18 months ago he would've claimed he felt nothing. He didn't have friends. He didn't have a heart. He had work, a flat, he had his tools, the coat, the mind, the annoying little quips he used to get under Donovan and Anderson's skin because it was always so predictably funny to see how they reacted. He supposed the layman's comparison would be the people who go see summer box office comedies, where they know the jokes are coming, but still laugh anyways. He didn't have comedy, he had sociopathy, although found them to be almost the same thing.
He would've compared the concept of friendship to parasitism, just like family. Friends sucked the life out of you, and they made you give up time, bite your tongue, and play nice. Sherlock never would've donenice. He'd shouted at widows to make them spit out information faster, all for the sake of work. Then he came along, bringing that stupid concept of symbiosis along. Yet, he couldn't hate John Watson at all. He would never hate John Watson.
And he knew John Watson would never hate him.
It was all because John Watson had faith. He had faith in Sherlock, of all people. Not blind faith, but the extraordinary kind of faith garnered from 18 months of living together, watching, being the unit Sherlock-And-John. Didn't he know how much easier it would've been on him if he'd just chosen to think of Sherlock as a betrayer? A liar? It'd have been easy to hate John if he'd given up on him right before The Fall, because he would've just been another Anderson, another Donovan, another simple human with a simple mind willing to believe any ooze the tabloids pumped out.
Yet, when he stood at the ledge, teetering so dangerously, all he thought about was reaching out and grasping onto John's outreached hand. He'd believed him until the very end, insisting the truth over the phone, pleading with Sherlock to not do what he had to. Sentiment. Sentiment, sentiment, sentiment, dangerous as any silly man-made gun, and twice as deadly. Eighteen months ago, Sherlock lacked a heart. And then John Watson gave him a spare.
There was no funeral for him. No wake. He'd specified that explicitly in his will. If he'd had a funeral, they would've tried to treat him like a hero. I'm not a hero, John, he'd explained so many months ago, but that hadn't stopped his flatmate from thinking of him as such. Sacrificing, running, losing, never winning. Sherlock knew what the end for them would be as they sprinted down the street handcuffed, grasping each others hands. He'd felt John's fingers entwined in his, heard the playful quip about the public perception, but tuned that out. This would be their last run together, but instead of chasing down a criminal, they'd turned into the bad guys. Exhilarating, almost, to sprint for your life down the street with the man you feltsomething for, which was more than he could say for anyone else in his life. Except then, he had to die. Unfortunate, really.
But bless Molly Hooper.
Bless the smartest woman he'd ever had the fortune of knowing.
Sherlock handled being 'dead' well. Nothing really changed for him. His sleeping habits stayed the same, as did his choices in food, and normal thoughts. It was almost like he hadn't faked a death at all. In fact, it was almost like the past eighteen months hadn't happened at all, because he was back to how he'd been, pre-John. Alone with his thoughts. Except…that damned heart. What a useless concept, a stain upon his body, and one very difficult to scrub out.
That heart niggled at him to keep tabs of his friends. Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade. He'd known the first two would go visit his grave. And, even though he'd faked his own death, Sherlock never thought of himself as suicidal until he pulled the coat out and began walking to go visit his own grave. It was funny how people failed to notice dead celebrities. Very amusing indeed. Almost Anderson levels of amusing.
Mrs. Hudson didn't stop talking. Coping mechanism. He knew about the alcohol stowed away in her pantry, and tried to quash the painful sensation creeping up in his chest, as if he were the one who'd swallowed half a bottle of bourbon. John…John. Too quiet, too stoic, too much like the former version of himself. The soldier. The heart held his brain at gunpoint and forced it to play back memories of him on the roof, John on the ground, their cellphones connecting them.
Nobody could be that clever.
You could.
This truly was a form of suicide. Moriarty would be so pleased.
He hid in plain sight, the best kind of disguise, and watched them. He saw Mrs. Hudson leave, the tears rolling down her cheeks when she first turned her back to John. The urge to hurt whoever made her feel that pain arose, but there was no way he could inflict more pain upon his twisted psyche. But then John began to speak, and once again, he proved the great Sherlock Holmes wrong.
"I was so alone, and I owe you so much…"
"There's just one more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock. Don't be dead. Just for me…stop this."
Sherlock watched as John buried his face in his hands, the tears sliding down his jawline and staining the collar of his shirt. He saw how John struggled to prevent himself from saluting at the grave, totally revert back to being the soldier. It was all because John knew him better than anyone. He knew Sherlock wouldn't have wanted him to salute, as though he were a hero.
The most human, the deepest, most self-loathing part of Sherlock wanted to run out and make that miracle happen. He wanted to ease John's pain again. He did. Then, Sherlock wondered what his face looked like, and reached up to touch the corners of his mouth. Tight lipped, straight line, the fighting-back-visible-emotion expression. The words of the intelligent Molly Hooper floated through his brain.
You look sad when you think he can't see you.
He wanted to run over to John, ask him to take his hand, and then run off on another exciting adventure because then they could be Sherlock-And-John again, solving crime and leading the exciting life again before the fame and tabloids attacked them. The perfect existence. That wasn't possible anymore. At least, not at the moment.
That moment, he watched John Watson wipe his face, turn on his heel, and walk away. No limp. He felt the tiniest bit of relief that his closest friend hadn't totally regressed because of him, and then felt the slightest guilt for doubting him. John Watson was the best man he'd ever and would ever know.
His mouth stayed in that tight, emotionless line as he turned on his heel and walked the opposed direction, alone once again.
Sherlock walked up to the entrance to 221B Baker Street. His old home, with Mrs. Hudson and John still living there. He asked Mycroft to check on them, as a favor. John, still in therapy, now worked at the same hospital as Molly, as a way for the only other person to know about his not-death to keep track of him. Molly's warmth and empathy, her strange ability to care for people even as she sliced up those cadavers, yes, Sherlock knew she would be good for John.
He'd been dead for twenty four months and three days.
Time for his rebirth.
He pressed the old doorbell, rocking back on his heels. The charcoal coat fluttered softly in the breeze, familiar scarf tickled the bottom of his chin, and purple button-down pressed neatly against his torso. He looked no different than he did a few years ago, save for slightly more prominent cheekbones. Without John around to nag him to "Eat something Sherlock, come on, there's leftovers in the fridge," it'd become increasing more difficult to remember food.
Sherlock bit down on his bottom lip, trying to figure out what he could say to John in a tactful manner. When he'd told Molly that he'd be coming back to life, the first thing she'd said was to be honest with John. Don't try to play off death as nothing, because to him it'd become everything. When the door began to creak open, Sherlock straightened up, smoothing the front of his coat and releasing his bottom lip.
"Sorry, but whatever you're selling-" John started, swinging the door open, wearing an annoyed expression. Sherlock quickly took in the bags under his eyes, the returned limp in his leg, the wrinkled sweater, thinner torso, and new worry lines. Suddenly, all traces of explanation vanished from his mind. Poof, gone, just like that. He could only focus on the downtrodden doctor in front of him and the effect that death took over the course of nineteen months.
"John," he breathed. He watched as his partner froze, every limb stiffening and his eyes widening. The thought process flashed across his face, still an open book to Sherlock. That's not his voice, he's dead, twenty four months, I watched him die, oh God, that fall…twenty four months…and three days… "John," he repeated, still finding himself at a loss for words. The man made eye contact with him, allowing Sherlock a glimpse at the most anguished expression he'd ever seen. "I…I'm not dead anymore."
He truly didn't expect such a swift punch to the face.
"You complete ARSE, Sherlock Holmes," John snarled, landing another punch against his chest, and ooh, that hurt like hell. He could feel a bruise blooming on his cheek. "How'd your pretty porcelain cheekbones like THAT, hmm?" John shouted, kicking him in the shins, "Sherlock Holmes thinking it's okay to play dead for over a two years because good ol' Watson won't have been affected by his best friend dying at all, nope, not…not at all." Sherlock tasted blood and felt it dribbling from the corner of his cheek. Stray tears streaked down John's face, and he blinked, feeling the beginning of wetness in his own eyes.
"…I don't think," he started, wincing as he felt his jaw ache from John's assault, "That I will ever regret anything as much as what I did to you...even if I live to be a hundred." His words sounded fake and sentimental, as using such blatant feelings in his speech wasn't normal for him. But it was the truth, however repulsively emotional it sounded. John stared at him, blinking back more tears as he gaped at Sherlock, shaking his head in exasperation.
"I know," he said, choking out his words as he wiped at his eyes, "I know that, you moron."
Then, Sherlock Holmes suddenly found himself in the odd situation of John Watson pulling him in a strong, warm kiss. His calloused hands enclosed around his scarf, pulling Sherlock down to his level. The familiar smell of John's shampoo, the coffee flavored taste of his kiss (mixed with something he could only discern to be John, pure John), and the feel of hands he'd last held over twenty four months ago as they ran down a freezing London street cupping his cheek numbed Sherlock's senses.
And once again, he thought, unable to discern if his mind possessed any coherency, If I live to be a hundred, I will never love anything as much as this moment.
He only saw John, only felt John. He angled his head to deepen the kiss and wrapped his arms around his friend's waist, beginning to regain control of himself as John pulled away from the embrace. John's cheek flushed pink, and his nose had gone all ruddy from the cold air outside. His hair, sent askew by Sherlock eagerly running his fingers through it.
"I…I know all of that," he stuttered, his hands shaking as Sherlock looked down at him, taking the few decisive steps inside the flat and shutting the door behind him, blocking the frigid air. "But you're still an arse." Sherlock closed his eyes and smiled, unwrapping the scarf from his neck and placing it around John's. Gently, he brushed his lips against the warm forehead, as thought to reassure John that it was real. He'd returned.
"I'm aware."
He slipped his cold hand into John's warm one and allowed his closest friend to welcome him back home.