Aligned perception

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of its related property. I make no profit from this. I write to entertain.

Warnings:

Summery: Sherlock finds that John doesn't see his death the way Sherlock does.

START

It was unnervingly anti-climatic. Sherlock had unlocked the door to his beloved 221B Bakers Street with surprise and dread. Why hadn't John changed the locks?

He felt something similar to guilt but pushed that away. His (fake) death had saved Johns life. What more could he do to prove his friendship? Still the flat had barely changed. It was in worse condition that he had ever seen it (and wasn't that saying something?). The air smelt stale and dust had settled on the surfaces. The furniture hadn't changed but looked disused, other than the sofa in front of the tv. His violin and its music stand by the window hadn't been moved but rather covered in a sheet. He had no doubt that it was in the same pristine condition that it had always been kept in.

Sherlock's room looked the same. Like he had merely popped down the get some groceries. It made him feel uneasy. When someone died you usually packed up their stuff in boxes, left it for a grieving parent to take away and leave to gather dust in an attic. John had left it here. Maybe he hadn't moved on yet.

"Just take what you wanted and leave! I don't have the patience to deal with a thief today. If your thinking of killing me, go right a head. See if I care." he heard John call out. John sounded weary, older than he should. He heard John limp over to the room. "I mean it! Nice touch with the coat." Watson said sarcasticly. "I'm not in the mood for a prank. I bet Donovan or Anderson came up with this little prank." he said tiredly again.

Sherlock turned around to study Watson. Watson had lost weight. Too much weight. He had a haunted look in his eyes and he clung wearily onto the cane he had been using when they had met. He hadn't been taking care of himself. That much was clear. Something must have happened...

Sherlock expected many reactions from his friend. Maybe anger. Maybe happiness. Maybe even shock. John merely looked him over and turned away, making his way to the kitchen. While he made tea (for one), he spoke sounding old. "Look I don't care what you want. Your dead. You jumped off that roof. Leave it at that." he said as calmly as if they were talking about the weather.

The consulting detective couldn't help feeling hurt. "I came back for you. I thought you would be happy to see me. I only pretended to die so I could protect you. And Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. Surely you knew?" he asked trying to keep his voice steady.

Watson glared back. There was the anger. "You thought I knew?" he said a deceptively calm tone. Sherlock found that he unconsciously stepped back from Watson. "How could I? I saw your body. I SAW the paramedics check for life. I SAW you fall from a height that not even you could survive. I HEARD your suicide note. What else was I to think?" he said in a soft angry voice that filled the room and left no room for argument.

Sherlock found he was looking away, feeling wetness on cheeks. He tried to speak to defend himself but found no words. No excuses. Was he the reason John was like this?

He should have been touched by that sentiment. Instead he felt immense guilt. If John was this way, what of his other friends? Mrs Hudson? Lestrade? Molly? Had his death been for the best?

Watson seemed to have calmed down and was looking at him curiously. "At least your back." he had simply said. "My shrink might have the shock of her life. I don't think people coming back to life was part of her hypothesis." Watson said laughing dryly.

Sherlock frowned. "You told your therapist about me?" he asked surprised.

Watson rolled his eyes. "Of course. She thinks I'm psychotic. Always knew she was wrong." he expanded.

John sipped his tea, taking some pills from the containers he had left on the counter with a practised ease.

Sherlock frowned in disapproval. Rather than ask, he approached Watson again. He eyed the pill bottles – an anti depressant and an anti psychotic. "Why do you still take the medication if you don't believe her?" he asked carefully.

"Think logically. That is of course your strength. I saw your body on the pavement. The medical staff told me you were dead. I saw the medical reports. What else could the truth be?" Watson replied easily. "You should know the mind can conjure up what it wants should the circumstances fit."

"You think I'm a delusion?" Sherlock asked in concern.

Watson shook his head. "Delusions don't open doors with keys." he merely stated.

"I don't suppose I could still stay here?" he asked tentatively.

Watson shrugged. "You live here. I don't see why not?" he said tiredly. If Watson cared, he didn't show it.

Sherlock merely frowned but would pursue it later.

AN: R and R.