Well it appears I've fallen so far into the Sherlock fandom I'm now writing fanfiction, wow. I'm so full of Reichenbach feels I needed to get something out there.
Disclaimer: The ever infuriating Steven Moffat owns Sherlock, not me
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"You may leave now. Next!"
Sherlock stared at the man's retreating back. He knew from the perfect way he walked and the coffee stain above his right knee that this man was not his John. A john. He corrected himself mentally. This job was turning out to be more tedious than expected, what started out as a quick twenty minutes to half an hour task was slowly turning into an afternoon-long marathon. He must have miscalculated something somewhere due to problems concentrating, which may or may not have been due to a missing presence in his life.
A cough from the doorway signified the presence of the next candidate. Knitted jumper, obvious limp and the distinct shape of a gun in his pocket, shows promise. Sherlock nodded to the man and watched him survey 221B.
"Well, this could be very nice."
YOU BASTARD DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG I'VE BEEN ALONE HERE
Sherlock's left eye twitched before he had the chance to surpass any emotion. Rising from his chair he greeted the man, introducing himself as Sherlock Holmes (Yes, yes I did fall off a building. No, it was simply a magic trick).
"I'm George, George Soldat," The blonde man responded, holding out a hand for Sherlock to shake curtly.
Sherlock's eyes flitted over the man once more, "Iraq or Afghanistan?"
I MOURNED YOU, SHERLOCK, I BURIED YOU
No physical quirks escaped him this time; Sherlock knew the flashback was coming as soon as he saw the tan lines on George's wrist.
"Fantastic," He grinned, "I read your blog so I was expecting this - how did you figure this one out?"
"Simple; Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists — you've been abroad but not sunbathing. The limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That suggests the original circumstances of the injury were probably traumatic — wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan — Afghanistan or Iraq."
No thought was necessary for these words, they echoed his first meeting with the real John almost perfectly and whilst no memories of angry words raged through his head, Sherlock felt an unusual amount of guilt invading his mind palace. Even stranger was, the guilt did not deter him from entering the John 'wing' of the palace - it fueled him there even faster.
"Just like your friend, John, was it?" George asked, absentmindedly strolling toward the left armchair and placing his buttocks on the union jack pillow, "I must say, when I saw the ad for a 'new John' I noticed the similarities between-"
"You read my blog." Sherlock stated, cutting the other man off in such a cold voice he started to stutter.
"Y-yes?" George met Sherlock's icy gaze with wary eyes.
"I was once told no one reads my blog." He responded monotonously, eyes roaming over George as if to find traces of deceit amongst the dirt on his jeans or the foil under his thumbnail.
AND YOU WERE ALIVE ALL THIS TIME AND DIDN'T THINK TO TELL ME? YOUR ONLY FRIEND, HA, OBVIOUSLY NOT
George cleared his throat and shifted his weight on the chair, making it obvious to Sherlock that he was uncomfortable. Sherlock's eyes dropped to the floor automatically, recalling the advice that same someone had given him on not making people feel awkward in his presence. Smile? That was it. Baring his teeth to the point his lips felt stretched and painful, he assessed George's reaction. No return smile, strained expression; something clearly wasn't right. Sherlock released his lips and pursed them in annoyance.
"I wasn't the only one to visit your blog," George offered, making mild attempts to diffuse the obvious tension.
Sherlock's head turned sharply, "What?"
"The hit counter was already at one when I visited this morning, well done, looks like you have another fan," He congratulated, smiling slightly.
"I lost all my fans when I fell, very few people still believe in me enough to visit my blog," Sherlock considered before jolting slightly, "And I reset my hit counter last night."
Please John, there's no way I could have told you
YOU'RE SHERLOCK BLOODY HOLMES OF COURSE YOU COULD HAVE FOUND A WAY
"Who do you think it was then?" George asked, sensing some unrest in the other man's posture.
Sherlock moved to the window with quick precise steps, moving back the curtain to look out "I have five - no three - theories."
"What ar-"
"How do you feel about the violin?" Sherlock turned, his voice strictly impersonal again.
"I don't mind i-"
"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't speak for hours on end, would that bother you?"
'Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other' WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME JUMPING OFF A BUILDING AND NOT INFORMING ME YOU'RE STILL ALIVE WAS ONE OF THEM!?
"No, I'm fine with tha-"
"DAMNIT YOU'RE NOT JOHN!" Sherlock barked, falling back and lying across the sofa, hands in their customary prayer position.
George frowned slightly, eyeing Sherlock with caution, "Look, you're auditioning for a 'new John', rather than a flatmate; choke up every time I mention something slightly related to the guy - obviously you have some deep issues about John Watson."
"Obviously," Sherlock repeated, the noise sounding closer to a growl that his usual crisp tone.
"Why don't you tell me where this started?" George asked calmly.
"Oh now you're sounding like Jo- someone's therapist!" He groaned, kicking the arm of the sofa angrily.
"There you go, mentioning John again, tell me about what happened," George spoke firmly, raising his eyebrows at the fully grown man who appeared to be having a tantrum in front of his very eyes.
Sherlock sat up, turning quickly to face the other man and gritted his teeth, "As delightful as this is, I do not feel obligated to tell you anything which happened on that night."
"That night, so something happened on one occasion which bothers you and caused John to leave?"
The other man gave an almost undetectable nod of the head.
"Or is it John leaving which bothered you the most?"
I said it might be dangerous
DANGEROUS FOR WHO, SHERLOCK? FOR YOU, WHO SOMEHOW SURVIVED A FALL FROM A 40 FT BUILDING OR FOR ME, WHO HAD TO SPEND EVERY NIGHT IN HERE, ALONE, STARING AT YOUR GOD-DAMNED VIOLIN AND TRYING SO HARD NOT TO GO BACK TO THAT PLACE I WAS IN BEFORE I MET YOU?
Sherlock physically jumped this time, flashes of what could have happened coursing through his mind palace and filling it with John. Leaping to his feet he paced the room, using arm chairs, tables, windowsills for places to stand as he tried desperately to rid himself of the unwelcome guilt and sadness.
"I did something. A bad something. As you know I faked my own death, it was to save John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, not that I told anyone that because Sherlock. Holmes, Doesn't. Care. So naturally I had no problem letting those three think I was dead, well I say no problem, off topic hm. Well, John seemed pretty, distraught I think that's the word, so when I returned to 221B to get some necessary fuel for my transportation and he caught me here, he was quite angry-"
I.. What... You can't be... You died... YOU DIED. YOU FELL OFF A BUILDING. I WAS THERE. I SAW IT.
John, I can ex-
OF COURSE YOU CAN EXPLAIN, YOU'RE SHERLOCK BLOODY HOLMES, YOU ALWAYS HAVE A PLAN AND ALWAYS NEGLECT TO TELL ME. WHO CARES HOW THIS PLAN WILL AFFECT JOHN, WE'RE JUST FLATMATES
"He shouted at me, hit me a few times, but I didn't tell him why I'd done it because I didn't want to worry him."
George looked at the man jumping around the apartment and pulling out his hair, "Didn't want to worry him, or wanted to keep up the aura of an uncaring man?"
"I am an uncaring man. I am married to my work."
"What I see before me speaks otherwise," Sherlock stopped moving, frowning as he stared at the mess he had made, "What happened next?"
The dark haired consulting detective took in a sharp breath of air, falling backwards onto the sofa "He-"
NO! You know what, I can't do this.
What are you saying John?
I can't stay here anymore, I can't even look at you.
John-
Don't even bother, Sherlock, you get the apartment back, you can go back to your work.
I don't want that I want-
You're married to your work, remember?
DON'T LEAVE JOHN I-
...
Please don't do this, John -SH
Delete this number, I never want to see or speak to you again -JW
"So you haven't spoken to him since?" George asked calmly.
"No," Sherlock responded in a small voice, "Oh wait, should I have said that louder, Mycroft?"
221B swung open to reveal Mycroft stood behind it, swinging his customary umbrella by his side. Sherlock ran a hand over his face to conduct himself as his brother stepped over the threshold into the apartment, taking Sherlock's attention away from the door.
"Very good, brother, when did you figure it out?" Myscroft asked coolly, adjusting a cushion on Sherlock's armchair before sitting.
"Oh, it was easy," Sherlock responded, his eyes glinting, "Firstly, it struck me as odd that so many people (unsuitable of course) turned up today, when I have already been exposed as a fake and a criminal - it would be unusual to want to live with such a person, would it not? Then George, he seemed too much like my John," Sherlock coughed, "I mean John, to be real. Then there was his constant repetition of phrases John has used and sitting in John's chair, which happened too many times for my liking. Also, he visited my blog, odd. When I looked out of the window I saw one of your cars parked outside, that's when it all came together. People, George, phrases, chair, blog, car; this is Mycroft."
"Very good, Sherlock, you are still on top form," Mycroft congratulated, "But even after you figured all that out, you continued to talk. Why?"
"Because John Watson is stood behind that door," Sherlock responded casually, "I thought him overhearing me discuss the reason for my fall would be a lot easier than me trying to tell him myself."
Once again the door swung open and this time a breathless John Watson stood before it, as Sherlock himself had deduced. Even when he was pissed with him, Sherlock never failed to amaze him.
"How did you know I was here?" He asked incredulously, still not walking inside.
"Oh come on, what other reason would my dear brother have for making me talk about this? Not my well being, certainly!" Sherlock retorted, making obvious attempts not to look at the man in the doorway.
"Did you really do it to save me? John questioned.
Sherlock's eyes finally found Johns, "Yes."
"Oh thank-" The blonde man broke into a little run as he fell into Sherlock's arms, holding him so tightly because he was scared he'd disappear, "I've missed you so much."
Sherlock pulled back slowly, fighting his conflicting thoughts of staying in John's arms forever and shit Mycroft's still sat over there.
"I must admit, your missing presence has been a rather large drag on my life."
John stared at Sherlock's face searchingly, "I'll take that."
"Well," Mycroft said awkwardly, standing up from his seat, "I'll leave you two to.. make up."
With that he strode from the room, passing Mrs Hudson on the way out.
She bustled into 221B, starting when she saw the two men on the settee, "Ooh boys! John, it is lovely to see you back - Sherlock's been going stir-crazy without you!
"It's lovely to see you too, Mrs Hudson," John stuttered, painfully aware of Sherlock's knee in his groin.
The not-housekeeper pursed her lips, "Try not to be too loud when you make up tonight, I do need some sleep you know!"
Sherlock and John groaned and led back on the sofa as she left to the room. Just like old times.
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Did I write the characters okay? This is my first attempts so don't judge me if I'm completely off par. It's up to you to decide if this is romantic or friendship, I tried to keep it as canon as I possibly could without making it out of character.
Please give me some feedback?