AN: Okay. I definitely need to clarify a couple of things first. It's kind of important, but skip if you must.
1. I own absolutely nothing!
2. The first two paragraphs are directly from The Adventure of the Empty House, which is an original Sherlock Holmes by Arthur Conan Doyle himself (spoiler for the book then). The FIRST TWO paragraphs. After that, the thought process is mine and mine alone and I apologize if it seems incredibly close to someone else's work. To that person, I apologize. Please let me know if I should take this down. However, anyway, I did actually write it with Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman in mind. So, their last names are used at first, to show the brilliance of Doyle, but after that I used their first names.
3. This started after I was angered to find that Doyle had basically written a fluff moment between Sherlock and John, but there was nothing after, so I wanted to drag that fluff out :D
I moved my head to look at the cabinet behind me. When I turned again Sherlock Holmes was standing smiling at me across my study table. I rose to my feet, stared at him for some seconds in utter amazement, and then it appears I must have fainted for the first and the last time in my life. Certainly a grey mist swirled before my eyes, and when it cleared I found my collar-ends undone and the tingling after-taste of brandy upon my lips. Holmes was bending over my chair, his flask in his hand.
"My dear Watson," said the well-remembered voice, "I owe you a thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected." I gripped him by the arm.
"Is it you? But you... You died!" I whispered, not believing my eyes, not able to believe my eyes.
"It is me, John." Sherlock assured me. Or tried to at least. I suddenly let go of his arm, stood and in one fluid movement my fist connected with his face.
"How could you do that?! I thought you had DIED! And now you come waltzing back?! I should do a lot more than punch you! I should... I can't..." I broke down completely, sinking to my knees, tears flowing down my face as I realized that Sherlock truly was back.
"Watson, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He said quietly, resting a comforting hand on my shoulder. I shook my head and wiped the tears off my face. Looking up, I saw his face mere inches from mine. It was then I realized what I had truly missed; what I thought I had lost. With barely a moment's hesitation, I tilted forwards, my lips gently connecting with those of the gangly man in front of me, then man I loved. Holmes froze for a moment, unsure, but he slowly responded. Perhaps he was merely glad it wasn't another punch to the face, but I didn't care. I slid my arms around his neck as he responded by sliding his around my waist. I had never felt so elated. Soon, we broke apart, resting our foreheads against each other's.
"How?" The whispered question rose from my throat.
"Does it matter?" He replied, kissing me again. Sherlock, my Sherlock Holmes, was back.
AN: Okay, not that great, and I know John would not just accept it like that, but hey. My story, my rules :D