A/N I had trouble writing this chapter, I've rewritten it three times at least. The boys are more than a bit OCC, but that's how I imagine them. I'm also changing the rating for now to T for language.

Ritual Disclaimer Sadly, I don't own anything to do with Sherlock Holmes, and everyone knows it.

Chapter 2 My Return

I crept into our old flat at 221B Baker Street like a thief. I waited until Mrs. Hudson was out-of-town visiting her cousin after I sent her free train tickets in the mail. John was out for the day, presumably at work.

I reveled in the familiarity of our flat. My skull still sat on our mantle overseeing the sitting room; my violin still rested against my chair safely in its case. They were both well cared for, as were all my possessions.

In my absence, John had moved into my bedroom, but surprisingly he kept all of my old clothes in there, odd.

In fact almost all of my possessions remained in situ and were spotless. John had entirely removed only my experiments . He had moved only my papers and notebooks; they were sorted and stacked near the bookshelf. I noted that John had annotated many of my papers with his careful handwriting.

Why did John keep so many reminders of me? Does this indicate that John cares for me the way that I care for him? I rapidly discard that notion. John had cared for me as a friend. How many times did he cry out, "I'm not gay". I can only hope that he will still wish to share a friendship with me.

I had thought that I would relish my solitude when I departed to dismantle Moriarty's criminal network. Wrong.

The feelings and caring awakened by John Watson refused to return to slumber in my Mind Palace. I completed the task only to provide safety for my friend. Wrong again.

I have not completed my task; one man remains at large, the most dangerous of the lot, Sebastian Moran.

I must put aside contemplation of my emotions. It is pointless. I must also defer consideration of Colonel Moran until his location is updated by Mycroft's agents.

I returned to exploring my old home. I reveled in its sights and smells. I saw a pile of fresh laundry, folded by John? I smelled tea and toast, from John's breakfast? I touched his wool jumper that he had laid on the bed and smelled his aftershave. After three years, the sensations were nearly overwhelming.

I spent the remainder of my first afternoon back at 221B tuning and playing my old violin; it was quite pleasant.

My first visitor was unpleasant, Mycroft. I hadn't seen my dear brother for nearly eleven months. He was flawlessly dressed in grey pinstripe.

"You've gained nearly two kilograms," I said by way of greeting.

"Only one kilogram, actually. Out of practice with the violin?" asked Mycroft.

"Only because you refused to retrieve it for me," I said. I was unable to refrain from rolling my eyes. I began to pluck discordant chords; that always unnerved Mycroft.

"We agreed that John needed the violin more than you. It seemed to provide him comfort," said Mycroft with his usual sneer.

"Your presence here is unnecessary…" I began.

"We can not know how John will react when he sees you. He has suffered greatly." Mycroft held up his hand. "I understand the reasons Sherlock. Nevertheless, he suffered. He is likely to become angry or even violent. I shall remain here until I deem it safe."

"Not in John's chair!" I snapped. Mycroft sat on the couch, twirling his umbrella while I plucked nonchalantly at the violin.

Outside, I was still, icy. Inside, I felt ill. My stomach felt queasy, and I was unaccountably warm. Perhaps I was succumbing to influenza or another virus.

To relieve the tedium I counted the bullet holes in the wall. There were three times as many as there had been when I was last in the flat. John had evidently taken up wall shooting as a hobby. Not a good sign.

Mycroft and I turned simultaneously when we heard the front door open over the sound of the wind and the rain. I tensed involuntarily as I heard a slow but familiar tread upon the stairs.

I smiled faintly in welcome as John entered the flat. He was oblivious to our presence and extremely wet.

Immediately, John began to strip off his sodden clothing which startled me. I watched mesmerized as John Watson disrobed. After three years it was like a feast.

His blue eyes approached indigo in the dim lighting. (Dark circles under the eyes indicate poor sleep.) His short-cropped hair was still blond with slightly more grey than before and spiky from the rain.

John was thin, very thin (Still not eating, even after three years?) John was quite muscular (Working out regularly.)

I saw the red and pink scarring on his left shoulder for the first time. The ridges of distressed flesh were so much worse than I expected. It must hurt so much more than he ever let on. It must ache tonight in the rain (Oh, John)

Fortunately, I recalled that John was very modest before he removed his jeans. I coughed discretely to warn John that he was not alone.

John saw Mycroft first and began to swell with anger. His angry flush and aggressive soldier's stance were quite attractive. One thing that I have learned over the last three years is that sentiment regarding John cannot be deleted or resisted; so I enjoyed watching him.

Then John spotted me. Unfortunately, the evening went downhill from there. I expected surprise or anger or even grief from John. What John displayed was horror.

His eyes narrowed in surprise or disbelief. Then they widened in horror, his hand, still holding a wet brown sock, raised to cover his gaping mouth. I watched as the blood drained out of his face. John was afraid of me; this was much worse than anger.

I called out to him to reassure him. I stood, and that seemed to terrify John. Surely John doesn't believe in ghosts?

For no apparent reason, John said "no," and abruptly left the room, slamming the door behind him. Seconds later we heard the terrible sounds of a body bouncing down the stairs.

I rushed to the stairs. The man I had thought about night and day for three years lay in a huddle down on the lower landing. For a moment I was sure he was dead. My worst fear was realized; I always knew John would leave me one day.

I flew down the stairs. My abdominal organs twisted painfully, and it was oddly difficult to breathe. "Mycroft, call an ambulance. Hurry," I gasped.

"Good Lord, Sherlock," drawled Mycroft from the top of the stairs. "I advised you to let me warn him first. I'll call for the ambulance at once."

I stood over him to check his pulse and noted his deep, ragged breathing.

He was hurt. I knelt next to my injured blogger; reluctant to injure him further by moving him. "Help is coming John, stay still. The ambulance is on its way." I said.

John moaned, "No, no ambulance. I'm fine. I'm good." He did not look fine or good. Nevertheless he pushed himself up with one arm and backed himself into the corner.

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I remember falling; I'm pretty sure I hit every part of my body as I slid down the stairs. When I reached the landing, something in my arm snapped. Not good at all, I broke my arm, a non-displaced fracture of the ulna; and it really hurts.

My injury was overshadowed by my obvious psychosis. My hallucination had followed after me. He straddled me and tried to take my pulse.

Oh Jeez, I had a visual, auditory and tactile hallucination, very convincing, very lifelike. I was once again impressed with my vivid, although psychotic, imagination.

I pushed up against the wall, trying to stand. The hallucination placed a warm hand on my shoulder. In fact, the hallucination was breathing his warm breath against my neck as he tried to prevent me from standing. I felt chills run down my spine, not scary unpleasant chills but the "Wow this feels really good" kind of chills.

I put a stop to that train of thought at once. For God's sake Watson! Get a grip on yourself. This is a hallucination of your asexual flat mate who would spurn any advance from you, if he were real. Which he isn't real. My arm really hurt.

"Help is coming John, stay still. The ambulance is on its way," whispered the hallucination.

"No, no ambulance. I'm fine. I'm good." I tried to speak firmly but it came out all squeaky and not good. (Awkward) I forced myself up and swatted Sherlock's hand away.

Then it hit me, the proverbial ton of bricks. How can Mycroft respond to my hallucination? I would never, ever, ever hallucinate about Mycroft Holmes (the dirty, traitorous peeping-Tom). Sooo… Mycroft must be real. If Mycroft is real, then Sherlock is…

Not a hallucination?

What, what? Sherlock? Bloody Sherlock is alive? It's a miracle! It's my miracle! It's my miracle trying to kill me.

I'm going to kill him.

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"Sherlock, keep him quiet before he injures himself further," said my ever-helpful brother, Mycroft.

John's good hand clenched repeatedly. This is not good. John is ready to hit someone, and Mycroft is too far away to be the target. I stepped back as John Watson threw a punch.

John staggered into me when his punch swung wide and held onto me to stay upright. I hugged John tentatively, ready for another attack. John could be quite aggressive on his bad days, and this appeared to be a very bad day.

However, John responded positively to my embrace, he calmed and returned my hug with one arm. His forehead rested against my chest. His rain-dampened hair tickled my chin. I forced myself to concentrate.

John had sustained at least two obvious injuries in his fall. Note the forehead laceration, which was bleeding copiously into my jacket. He also cradled his right arm against his chest indicative of injury. I added a third injury to the list, severe bruising about the rib cage, especially on the left side.

John still clung to me unsteadily. So after my initial evaluation, I picked up my damaged flat-mate and carried him back up to our flat. John pushed ineffectually to get down and repeatedly swatted at me.

I set John down onto the couch. Then grabbed the towel proffered by Mycroft and placed it over the laceration on John's forehead. John seemed confused and combative, indicative of a possible concussion.

John studied me with narrowed eyes. I deduced that he was about to state the obvious.

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Although I had initially decided to kill Sherlock for his miraculous return, he confused me by hugging me. I decided to go with the hug instead of fighting. The hug was much nicer, and my arm really, really hurt. To be honest, when I realized that I could hug the lanky git, I forgot all about fighting.

Sherlock was warm and strong and safe. He smelled like Sherlock, the scent was clean with hints of lavender and cinnamon. The smell finally convinced me that all of this was real. Who ever heard of pleasant olfactory hallucinations?

Then to my surprise, he carried me up the stairs. (Awkward!) I found myself on the couch. Sherlock, alive and not a hallucination, was pressing a towel over my right eye. I reached up and found that my face was actually bloody. Great, I have a cut, which probably requires sutures. Maybe I have a concussion. Just great.

I looked at the World's Only Consulting Detective. "You, you're alive," I said. I instantly regretted this statement. Bloody hell, he's going to say, "stating the obvious…"

"Stating the obvious John," said Sherlock with a small smile turning his lips up. Do not stare at his lips.

I felt stupid for stating the obvious and for staring at his rosy lips. I did not just think rosy lips, did I?

I was so confused, and feeling stupid made me angry again.

"No. It isn't obvious. Not after you fell seven stories. Not after you had no pulse. Not after your funeral. Not after three whole years of you being gone." I yelled. My voice was cracking and rising in pitch (Awkward).

Right, stop it Watson. You sound like a loser. Don't. Do not sound needy. Do not act pathetic. Show some pride. Be a soldier. Stiff upper lip, and for God's sake, stop with the platitudes.

"And FYI Mycroft, I refuse to go anywhere in an ambulance, so don't call for one." I admit I huffed and tried to cross my arms. That hurt very, very bad. I bit my lip to keep from crying out.

"John I can explain." Said Sherlock using a fake soothing voice that irritated me further. However his hand holding the cloth to my head was gentle, and Sherlock's other hand was on my shoulder again, squeezing reassuringly. More chills. God I'm such a sap. Or maybe I'm just going into shock. I hoped for shock.

To ease my confusion, I brilliantly decided to ignore whatever he said and instead pay attention to his hands. His hands? Wait, wait, wait! This is the man who avoided, I mean, avoids direct human contact. So what's with the hugging and touching? This does not compute.

Sherlock was still going on in that voice one uses for simpletons "…John I had to do it to save your life. There were snipers ready to shoot you. And afterwards they would have killed you if they knew I survived."

I couldn't stand the fake concern in his voice. He obviously didn't care about me for the past three years. Why pretend now?

Besides he wasn't making sense. What snipers? I don't see any bloody snipers.

"I don't see any bloody snipers. So shut up Sherlock. Just shut up. Don't say anything. Anything you say, can and will be used against you." I smirked to see Sherlock's consternation at this pronouncement. His mouth was slightly ajar, and his eyes narrowed as he tried to deduce me.

My victory was short-lived. I accidentally focused on Sherlock's narrowed grey-blue eyes; they were very distracting. Concern and affection poured from his eyes.

I began to worry that he was a hallucination after all, because Sherlock doesn't show sentiment, except to Mrs. Hudson. And that Woman. He showed sentiment to her. Damn The Woman. I scowled.

"John I'm trying to explain everything to you," snapped Sherlock finally. Much better, that's the petulant detective we all know and . Watch it. Do not say love out loud. Do not even think it. No one must know how I feel. One word about love and he'll be on the next train for Budapest.

"Sherlock, where's Budapest?" I asked, still distracted by those glittering eyes. I saw Sherlock and Mycroft exchange worried glances. OK, Budapest was a non sequitur, perhaps a bit not good.

Time for the patented fake smile; that will reassure them. I tilted my head and smiled. They were not appeased.

Right, change the subject. "OK, never mind Budapest. So Sherlock, welcome back." Yes, good one. You're on a roll Watson. "So you've been traveling? Meeting new people; making new enemies?" Oh God, the looks again, they think I've lost it. Well, they made me lose it.

I kept talking, foolishly thinking that it would help. "Where did you go? Did you meet any Woman, women?"

This was a stupid conversation. Maybe I should make a run for it until my mind actually engaged with my mouth.

"Well I guess I should get going; I need to go to the A and E…" I said repeating my patented fake smile.

"John you just refused the ambulance…" started Mycroft.

"I don't want an ambulance Mycroft," I said sweetly to Mycroft (the dirty peeping-Tom traitor), "I think I'd like a nice walk. Stop for some dinner and pop-in to the A and E."

They weren't buying it. Sherlock pressed his lips together tightly. Sherlock and Mycroft had both narrowed their eyes. And honestly, who would name their children Sherlock and Mycroft anyway? Sherlock released my shoulder and guided my good hand up to hold the towel over the cut.

Then Sherlock walked over to my briefcase, pulling out my laptop. He cracked the password in less than a minute. I watched Sherlock gain access to my desktop, to my accounts, to my files, to my personal files….

I flew across the room, slammed the laptop shut and grabbed it in my good arm. The room started spinning and there were at least two Sherlocks, and oh Christ, two Mycrofts too! And one Mycroft one is too many.

I sat heavily down onto the floor, trying to clutch my head and the laptop and my bad arm. No good, too many things to clutch. Furthermore, I was dizzy and I couldn't figure out what I had just thought (Something about two Mycrofts?). I shuddered, the bad kind of shudder like when you realize you've bit into a worm while eating an apple. That made me shudder again.

On the bright side, at least I sat down on the floor and didn't fall flat on my face. I also still held the laptop. JW-1, SH-0.

I did recall that I must protect the laptop with extreme prejudice. Sherlock must not read my personal blog. Sherlock Holmes must not under any circumstances read my poetry file. Dear God, think of all that bad poetry, all that sentimental drivel about him. I would choose death over Sherlock reading my poetry, my poetry about him.

"John I need your laptop to look up signs of a concussion, I believe you are exhibiting such signs." Said Sherlock evenly, while he tried to grasp at my laptop. I snatched it out of his reach.

"It's not a concussion it's a vasovagal response due to stress, shock and maybe missing a few meals." I snapped. I felt my face heating up. Oh good, now I'm blushing. I'm making a fine impression.

"Do what ever you want," I said, " just stay away from my laptop." Subtle, that won't attract his attention. Bloody hell. I tried another smile, but my heart just wasn't in it.

Just then, Greg Lestrade burst into the flat. "John. I heard over the radio that someone called for an ambulance to your building. I thought you might have done something stupid."

"I never do anything stupid," I grumbled from the floor protecting my arm and laptop. "In fact nothing ever happens to me."

"Dear God John! What's happened to you?" Greg yelled as he bent over me.

"Don't yell at me, it's not my fault," I yelled back, grateful to have someone else to yell at.

"Who did this to you?" asked the Detective Inspector. He looked over to Mycroft (the evil traitor) for an answer then turned to the man who had tried to step into the shadows, Sherlock Holmes.

"You bloody bastard, what have you done to him now?" Greg grabbed Sherlock by his shirt, dragging him forward. "Good God! Sherlock Holmes, you're alive. Do you have any idea of what you did to us? To John?" He punctuated his statements by shaking Sherlock.

I noted that Sherlock did not tell Greg that he was stating the obvious, even though he was. Then I noted that he was abusing my detective (unacceptable). No one threatens Sherlock, unless it's me.

I pulled myself back up to a stand and moved very carefully and very slowly; thankfully, the room remained motionless. I slowly pushed myself in between Sherlock and the furious Detective Inspector; I still clutched my laptop.

"Greg, seriously; stop it. You're making a mistake based on a faulty assumption," I said. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at me. I flashed him a grin.

"It was an accident. I slipped on the stairs. I forgot to breathe; it can happen to anyone. Also my socks were wet," I said. As evidence, I helpfully held up my foot that still wore the wet sock. Unfortunately, I wasn't steady enough for such advanced maneuvering, and I tipped forward into Greg's arms.

A/N Reviews are treasures; please share your thoughts :)