would never see another one of my friends die until we were old. How could you make me go through that again? You could've at least told me what you were going to do! You didn't have to make me suffer like this," I say, my anger subsiding now that I have said all that I needed to.
"You're my friend, John! My first friend, my only friend. I had to protect you. Don't you see?"
I'm taken aback by this sudden confession. I didn't expect to hear something so personal from him.
"Your first friend? Am I really your first friend, Sherlock?" I ask him, surprise overriding the happiness in my voice.
"Yes, John, my first friend. That's why I had to do this. I couldn't have told you; He would've found out. He has spies everywhere; I couldn't risk telling you what I was planning on doing."
"He? You mean Moriarty? I thought he died too?" I asked.
"I thought so, too; but apparently not. It seems that he also faked his death," he answered me.
It surprised me that Moriarty had fooled Sherlock. But then again, this wouldn't have been the first time.
"So why did he fake his death? He had no cause to, he could've run and hid; he didn't have to die," I wondered aloud.
"That's what I need to find out," he answered.
"One more question, Sherlock. Why are you here?" I asked him.
"I'm here to see you, John. And to ask if you would like to go on what might be our last adventure."