Summary: In which John has followed Sherlock's requests exactly. Non-slash, reunion-fic, one-shot.

Loyalty

Sherlock Holmes knocked on the door. He'd made his way across the country, down the street, and up the seventeen steps to where John was still living. No one had noticed the famous detective, nor could they have, the man's appearance so changed that he would have been unrecognizable if one was not standing directly in front of him. Sherlock's hair had been dyed blonde and cut short. He wore brown contact lenses. His attire was casual, and he felt exceedingly uncomfortable wearing it. All of this was necessary in order for him to reach 221B Baker Street - in order for him to reach John.

But no one came to answer the door. Sherlock pressed his ear against it, listening for any movement inside the flat. A creak. John was trying to hard to stay quiet. Sherlock knocked again. A sigh, and then a scraping noise inside the lock. Sherlock let himself in.

John was waiting for him, his army revolver between his hands, pointed squarely between Sherlock's eyes. He cocked an eyebrow. "Hello to you, too," he said. John didn't flinch, and he didn't lose his grip on the weapon, still pointing it at the man who should have been dead. "John..." Sherlock chided, taking a step forward. Still no change. "John."

Finally, the army doctor let his arms drop to his waist. "You're alive," he stated, pointlessly.

Sherlock let himself grin. "Yes." He opened his arms and stalked forward, excited to embrace his friend for the first time after his three year absence. "I've missed y-" he started, but John lifted the gun up again, threatening him.

"No! Stay back!"

And Sherlock froze. Confusion overcame him. John wasn't taking this well, that much was clear, but to threaten him with a bullet wound? This was not his blogger.

"Shall we sit down?" Sherlock offered. John's head twitched. It wasn't quite a nod, but Sherlock took it as one, letting himself into the common area and taking a seat in what looked like a relatively new armchair. "You've practically renovated," he jested, motioning for John to sit opposite him. John didn't comply, but instead stalked up behind the indicated seat and leaned against it, creating a barrier between them. "You're not happy to see me," Sherlock deduced.

"What are you doing here, Sherlock?" The revolver was no longer pointing at him, but John did not un-cock it.

"I've come back."

"Why?"

Sherlock titled his head. "Because I've completed the tasks required in order for me to do so."

"And what tasks were those?"

"I'd be happy to fill you in," Sherlock told his former companion. "Now, if you'll only sit down-"

"-I think you should leave."

Every inch of John's body indicated total seriousness. The way his jaw was clenched, the way his eyes were narrowed, the way his hand did not shiver. He wanted Sherlock gone, and he was prepared to go to any means in order to get him out.

"John, I know this must be difficult for you," Sherlock said, leaning forward. John then swung the revolver around his back and stuffed it into his waistband. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile phone. He dialled. "Who are you calling?" Sherlock demanded.

"Inspector Lestrade."

No. This wasn't right at all. Today was John's day to learn that Sherlock was alive. The others were to find out later, but at that moment, there was more important business to attend to, business that only John could join him in. Sherlock stood, ready to take the mobile from John's grasp, but then he remembered the way John had pointed his weapon at him. It would not be a smart move.

"Hang up." Another demand. But John had already pressed the phone to his ear.

"Yes, Greg, it's me. I need back-up at Baker Street." A pause, Lestrade was questioning him. "It's him. He's come back." Another response, and John hung up. "They'll be here in a few minutes."

Sherlock was frozen in place, but then his mind sharpened, and he started to leave. John's voice stopped him:

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Sherlock turned back. "If you want me gone, I'll leave."

John shook his head. "I can't let you do that." Sherlock tried to read his old friend's face. It was strong, determined, but there was a strain there, too. A psychological battle. An ethical dilemma.

"Why not?" Sherlock could hear the weakness in his own voice, brought on by his bewilderment.

"They're coming to arrest you."

Sherlock's shock was practically tangible. "Why would He do that?" Not 'they', not the Yard. Lestrade. Why would Lestrade arrest him?

John's answer was simple. "You're a criminal."

"Says who?"

John looked as confused as Sherlock felt. "I don't know what you were thinking. It was a pretty dim move coming back here." But Sherlock hadn't expected this. He had come back from across the world, a world with no link to his. He hadn't prepared himself for his return to London, other than to disguise himself from the media, which he hadn't studied. It was John who reached towards the nearby desk, pulling out a file. He tossed it onto the floor at Sherlock's feet. Sherlock cautiously bent over to retrieve it, all the while staring down the barrel of John's gun. He only took his eyes off the bullet inside to look down at the series of newspaper clippings he had just been given.

SHERLOCK HOLMES, CONFIRMED FRAUD

MURDERER SHERLOCK HOLMES COMMITS SUICIDE

RICHARD BROOK MURDERED BY FRAUDULANT DETECTIVE

CONSULTING DETECTIVE A CRIMINAL MASTERMIND

"And he believes this?" Sherlock asked of Lestrade.

John looked as though he might laugh. "Of course he believes it. It's all true."

But it wasn't true. None of it. Sherlock Holmes was not a fraud! It had been a scheme cooked up by a terrible man, the real villain of all the stories.

"Do you?"

A pause. Was there a hint of guilt on John's face?

"Yeah." Another pause.

"Who else?"

"Everyone." Such an obvious tone, as if Sherlock should have known.

"Everyone thinks I'm a fraud?"

"'Course they do." And then the blow: "I'm the one who told them."

Sherlock looked back down at the papers before him, and sure enough, there was an interview with Doctor John H. Watson. Everything that Sherlock had said atop the roof of St. Bartholomew's was transcribed as fact, a few of the more personal details of their conversation left out. Anything that would indicate John's faith in his friend was totally eliminated, leaving only Sherlock's confession of his own guilt.

I created Moriarty.

I'm a fake.

I researched you.

It's all true.

It's a trick. It's just a magic trick.

Tell anyone who will listen to you.

"But...John..." It was all Sherlock could say, the only words his mouth could form. He wanted to scream, to fight, to convince John that he had only said those things to protect him, to keep him from the sniper whose weapon was trained on him, but there was no way to do it. John had done exactly what Sherlock asked him to do. He had fulfilled his task, done his duty, granted his request. He had remained loyal to Sherlock in every detail. He had believed him, even though Sherlock never truly wanted him to. He wanted to explain that to his friend, but the words didn't come. Sherlock's heart – the one he'd finally discovered – was now residing in the pit of his stomach. He wanted to be sick.

Sherlock waited patiently as the siren calls grew louder. The police were drawing near, and it wasn't long before Greg Lestrade had appeared in the flat, swiftly handcuffing Sherlock and forcing him down the stairs. Part of Sherlock wanted to flee, if only so one of the nearby officers would shoot him in his escape and put him out of his misery, but he was too tired for that. He was too emotionally weak to battle his arrest at all. Eventually, he found himself seated in a dimly lit room, a desk separating him from some other detective. He couldn't respond to their questions. They were boring questions, anyway, all of them merely asking him whether or not he committed the crimes for which he was about to go to trial.

Hours passed, and countless old friends were dragged through the room, each one reacting differently to the news of Sherlock's life. Molly Hooper sobbed, crying tears of anger, blaming him for including her in his criminal plans. Mrs. Hudson chastised him for daring to show his face again. Even Mycroft – good old brother Mycroft – seemed indifferent to his presence, despite having truly believed that Sherlock had died that fateful day.

Finally, Sherlock's silence was rewarded with a night in a private cell. It was for the Yard's sake, probably, to avoid the media attention, but Sherlock was grateful for it nonetheless. Not that it mattered. Nothing mattered as long as John thought that he was a fraud, as long as he thought that Sherlock was never really his friend. Sherlock ran through each possible scenario in his mind: even if he could prove to the courts that he was innocent, would John ever fully trust him again?

The short answer was 'no.' So, it was of no circumstance. Who cared if Sherlock was convicted, or if he was freed? Not him. Not without his friends. Not without his best friend.

Then, as Sherlock was about to sleep – actually sleep – the solid door of the cell creaked open. A light went on, and there was Lestrade, leading Mycroft inside.

"You're here to interrogate me?" Sherlock asked, weakly. He was too apathetic for wit.

But Mycroft was smiling, and he pulled a chair up to Sherlock's bedside. "Brother dear, there's nothing more I need to learn." Sherlock sat up, leaning against the wall, his knees pulled up to his chest. Finally, someone had said something interesting. Mycroft continued: "We're here to devise the inevitable clearing of your name, if you'll allow us that courtesy."

Sherlock's gaze fell upon Lestrade, whose face was still shrouded in back lighting. He looked back at Mycroft. "He still believes me to be a fraud, I doubt he'll be of any use to us."

Then Lestrade closed the cell door and turned on the light inside, and Sherlock could see the look on his face: amused. Lestrade looked as though he was about to burst out laughing at any moment, so enthralled was he at Sherlock's statement. It was clear in that moment that Greg Lestrade had not believed it, had never believed it, and it was silly to assume he ever would.

"Then...John?" Again, that embarrassingly weak sound. Mycroft frowned.

"He remains determined to believe you're guilty."

"Then we have no further business here."

"Sherlock Holmes," Mycroft scolded him, and Sherlock could hear his mother's voice in his brother's, "John Watson is a broken man, but you met him broken, and you fixed him once. Who's to say you can't do just that again?"

So Sherlock allowed his brother to remain in the room, Inspector Lestrade keeping watch over the two of them as their scheming progressed, offering his own assistance where it was necessary. Lestrade had been as loyal to Sherlock as John had been, the men had just selected two very different ways of carrying out that loyalty. It was at that moment that Sherlock realized how lucky he was to have his friends, and how hard he was willing to fight in order to return to them a free man.