A Box of Chocolates

Chapter 1: Reunion

"Do me a favor, don't be dead."

John Watson's face broke into anguish as tears rolled down his cheeks. Mrs. Hudson watched the small man fall to his knees upon the grave of his late flatmate. This lasted for about five and a half minutes until she suggested they go back to for tea.

Sherlock smiled at the whole scene with slight amusement, and a bit of apathy. He was not dead of course, surely Watson would figure that out, or at least give him a bit of credit for putting up the whole scheme. In truth, it was all for their safety. If not for those efforts, both Mrs. Hudson and John would be in the faux grave instead of a supposed Sherlock.

He shook his head as he walked away into the trees, avoiding any main paths. This day would be an uneventful one, and more to come, seeing as he had to lay low until it all blew over. Afterwards, he would return to 221B Bakers Street, with its two annoying but lovable occupants.

Lovable.

He could agree that Mrs. Hudson was annoying at best. But like ivy she slowly grew on him with her stubborn nature. John was a more peculiar case. Despite what was said about him by Sally or all the other people at Interpol, John dismissed it all and happily followed him like a puppy (if a rather damaged one). He enjoyed every moment they were trying to solve a case, even if most put them in danger. But for Sherlock, he was more than what people would jokingly say, something along the lines of a good friend. But he would not admit it so readily, as much as he felt John Watson was of that much value to him.

After traveling through the backstreets of London, he reached a shabby looking building where he would reside until it was time to reveal himself. What better way to hide than in plain sight?

He let out a sigh, taking out a key from his pocket and opened the door to his new flat. It wasn't as luxurious as 221B, but it was something he'd have to get used to. There was only one chair, its fabric faded, a worn down coffee table, and a television with a stand, even though he doubted it would be used, in the main room. The bedroom was even more sparse of furniture, containing only a bed with an iron frame and flimsy mattress, and a sole dresser to put all his things. He was already missing how Mrs. Hudson would always ask if they wanted tea and serve them regardless of their answer or complain that she wasn't their housekeeper. John would be watching football on the television or flirting with a future love interest on his cellphone.

He threw himself on the bed, actually tired. The restlessness would soon overwhelm him. But it was a trying day. Once he had a good nights rest, and the boredom came, he would be out and about. His eyes slowly fluttered, hesitant of nightmares that would sure come.

Four years later

John Watson threw the last of his dinner in the bin. Not as hungry as he thought he was. Mrs. Hudson was up and about as usual, cleaning around the kitchen, complaining how it was filthy and he should really tidy up. But of course she would do it herself, feeling the need to help somehow.

"I'm sorry love but I'm not your housekeeper, you should clean this mess. " she rambled on as John began washing plates.

"It's a shame to let it get like this, it's such a nice flat. John, have you found anyone interested in rooming with you?" she dusted the bookshelf and continued. "I bet if you made the place look nice enough, and you open up, they'll be more than happy to to stay."

"I'll get to that Mrs. Hudson don't worry." she couldn't have been more wrong he thought as he finished his chore. In fact, he would never be the same with anyone else besides Sherlock.

"Remember, the rent is high, I dont want to leave you out on the street." she continued but John just shrugged his shoulders.

Four years, have they gone by that quickly? The first two were a blur of rage and depression. Lestrade helped him through most of it, keeping the reporters out of the way, while a few therapy sessions just suppressed the pain. The third was like a state of relapse, sometimes lucidity would come over him, other times he would just stay in a sort of comatose. Now he had a bit of normalcy, and was returning to his routine. He was looking for a job, talking to friends again, but not looking for another flatmate, it still was too soon for that.

He finished up in the kitchen while Mrs. Hudson went back upstairs. He found a newspaper and began reading the help wanted advertisements. Nothing else was of big interest besides global affairs and beauty discoveries. Typical. He yawned and got ready for bed, another gloomy morning awaited him.

Mrs. Hudson was already in the kitchen when John walked into the living room. He yawned but jumped as he heard a knock on the door. Who can that be so early? And how did they get in the house? John did not like this at all, so he grabbed his cane from the corner where it stood, unused.

"I'll get that." he crept to the door, making sure she was occupied in the kitchen so as not to notice his stance.

The knock on the door came again, more persistent now. It may have been a couple of years, but comfort taught him a cruel lesson. He moved fast then, grabbing the knob and thrusting the door open. As soon as it opened, Watson dropped the cane immediately, stumbling backwards but still standing. He was frozen in place, the shock taking over his body. "Sh-Sh-Sherlock?" He was only able to mutter before he fell to the floor.

Mrs. Hudson came out the kitchen to see what the entire ruckus was about.

"John, who's at the-my word!" she gasped with her hands covering her mouth, looking at the man standing in the doorway. "It's a ghost!"

Now Sherlock was expecting a bit of surprise from both parties, but what he didn't expect was such a strong reaction to his arrival. He stifled a laugh. "Morning." he told John who was still on the floor then he turned to her. "Mrs. Hudson, if you don't mind, I'd like to get settled in." he picked up a suitcase and walked inside, then turned to them and smiled. "Glad to be back."

John and Mrs. Hudson both looked at one another from the couch, wondering if they both were seeing the same apparition moving about in the flat. John was still shaken, his hands trembling as he held the glass of whiskey. Sherlock went to his room, relieved to see that it wasn't changed, besides all the drawers being empty of his clothes. No matter, he'll buy new ones. He walked towards the doorway to find Mrs. Hudson standing right in front of him.

She held out her hand and touched his face, smoothing out the cheeks. "Is that really you dear?" He simply smiled and nodded. "Well then, if that's it, then you must be hungry. I'll make you some breakfast." Had Mrs. Hudson really softened over the years?

Sherlock went to his favorite chair in the living room and watched Watson gulp down the rest of his whiskey glass. His gaze was not directly at Sherlock, but he could tell the man was trying hard not to stare.

"I'm not a ghost you know, I'm real." he stood up, suddenly reminded of his violin. Surprisingly it was still there, but out of tune. Disappointed, he sat back down and decided to fix later. In the meantime Mrs. Hudson served them breakfast, the sight of making Sherlock's stomach growl; he hadn't had a proper meal in months.

John still looked at Sherlock with wary eyes, not sure what to make of it. Was he really sitting there eating breakfast and sipping tea? It couldn't be. He shook his head while he picked up the eggs with his fork. Sherlock hocked his down, faster than a stray dog in winter. This man was supposed to be dead, not devouring the entire contents of the kitchen. John finished his breakfast to freshen up, hopefully it will help to clear his head.

The cold water felt great on his skin, waking him up. He figured it was all a hallucination, that it was just the postman who found the door unlocked and wanted to let them know. "Yeah that's right John." he told himself. "Just another one of your-AH!" he looked up in the mirror to see Sherlock staring straight at him.

"This isn't your bathroom!" was all he could say.

"I know, but I wanted to talk to you." It was so hard trying not to laugh at John in his draws.

"About?" he raised a brow trying to look serious, but it failed.

"About why you're avoiding me." Sherlock's gaze did not waiver from John's.

"I'm not avoiding you." His eyes said otherwise. Were they always that dull shade? Sherlock felt there was something different about them, as if they lost their liveliness. Oh well that wasn't important now.

"Oh come now John, you aren't still upset at that whole escapade? Well it's been years, I apologize. Shall we shake on it?" He stuck out his hand for his friend, only to have John stare for a good minute. Instead of him returning it, he pulled Sherlock into a tight embrace. It was so unexpected that he didn't have time to push back, only stand there, dumbfounded. Sherlock thought it would be over as soon as it began, until he felt his shirt become damp and heard whimpers from his thought to be tough companion John Watson. His voice was muffled by Sherlock's shirt but he heard clearly.

"Please, don't ever leave again! I can't loose you a second time Sherlock! I don't know if can take-if I can bear..." John looked up at him with tears in his eyes, his face scrunched from the crying. Sherlock only smiled and pulled his dear friend to the floor with him, and held him close as he wept in his arms.

I didn't want to do it. I really didn't. I knew it would pull me into this deep abyss I couldn't escape from, but I had to, the urges kept pushing me, and now here it is. Not so OMG for a start in such a story, but hey, it simple and still touches the feels. So enjoy, and tell me what you think, they'll be more to come, and more lovey than this trust me XD Thanks.

-Midori

Disclaimer: All characters and settings belong to their respective creators, any I create are not part of the actual series.