I See Your Face and I'm Home

JOHN POV

Eighteen months. Eighteen months it had been since I watched my best friend, my most trusted companion, Sherlock Holmes, commit his inevitable suicide. A year and a half, approximately, had passed since that dreadful, stagnant day -ever-present in my memory- when I saw Sherlock make the jump and hit the ground, his lifeblood gushing out of the fatal wound on the back of his head. I, an army doctor, knew he was gone (cue that tight feeling in the back of my throat) before many others, but that didn't stop me from taking a pulse off his cold, pale wrist when I managed to push through the stumbling crowd. My vision was blurry by then, I do remember, for I was not a man afraid to show emotion when combated with anguish or pain, contrary to popular belief. In the Afghan, I watched many of my fellows die, and viewed much misery in the strangers who lived in communities plagued with exotic diseases and unjust political regimes, but I seldom cried in that duration of my life. This was different, much different. While being a soldier and being a doctor was what I had chosen as a career, to make my living and do my part helping the suffering around the world, I had chosen Sherlock in an entirely different way.

Well, perhaps chosen was too strong of a word. From the moment Stamford introduced us I knew Sherlock would be trouble, and he had wasted no time proving that to me. The pickling specimens in the refrigerator would put off just about anyone, and his incessant spasms with the violin while thinking were jarring at best, but I now found myself missing the assortment of eyeballs staring at me from between the jam and marmite, the noxious "experiments" that did my head in once or twice a week, and the dissonant chords that once kept me up at night, but I now felt was the only music that could ease me into a peaceful slumber. Yes, I had chosen Sherlock Holmes, and 221B Baker Street, and solving crimes in a very different way than I had chosen the army. It wasn't just my job; it had never been. They, the crimes, the cases, even Sherlock, had become my life. And that had to be the reason it was so hard to let go.

To say Mrs. Hudson and I were doing okay without him was an overstatement. We were both trying our best, but every once in a while one of us would let his name slip or share an almost-forgotten memory and the other would fall silent. Once of the more painful occasions was when I, drunk with sleep, heard someone wandering about in the sitting room and was convinced it was Sherlock. I staggered out of bed and called out to him, but it was only Mrs. Hudson come to check on me. It was all I could do to hold myself together and comfort her crying. Needless to say, Mrs. Hudson hasn't come to call during the night ever since, for both of our sakes. I know, quite integrally, that Sherlock would disapprove of our silly behaviour. There's no doubt in my mind that he'd want to be remembered and talked about day in and day out. It was just too soon. I had to hope that somehow, wherever he was, he would understand.

One January morning I went outside to collect the post, just as I would any other day. Things had become so routine in my melancholy existence without all of the drama Sherlock brought to my life that I, until not too long ago, had taken for granted. I set off for the mailbox (only a few paces away) with my hands plunged in the pockets of my trousers and my head tilted down. I did hope Lestrade would not come to call again today with yet another case. Yes, he did still come to me for help, heaven knew why. I shook my head, contemplating it still as I reached the post-box and slid our key -no, my key, just mine now- into the correct slot. I did feel obligated to at least attempt to assist the detective inspector, but sometimes it hurt too much, poking around a fresh crime scene without a tall and arrogant, yet enthusiastic, companion making leaps of logic where no one else could and dismissing all of my meagre deductions.

The handful of mail clutched in my fingers, I made to go back inside. There was no interesting post to speak of today, just a few bills, a letter from Harry, and the latest issue of a science-y magazine Sherlock subscribed to just to make fun of its "inadequate writers". I felt a twinge of pain in my chest cavity. I really had to cancel his subscriptions.

If the day had been nicer and the sky less grey maybe more people would have been crowding the streets of London and I might not have seen him. I wasn't paying too much attention to my surroundings, just making my way to the door of 221B, but there was no mistaking that walk. The black shape was getting larger and larger as he drew nearer and soon started -there's no other word for it- bounding towards me. I half expected him to jump in the air and click his heels together like in those old Hollywood movies. It couldn't be, but it had to be, Sherlock Holmes.

I closed my eyes tight; it was all an illusion. Just my stupid mind playing a cruel trick. Once I opened my eyes he would be gone, I would go inside, sort the mail, and get on with my day. This wasn't happening; it was all something fake that I would force myself to forget about. I opened my eyes.

He was right there! Sherlock was there, smiling at me, as if none of the stuff with the Riechenbach case and Moriarty had ever happened! I rubbed my eyes blearily, as if I could remove this mirage by physical force. Sometime between noticing Sherlock and now, I'd dropped the mail and it was littered over the snow banks. Sherlock, I now saw, was bending over to pick up some of it! I clutched the post-box for support; my head was all woozy. I needed to get Mrs. Hudson to call the insane asylum, and fast. It was obviously the only place for me now.

Sherlock was turning the science magazine over in his hands, looking at it appraisingly and then back to me. He smiled again. "Ah, Advanced Chemical Science Bi-Monthly, how I've missed you," he said to the magazine and then pocketed it. "I wonder what the blighters have failed to comment on this time... Good on you, John, not cancelling my subscription."

I gaped at him. No "Hello, John, how are you? I'm fine, thank you, it's not like I just came back from the dead or anything,", no explanation at all on what was going on, no comment to clarify things, spare one about an insignificant magazine! That was it, he wasn't real. I had to find Mrs. Hudson and get myself checked into the nuthouse ASAP. I turned away from him and started to dash to the flat's door, but I heard his voice again.

"Where are you going, John? Don't you want to hear how I am still alive? Is the curiosity not eating away at you?"

"You're not real," I retorted, refusing to look at him. Maybe the hallucination had faded away already...oh great, now I was talking to myself.

"What an odd thing to say, of course I'm real!" continued to Sherlock apparition. No such luck.

Why was this happening? What had I done to deserve this? It was bad enough I had to suffer through nightmares of his early demise in the dark, but now I could see him in the day too? "No," I said forcefully. "You're not."

Sherlock was already beside me again, crossing all the distance I'd put between us in a couple of his long strides. "But I am, John!" he said, his tone verging on gleefulness. He gripped my upper arms and stared down at me. Part of me thought it was be easier to activate soldier mode and fight him off (it wouldn't be too hard), but I didn't. I was too mesmerized by the fact that he was here, in the flesh, touching me. Apparitions couldn't do that, could they? Even to recently self-diagnosed crazy people such as myself...

Then, Sherlock launched into his story. He did not ask me if I wanted to hear it, but rather jumped into it, asking no one for permission. And I had to admit...it kind of made sense. He told me about Molly preparing a body from the morgue, how that was what I saw drop from the building and not his real self. He told me about climbing into a high story window and hiding out for a while. He spoke of Moriarty threatening the lives of his friends if he didn't go along with the suicide ploy. How he was trying to protect Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly... How the world's only consulting detective was trying to protect me.

The whole time he spoke, he never let go of me, like he was afraid I'd scamper off as quickly as some oversized rabbit. When he told me the last thing his hands tightened around my biceps and his clear eyes, almost a blinding shade of blue, were filled with an intensity I'd only ever seen at the scene of a crime. "And I was there, at the grave, John," he told me. "When you and Mrs. Hudson first came to visit, I saw you talking to me," The eyes softened and his grip slackened. An expression I couldn't quite place overtook his face, and I was sure Sherlock couldn't classify it either. Something about it made me uneasy and I was glad when we both snapped out of it and he let go of my arms.

"I wanted to show myself so you both wouldn't worry," said Sherlock. "But even a man of lesser intellect than my own," -here he was indicating me, I was sure- "Must understand how problematic that would be,"

"Problematic?" I spluttered indignantly. I couldn't help it: I got angry. "Sherlock, you've left us all hanging for a year and a half! You let us believe you were dead, forced us to cope with unnecessary grief... You essentially lied to us all for months! And what for, to protect us? You're Sherlock Holmes! Surely you, of all people, could have come up with a way to tip us off about the whole living thing," I was beginning to think he did it all for fun, because he was -which is often the reason- bored. No doubt he could deduce these thoughts as he surveyed me, all worked up, my chest heaving. Actually, he himself looked a little bit hurt as well.

"Yes, but it's all fine now, John," he said quietly. "I'm back. There's no need to be angry," He opened his arms as if he wanted a hug (rare Sherlock behaviour) but that wasn't happening any time soon, not on my watch. I was still, unfortunately for Sherlock, very mad.

I balled up my fists and began to hit him. Soldier John was really coming in handy today. Sherlock tried to protest but, though he had bragged before about being skilled in martial arts, he was really no match for my military training.

"John!" It was his turn to splutter now. "Stop it!"

I didn't stop it. It didn't stop until I heard the creak of the opening door of 221B. Who could that be? In my momentary lapse in concentration, Sherlock caught both my wrists in his hands, and then he did succeed in his mission of hugging me. As he closed his arms around me I couldn't help but relax my fists. Sherlock was here. He was alive, just as I'd begged him to be. "Sherlock," I did say gruffly. We didn't hug often and this level of affection was a bit odd. Sherlock said nothing and only hugged me tighter, even placing his head on my shoulder. I kind of patted his back awkwardly, and it was just another reminder that he was real. I clutched a fistful of his usual pea coat and pressed into him. To hell with the people who would talk. "God, I'm glad you're alive," I whispered.

"Sherlock!" shouted another voice shrilly. It was Mrs. Hudson. She was the one who had exited 221B. Sherlock and I broke apart and smiled at each other in our old, familiar way. Mrs. Hudson bustled over to us and I had to worry about her safety –she was hurdling down the stairs so fast! As soon as she reached us she lunged at Sherlock and he embraced her happily. I smiled at the pair of them, feeling oddly sentimental, and then glanced back at 221B. We were all here again, reunited at last.

I felt Mrs. Hudson grab me and pull me out of my reminiscing and into the group hug that was taking place on the driveway. With my landlady's arm around my left Shoulder and Sherlock's on the right, I felt truly home, a feeling I hadn't been blessed with in a long while. Mrs. Hudson was the once to break the embrace, wiping her teary eyes and readjusting herself primly.

"How about some tea?" she asked us both and we nodded. "Just this once, now, I'm–"

"Not your housekeeper!" we finished in unison, laughing.

Once she was gone, Sherlock clapped a hand on my good shoulder, a much more appropriate form of affection between two grown men. I smiled ruefully at him. "Come on, Sherlock," I said. "I think we're past the "people will talk" stage by now,"

Sherlock looked amused and smiled bigger. "For once, I find your deduction compellingly correct," he told me. "Besides, I should be allowed to hug my best friend after a long separation, that is the social consumption, yes?"

I nodded. "I suppose," I told him. "We're best friends now, huh?"

"Well, that's what you told your therapist, who you really should not be seeing. I told you when we first met, John. She's rubbish."

"How much do you know?" I asked, my jaw open. Had he been keeping tabs on me the whole time? I ought to be mad again, but I just couldn't force it.

"It would be quicker to tell you what I don't know," said Sherlock smugly and I rolled my eyes.

"I thought you said you didn't have friends," I told him defensively.

"No," Sherlock interrupted. "If you remember correctly, and I'm sure that you do, I told you I only have one,"

How couldn't I hug him after that? My flesh and blood friend, back from the dead...some people would call it a miracle. I wrapped my arms around him tightly and we stayed that way, in silence, for a long time. When I let myself realise it, I really was grateful for his existence. He wasn't dead, and I was no longer alone. Sherlock Holmes was absolutely and entirely alive.

"Are you crying, Doctor Watson?" Sherlock asked me, affronted.

"Of course not," I told him, discreetly drying my tears on his shirt before I looked up. "You know I don't cry easily, Mr. Holmes," (But if he'd seen me at his headstone I really doubted he'd believe that. He was Sherlock, after all.)

Sherlock chuckled. "Very well," he said, and pecked me on the forehead, not very unlike the way he kissed Mrs. Hudson. I raised my eyebrows at him but he made no reaction. Very odd, but not altogether unwelcome. "Let's go get that tea," he suggested and I obliged, following him into our flat, our home, that had for so long felt like it was missing something. As I entered it now, behind Sherlock, everything turned right again. I half expected Lestrade to come rushing in, asking us to start chasing some new criminal. Even that would have been fine, normal even. In that moment, I decided, everything was perfect.

"I can't wait to start experimenting here again!" cried Sherlock, crossing immediately to the fridge. "John, why have you thrown out my pig's feet? Those were supposed to be left alone! And what about the milk? It looks like we're running low... I'd go get some but I'm afraid I'm going to be dreadfully busy this afternoon, plus the whole being dead thing is rather tedious. Would you mind doing it? Also, I think I'm going to need some pliers, phenolthalein, and electric wire, if you're going out."

Well, almost perfect.

As always, thank you for reading and reviews are much appreciated, xoxoxox.