A/N: Sad at first but happy in the end! (Kind of)
It was a wet evening in London when John returned to 221B Baker Street. He walked up the stairs, dug out his keys and opened the door. Inside, everything was the same as always. The yellow smiling face on the wall. The skull. The books and papers in organized mess. Two chairs – well-used and belonging to a single man. Sherlock's and John's chairs.
They had asked John whether they should move anything shortly after Sherlock died. He had said no – he knew he had to do it himself as part of the acceptance process. The mess was still here.
John was hoping, desperately praying every time he opened the door the room would be completed by the insufferable tall presence of the world's only consulting detective lounging on the sofa or crouching over his microscope. He'd be waiting there for John and they'd fall back into their lives. Holmes and Watson.
This time as John opened the door, knowing he wasn't here to clean out Sherlock's things, John's prayer was answered.
Sherlock Holmes was sat in John's chair, his mop of black curls all that John could see. The man rose as John flicked on the light and Sherlock turned to face him, pale, indifferent and in the same clothes he fell in.
John felt his knees go weak and fell against the door frame. The keys dropped. Sherlock's expression didn't change, only observing John. John struggled for breath as he took in his dead friend and his heart thumped so loudly he thought it had begun to rain heavily.
"You're here," John breathed and Sherlock's expression remained impassive.
"I'm here, John," Sherlock replied, his tone soft and sad. John couldn't move, his mind working things over.
"I knew it," John gasped, "I knew you didn't die. It was a trick… It was a trick?"
"Yes, John. I faked my death."
"You told me that everything was a lie – that you were a fraud but I never believed it Sherlock. Everything I saw was real. You were really that brilliant."
"You always thought I was incredible. Well, I am. I'm here, I'm back and you were right."
John felt his breathing hitch and he steeled himself, rage beginning to consume him.
"You let me believe you were dead."
"I'm sorry John."
"A whole year, Sherlock. How could you do that? I saw you fall and die, I felt your heart stop and I saw you bleed and I saw your body in a coffin that I buried. I visited your grave every week for a year and you were alive all that time. You did that. To me. After everything."
"I did."
"Why, Sherlock? Why did you lie and pretend to die? Why would you do that?"
Sherlock let out a small, warm smile. His eyes lit up.
"I've missed you John."
John was breathing heavily now, infuriated but elated.
"Tell me why, Sherlock. Give me your brilliant answer."
"I'm sorry I left, John. But I'm back now."
"Sherlock, please tell me-"
"It was all a lie-"
"Sherlock-"
"You were right-"
"SHERLOCK! PLEASE TELL ME WHY!"
His shouting filled the room and in its wake there was only silence. Sherlock gave John a sad look.
"You can't, can you?" John whispered.
Sherlock didn't reply, continued to stare at him. John gave him a hard look, trying not to see that the colour of his clothing all blended into one shade of black. His hair was a blurry mess, unable to differentiate between each curl. His face was pale and smooth, no blemishes or lines. A flawed replica.
"John?" Harriet's voice was soft and concerned from behind him on the stairs. Mrs Hudson was by her, eyes red and worried. John took a deep breath, his throat feeling constricted.
"He's here," he croaked to Harriet desperately, "Look, after a whole bloody year, Sherlock is here."
Harriet glanced into the room to where he was pointing than gave him a pitiful look.
"There's no one there, John."
John stared at her, knowing she was right. He wanted hear Sherlock say something to them or to step forward but there was silence. John knew if he looked back, there would be nothing. No man. No words. No smile.
"It's only been a week, dear," said Mrs Hudson softly. "We lost him a week ago."
John finally turned back to where the room was empty yet full of memories. It couldn't have been a year. Mrs Hudson would have cleaned their stuff out. The food wouldn't be fresh. The smell would be faded.
It felt like a year. A year since Sherlock existed.
"You're right," croaked John.
He knew that illusions were bad. Seeing a phantom talk back to you was really bad. He needed help.
"Let's go, John. You're staying with me, remember? You don't live here anymore." Harry's voice was caring and gentle but she was angry too. Angry at Sherlock for dying and leaving John the way he was. John was angry at Sherlock for not coming back.
John took her outreached hand and followed her back downstairs.
Molly opened the door to her flat and almost tripped as she walked in. Sighing, she turned on the light, glared at the floor and carried on into her kitchen where she dropped her grocery bags. A can rolled along the counter and fell off. She walked round the small kitchen to pick it up and when she rose, she dropped it again and gave out a small scream.
Sherlock didn't look up from his place on her armchair, his hands forming a double fist under his chin.
"I really wish you wouldn't do that," Molly breathed as she picked the can up for a second time. Sherlock didn't respond. Molly looked at him again, taking in his forlorn face and huddled shoulders.
"What is it?" She asked quietly, deciding to sit on the sofa in front of him. He didn't take his eyes off the carpet and she waited several minutes before he spoke.
"John is hallucinating. He thought I was in the flat. He talked as if I were conversing with him." His tone was calm and cold yet he looked sad.
"How do you know?" She replied softly.
"I have cameras. I wanted to…" Sherlock frowned slightly as he considered his words, "to check up on him. See how he's doing."
"He's grieving, Sherlock."
No reply. Molly swallowed and spoke out, her voice more stern.
"We're all here for him, Sherlock. His sister is looking after him. He'll get through it – they all will. Like you said, they have to think you're dead. It's the only way they'll be safe."
Still Molly was met with silence. She finally said,
"I think its best that you leave, Sherlock."
He finally looked up at her, not surprised but analysing her.
"Have I upset you?"
"Oh, no!" Molly retorted quickly, "I mean, I think its best you leave London. Or this part of London anyway. Go and do what you have to about Jim and all that. You can't help John and watching him mourn you only upsets your concentration. I… I just think that would be the best thing to do."
He continued to stare at her for moment, making her blush like he always did. After a minute or two, he gave her a small, sad smile.
"You're quite right, Molly Hooper."
She blinked but smiled back. He reached over, kissed her cheek and made his way to the door.
"Oh, you're leaving now?"
Sherlock paused, turned and nodded before carrying on.
"Will you be in touch?" she asked quickly.
"It wouldn't be safe," he replied. "I shouldn't have come here tonight. I'm sorry Molly."
"Oh… alright."
With that Sherlock went through her door and left her sat on the sofa, feeling suddenly very lonely. Molly sighed and glanced down. His voice startled her,
"You know I'm not dead, Molly," he said in his deep tone, partway through the door, "But it would be best if you move on like everyone else. I might not come back."
Molly blushed, feeling her heart sink. Then Sherlock Holmes was gone.
The next time Sherlock Holmes saw John Watson, he had never been so nervous. Sherlock knew he'd have to reunite with everyone – Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Mycroft – but he came to John's home first. Well, technically, he'd gone to Molly's first but only to get the necessary information to find John. Sherlock cared about seeing John again the most.
John's new home was cosy, small and feminine. He didn't recognise any of John's belongings and the man had replaced everything – slippers, toothbrush, clothing. He'd built a new life for himself with a pretty blonde teacher named Mary. They were happy.
Sherlock considered leaving but decided against it when he heard the front door. When John entered, Sherlock was struck by how similar the man looked. He was paler, slimmer and older but still the same Doctor Watson he had known years ago. John wandered in, dropping some post on the side along with his keys and glancing at Sherlock when he entered the lounge.
Sherlock expected a serious response – rage or tears or confusion – but John's glance lasted only a moment before he went into the kitchen and flicked the kettle on. He made himself tea, not offering any to Sherlock and came to sit down in the living room. Sherlock wondered whether he should leave.
"Hello, Sherlock," John said, his eyes not lingering on the man.
"Hello, John," he replied softly, analysing.
"I haven't seen you in two years."
"Two?" Sherlock had been gone for three years. He realised now that John thought he was hallucinating again.
"Yes. I'll have to go and see my therapist again," he sighed. Sherlock stepped forward, bringing John's eyes up to stare at him.
"John, it's me. I'm really here." John gave him a sad smile.
"You always said that, my friend. Every time."
Sherlock gave him a warm smile, took off his gloves and knelt down in front of his old friend. He then reached out and touched John's knee. The shorter man's eyes went round with shock, the air rushing out of his lungs as he dropped his hot tea over the side of the chair.
"But…" John couldn't say anything more so Sherlock did what the imaginary Sherlock never could. He explained why he jumped and how he survived. He explained where he'd been for the last three years and why he couldn't contact John or return. John listened, mouth slack and eyes wide.
When he was finished, Sherlock uncharacteristically sat cross-legged in front of John's chair and bracing his elbows on his knees, put his fingers to his chin and waited.
John processed… and processed… and processed… and then before Sherlock could react John punched him in the face so hard Sherlock fell backwards.
"Jesus, John!" he exclaimed, feeling his nose for damage. Sherlock knew he couldn't be angry at John for his reaction but still, he could have been warned. John dragged him up from the floor and Sherlock expected another blow but instead the small man embraced Sherlock roughly.
"You absolute fucking wanker, Sherlock Holmes!"
Sherlock tensed, uncertain what to do but put his hand on John's back gently. John shook his head against Sherlock and pulled back roughly, taking several steps back. John stared at Sherlock and then began to shout.
"Three years, Sherlock! You let me bury you and mourn you and get over you and for three fucking years you were alive! I… I talked to your grave. And now you just walk in here and what? Expect things to go back? I'm getting married-"
"I know."
"Of course you bloody know! Christ, Sherlock…"
John ran out of words and covered his face with his hands, breathing deeply. He pulled his hands away briefly, looked at Sherlock and instead of seeming relieved that Sherlock was still there, John gave a pained look and replaced his hands.
"I can't believe you did this, Sherlock".
"I'm sorry, John."
"Yeah, I know. You're always sorry." Sherlock swallowed, feeling regret for coming here.
"I was protecting you."
"I know," John cried, his voice breaking as he looked at Sherlock with such devastation, "and that makes it worse! Because how can I hate you, Sherlock? You were doing the right bloody thing."
Sherlock sucked in his breath and asked a question incredibly quietly.
"Can you forgive me?"
John turned his back on Sherlock, breathing heavily. He laughed with a croak and let his head drop.
"I always forgive you, Sherlock. Not matter how cruel or terrible or in-bloody-human you are, I always forgive you."
When John turned back, he was smiling and Sherlock couldn't help but return it. He had his only friend back.
John reached out tentatively to place his hand on Sherlock's coat. He rubbed it and let out a deep breath.
"You'll going to stay, aren't you? You're really… real and here."
"I'll stay, John." Sherlock murmured.
"You got a new coat," John mumbled and Sherlock nodded.
"Well, I bled on my old one." John winced in response.
"I still have it."
"You kept my coat?"
"Of course I did, Sherlock".
There was silence for a while. Sherlock let John absorb and think and feel. Eventually, John whispered.
"I'm glad you're back."
"Me too," smiled Sherlock.