AN: I know this isn't especially good. There is little set up, feels out of character, rushed, and it's probably been done again and again. Yet I still felt compelled to write it. So as my John says, indulge me. :)
John entered 221B Baker Street, having come from the shops. Just as he closed the door behind himself, a light came on in the living room. The contents of his bags nearly spilled out as he jolted with surprise. He looked to see who or what had flicked on the lamp.
And that's when John knew he had lost all sense of reality.
There, sitting on the couch, very much alive and wearing an expertly stoic expression, was Sherlock Holmes.
Only it was impossible. There was no way it could be. Sherlock was...dead. John had been there when it had happened, had seen it with his own eyes, had played it over and over again in his mind for months in attempt to make some sense of it. There was simply no rational explanation for Sherlock to be sitting there comfortably on the sofa staring back at him.
The doctor didn't dare move.
"Have I startled you, John?"
And there was certainly no way he had just spoken to him or said his name. It was all horribly wrong.
John stood there, barely breathing, for so long that Sherlock was actually the first to become uncomfortable. The young man shrugged and offered,
"Honey, I'm home?"
Well, if that wasn't Sherlock...
The groceries fell to the floor as John looked suddenly stricken.
"I'm going to be sick," he croaked. He stumbled out of the room in a rush to the toilet where for several minutes retching sounds echoed down the hall. Sherlock waited patiently for John to finish, staring intently at the floor the whole while. When the noises ceased, he looked up.
John was already standing in the doorway, silent. He was looking at Sherlock as though the man were a ghost, which really was one of the more plausible explanations he could come up with. They met eyes and John began to breath heavily and shake his head.
"John," Sherlock began cautiously.
Nothing followed.
If the situation hadn't been so extremely ludicrous, John might have laughed. Sherlock Holmes at a loss for words. The man who could spout details of a crime scene as though reading from a list couldn't figure out what should come after 'John'.
The doctor waved a shaky hand and cleared his throat.
"Right," he rasped, his brain slowly recalling the basic functions of speech, "right. Mrs. Hudson is going to have a fit, eh?"
Sherlock eyed him suspiciously, no doubt trying to discern where John was going with this.
"She's a much more capable person than you give her credit for," he said, confusion clear in his tone. He then added, "But quite possibly, yes."
John nodded, bending down to pick up his fallen groceries.
"Have you been waiting long," he asked, putting some cans of soup back into a bag.
Still perplexed, Sherlock watched as John stood with the bags, contents restored, and brought them to the kitchen. He answered hesitantly.
"Not long, no..."
"Don't suppose you'd want to have one of the frozen meals I bought, would you," John asked over his shoulder as he put his purchases away. "All I have for dinner tonight I'm afraid."
"Why are you behaving like this," Sherlock demanded, moving in behind him.
"Like what?" John continued to empty one of his bags into the fridge.
"Like asking totally innocuous questions. Like you didn't just feed your lunch to the toilet in there. John-"
"Because, Sherlock," John cut in, an edge to his voice now, "innocuous is about all I can handle at the moment."
He shoved past the detective to open a cupboard over the sink.
"I suppose I should ask something like where the hell have you been for an entire year," he punctuated the swear with a slam of a soup can onto the shelf above, "or perhaps why the hell you would ever pretend to commit suicide...let alone how."
Having run out of groceries, John finally stopped to face Sherlock and fix him with a steely glare.
"But I won't ask those things, see, because I am fighting desperately not to loose my shit right now!" He stepped forward in an almost threatening manner. "So indulge me."
The two stared at one another as though in some sort of mental stand off. The only sound was the ticking of the clock on the wall, almost deafening in the silence.
Then Sherlock jerked his head.
"Fair enough!" With a sharp clap of his hands he whirled around, coattails flapping behind him as he went to the front door. "Well, I have work to do. Normally I wouldn't eat but it's been two weeks since my last proper meal. I don't fancy one of those microwave monstrosities though, so we'll dine out. Chinese?"
John didn't move from his spot, debating whether it would be more satisfying to simply shoot Sherlock or to strangle him with his own stupid scarf. Deciding that he should at least eat a final decent meal before being taken away for murder, he shrugged, his words dripping with sarcasm.
"I can't possibly see why not."
Sherlock gave him his stiff grin, then took John's jacket off the rack.
"It's gone cold out, your jumper won't be enough and I don't want complaints," he said, holding it out to him.
John gritted his teeth as he walked over to take it. If Sherlock could act like returning from the dead was as common as catching a cold, so could he.
Except he couldn't.
John took his jacket, but before Sherlock could move away, he grabbed him by the wrist, holding him in place. Sherlock slowly turned to face John, who was now wearing a most agonized expression.
"I'm not mad. It is you, you really are here," John breathed, tightening his grip. "Just...tell me I've not gone mad."
Sherlock gave him an uncharacteristically pitying expression, removing his wrist to take John's hand in his own.
"You are perfectly sane, doctor."
"Why," John asked. "Why did you do it?"
Sherlock inhaled deeply, considering his response.
"I did it...because I was the only one who could. I did it to win. I did it because the idea of being responsible for multiple deaths was a tad...unsavoury, even for my tastes. I did it because, when it comes down to it, I am in the business of saving lives, not sacrificing them. But mostly, John, I did it because I am terribly selfish...and the thought of having your blood on my hands..."
He stopped there, having said all that was necessary. John blinked back a wetness in his eyes as they released each other. With a loud sniff, he donned his coat.
"Not Chinese."
"No?"
"No, you need something more substantial. And besides, I'm not in the mood. We'll do Italian."
Sherlock gave a genuine smile as he opened the door.
"Italian it is then.
"I left my mobile in my room," John said. "You get a cab, I'll meet you downstairs."
Sherlock nodded and swept out of the flat with a hearty slam of the door.
In actuality, John needed a few second alone, if only to keep his head from exploding. He closed his eyes, moving to sit on the arm of his chair.
He was only sat a moment when Sherlock's voice sounded out in the front foyer.
"Mrs. Hudson. How are you?"