Chapter 2

After seeing Mrs. Hudson to her door, John hailed another taxi to take him to the closest Tube station. Nearly an hour and several connections later he arrived at his stop and took the steps to the surface before walking an additional block to the small flat he had started renting a fortnight ago. It was similar to the lodgings he had used prior to moving to Baker Street, a single room with an adjoining bath and small kitchenette. There wasn't much to be said for the flat other than it was affordable and relatively quiet...and close to the new job he would begin on Monday.

John hung his jacket on the rack next to the door and proceeded to the kitchen to set the kettle on to boil. While he waited he studied the small space: a single bed and nightstand, with a chair beneath the window and a shabby dresser standing next to the tiny closet opposite the bed. He didn't need much, he never really had, but it was a far cry from the cluttered chaos of his former residence. Mrs. Hudson had told him that he didn't need to move, that they would work something out, but he couldn't stand the thought of living there alone. He had been back many times to sit and think, never staying more than an hour, but today had been the last time. Visiting Sherlock's grave had been the final nail in the coffin of his old life.

The whistling of the kettle pulled him from his thoughts and he finished the pot of tea, wincing as the memories of Mrs. Hudson's efforts surfaced. He probably should have thanked her, more than once, when she tried to take care of him over the past three weeks, and even before that. He would have to find some way to thank her for all she'd done for him...all she'd done for the both of them over the years.

He carried his cup over to the chair and sat down, grabbing a book from the basket adjacent to the nightstand. He tried to focus on reading but after several hours and the realization that he hadn't really absorbed anything he tossed the book back into the basket in disgust. He sat in the fading light for a few more minutes before he rose and carried his cold, still mostly full cup of tea to the sink. After he pour the contents down the drain he stood leaning over the sink, the question that had been swirling around in his brain finally breaking through the surface to be voiced.

"Why, Sherlock? Why couldn't you tell me the truth?"

"Because I seriously doubt you would have believed me."

John's heart leapt into his throat and he spun around to find a familiar figure standing only a meter away.

"Sherlock?" he gasped, his voice jumping an octave in shock. "What...how...?"

"I didn't walk through the wall, if that is what you're worried about." He displayed a small set of lockpicks in his hand before slipping them into the interior of his coat. "That lock was particularly simple to disengage. You should speak to your landlord about a replacement."

"You...you're alive?"

"It would seem so, yes."

"But...I saw you! I saw you jump off that building. I saw you on the ground, the blood...you didn't have a pulse! I saw you on a slab!"

"Yes, you did, and I apologize for all of that."

"You…" John surged forward and grabbed Sherlock's wrist, the same wrist he had tested for signs of life three weeks ago, and had found none. His eyes widened when he felt a slow, steady beat beneath his fingers. With his other hand he reached up and worked his fingers under the mop of dark curls on Sherlock's head, searching for signs of the fatal injury. The curve of bone beneath the skin was intact and he could detect no evidence of a break in the bone or a tear in the skin. Sherlock silently submitted to the examination with a slight smile on his face.

"This is impossible…"

"Clearly not. As I told you before, John, when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable must be true."

John took a step back and stared into those oh-so-familiar eyes, alight with mischief. "It...it's really you." The smile broadened as Sherlock nodded. John stared at him before half a second more before pulling him into a tight embrace. Sherlock allowed himself to be held for a few moments before pulling back. John released him, grinning for a few seconds before the expression vanished and the anger he had felt at the cemetery resurfaced.

"You...you absolute arse! How could you-?"

"Because Moriarty had to be stopped." Sherlock's voice took on the lecturing tone that John had heard so many times before. "I calculated that there were thirteen possibilities once I'd invited Moriarty onto the roof. I wanted to avoid dying, if possible-".

"I don't care how you faked it-"

"Yes, you do."

"What?"

"You do care. It's a puzzle, and you've come to need the puzzles, to see them solved, or have a hand in solving them."

"OK, maybe I do, but what matters more is why? Why did you let me think you were dead? Three weeks, Sherlock! Three weeks I mourned you. I went to your bloody funeral--"

"Was it nice? Sorry, go on."

"Damn it, this is not funny! How could you do that? To me? To Mrs. Hudson? To Molly?"

"Molly knew. Well, she found out. Not originally part of the plan but we were forced to improvise when she saw me wake up. Somewhat good timing on my part, though, since she was about to start the post-mortem."

"Wait. She saw you wake up? Wake up from what?"

"From being dead, of course." He took in John's shocked expression and continued. "I was dead, John. That wasn't an illusion. It wasn't a magic trick. Massive blunt force trauma to the skull and subsequent fatal hemorrhaging. Not quite as quick as I would have preferred, but-"

"What are you?" John whispered as he took a step back, his body stiffening unconsciously into a fighting stance.

Sherlock took a deep breath. "What I am...is a long story."

John crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm not going anywhere."

"No, I suppose not. Perhaps you should sit down."

John slowly moved to the chair and lowered himself into it, his gaze never leaving the other man. After John was seated Sherlock perched on the edge of the bed and leaned over to switch on the light. The low-wattage bulb flickered slightly as it shed its dim light in the small space, giving both men a rather ghostly appearance.

"As I was saying, of the thirteen scenarios I envisioned, most of them were eliminated when Moriarty killed himself. From the limited choices remaining, I chose the simplest one: to comply with his demand."

"But why? And how did you know that you would...wake up again?"

"As for the why, it was to keep you alive. You, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. Moriarty had his...associates ready to kill all of you in a second if he didn't give the order to stand down or if I didn't kill myself. Since he could not longer give that order… I had to act fast, so I texted Mycroft before you arrived to let him know what I was going to do. He promised to handle the aftermath."

"So he knew, too? He knew that the fall wouldn't...permanently kill you?"

"Yes."

"Who else?"

"No one. Mycroft and Molly, and the latter only by necessity."

"So how did he know it wouldn't kill you?"

"Because we've known each other for a very long time."

"How long?"

"Since before the City of London even existed."

"But that's… You're talking two thousand years! That's… No. You're lying to me. I don't know why, but-"

"I am not lying to you. I am telling you that I am…" He smiled. "I am much older than I look. Even older than Mycroft, actually. Promise me you won't tell him that."

"Two thousand years older?"

"Well, you need to add a few centuries to that figure to be a bit more accurate."

John shook his head. "This is insane. How could you have lived that long?"

"Because, except under very limited circumstances, I cannot die. Not permanently."

"So, what, you're...immortal?"

"Yes."

John shook his head again. "That's impossible. It's not even improbable, it's impossible!"

"Wait here." Sherlock rose and walked to the kitchen area before he started rummaging through the drawers and soon extracted a knife. "Is this sharp?"

John's eyes widened. "What are you going to do with that?"

"Just a quick demonstration. Is it sharp?"

"Yes, of course."

"Good." He flipped it so the blade was pointed towards him and carried the knife over to John. "Check it. Make sure I haven't switched it for a fake blade."

John gingerly took the knife and examined the blade while keeping an eye on the other man. "It's real."

"Good." He held out his hand and as John reluctantly started to hand it to him Sherlock wrapped his own hand around the blade and jerked back, causing the knife to slice his fingers. John immediately dropped the knife and grabbed Sherlock's hand, sickened by the sight of blood flowing freely over his palm.

"Damn it, why in the hell did you do that? You're going to need stitches."

Sherlock placed his other hand on John's arm. "No, I won't. Watch." After pulling his hand from John's grip he released John's arm and pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his Belstaff. He used it to wipe the blood from his hand and split second later several small arcs of blue lightning crossed the cuts, healing them almost immediately.

"What in the hell?"

"See? Fast healing, can't truly die. Pretty self explanatory."

John grabbed Sherlock's hand again and closely examined where the wounds had been. The skin was smooth and unmarked. John dropped the hand and stepped back, his legs bumping into the chair and he dropped into the seat. As he stared up at Sherlock his eyes were wide and a tumultuous mix of emotion crossed his face.

"So you're really… Immortal."

"Yes."

"So why… Why would you care about whether or not someone else was going to die?"

"Because, John, despite the impression that I try so hard to project that I do not care, and by which you've obviously been fooled, I do care about people. Especially those who mean a lot to me."

"Then why give the impression that you don't?"

"Because it keeps people away. It keeps them from getting close to me."

"So you act like a sociopath, high functioning and all, just to protect yourself?"

Sherlock returned to the bed and sat down with a soft sigh. "Yes, but not quite the way you are thinking. I'm old, John. I've known a lot of people in my extensive lifetime. At first I did have...friends. Attachments. Losing those attachments, over and over...it hurts. And as much as I try to give the impression that I do not have a heart…"

"It still gets broken."

"Yes. Yes, it does." Showing more emotion than he ever had before, he slowly met John's gaze. "I am sorry I caused you pain, John. It was not my intention to even let you get to the point where you would care enough to mourn me, but… Consider yourself a rare individual in that you were able to do so."

"Lucky me," John replied, his smile softening his words. "What are you going to do now?"

"Moriarty was not acting alone. He was part of a much larger network, one which most certainly poses a danger to the very fabric of our society. That network needs to be eliminated."

"And you're going to do it?" The question was most definitely a challenge. "All by yourself?"

Sherlock's lips tilted up in a half-smile. "Could be dangerous. In fact, it almost certainly will be." He glanced around the room. "I appreciate the offer, John, but you've got a life here. A place to live where someone won't be shooting holes in the wall or keeping body parts in the fridge."

John shrugged. "Boring."

"And you've got a new job, from what I understand. Trauma attending at the local hospital."

"Still boring."

"If you came with me you'd never be in one place for long. Serbia one week, perhaps even back in Afghanistan the next. It would be very hectic."

"And very not boring."

Sherlock stood and waved a hand towards the door. "Shall we?"

John grinned. "Oh God, yes!"

Sherlock returned the grin as he opened the door and swept through. "Come along, then. The game, Dr. Watson, is on!"

The End


I do plan to write Molly's reaction to Sherlock's re-awakening at some point. I might even continue this 'verse.