Chapter Two

Phantoms and Reality

A gentle tap on the door startles John out of his doze. His much anticipated cup of tea stands cold beside him. He must have slipped into one of his reveries, he seems to be doing that a lot recently. Struggling to his feet, he glances once around the room, reassuring himself that all the post-its and the photos are still there, before going to the door.

As he stretches out a hand to turn the handle, he realises what is wrong. Shouldn't his buzzer have gone if someone had been outside wanting to see him? Is he being treated to a visit from one of his neighbours?

Sighing deeply he pulls the door open. And stares. The man from the supermarket is standing on the threshold, staring down at him. John's mouth opens and then shuts again. What the hell is he doing here? At my flat? There is silence for a long time as they stare at each other. And is it John's imagination but is there something familiar about the stranger?

'John?'

That voice. That wasn't how he'd sounded in Tesco. John blinks. Slowly the stranger reaches up a hand and suddenly the spiked blonde hair is gone. In its place are tumbling dark curls. Another quick movement and instead of dark brown eyes there are piercing blue ones staring back at him. The rough, blonde goatee is peeled off leaving only pale, smooth skin behind. The disguise drops to the floor.

John begins to laugh.

Sherlock frowns, his gaze flickering as he tries to deduce John's startling reaction.

'Well, come in! Or are you going to stand out there all day?'

Still chuckling, John begins to move back inside the flat. Sherlock crosses the threshold and shuts the door quietly behind him.

'Should have known you'd turn up in a suitably dramatic fashion after leaving me for months,' John remarks, settling himself back into his chair. Sherlock enters the living room uneasily, his eyes widening as he notices the numerous post-its and photographs. He stands awkwardly , not entirely sure where he is supposed to go from here. He'd been prepared for tears, rage and very possibly a right-hook to the face. He'd been prepared for shock and disbelief. He definitely hadn't expected this. Something is very wrong.

'... leaving me for months.' He's been gone years. His unease deepens.

'John, I'm really here. This is me.' He tries for short and simple.

John wags a finger at him. 'Don't try that on me again. I've got wise to that now. I'm not going to lay a hand on you. I want to see how long you'll stay this time.' He frowns slightly. 'I have to say, you're not as chatty as usual. Is that just because I'm tired, perhaps?' He yawns. 'It always was a chore trying to work you out.'

'This isn't your imagination.' His hands clench into fists at his sides. 'John, I am actually here.'

John stares at him for a moment and then shakes his head violently. 'No, Sherlock. You're a delusion. I've come to terms with it, don't worry.' He leans forward confidentially. 'To be honest, I'm happy you've come back. I thought I was forgetting you. That's what all this is for,' he waves an arm expansively at the odd little notes decorating the room. 'It serves as a reminder. I was hoping you'd visit me again.'

Sherlock huffs in frustration and takes a step closer to John's chair. 'I am not a delusion, John, will you please refrain from being an unobservant idiot for one second and apply my methods? How do you think a ghost shut your front door?'

John opens his mouth to respond and then seems to rethink. Slowly he hauls himself out of his chair and peers around the corner of the living room door, being careful not to get too close to Sherlock. The detective notices this and that something twinges again. John stares at his shut front door for a long time, and Sherlock can almost see the racing thoughts teeming through his dulled mind.

'I must have shut it when I let you in,' he mutters eventually, holding onto the corner of his bookcase. Sherlock shakes his head.

'No, John. You're better than that. You know you didn't shut the door. I did.' He pauses and then decides to put everything on the line. 'And you can touch me. I won't disappear. I promise you.'

John finally looks at him, fully, and Sherlock sees those tired eyes cloud over with some deep emotion. John shakes his head weakly.

'No. I won't. I won't lose you again.'

Sherlock takes a step forward and automatically John stumbles back, clinging to the bookshelf for balance. Immediately Sherlock halts his movement. 'You never lost me, John. Not really. I never died.'

John laughs again, a mirthless sound and rubs his fists into his eyes. 'You have a grave. I saw you... you're dead, Sherlock. You're dead, and I'm mad.' He raises his gaze to Sherlock's face. 'What a pair we make, eh?'

Sherlock's mind is racing. There are so many conflicting emotions running riot, no wonder he'd attempted to shut off all feeling for so long. How can people stand to feel like this? The main thought is simple. I have to get John to believe I'm real.

'You were a soldier, John,' he says at last. 'And I have seen your bravery many times over. I realise that, in the past, you have seen me. Or conjured me up. All I'm asking is for you to touch me. Just once. Be brave.'

There is a long silence and then John takes a halting step forward. Sherlock remains stationary, hardly daring to breathe, knowing that this is important. He cannot force John to touch him. He cannot force John to believe in his reality. The doctor has to come to that on his own.

Step by stumbling step, John approaches, one hand outstretched a little. Sherlock can see, out of the corner of his eye, John's fingers shaking. He ignores it, and keeps his gaze firmly upon John's face.

There is only a centimetre of space between John's fingers and Sherlock's arm now. John hesitates, his blue eyes both terrified and determined. Sherlock can see how much this is costing him.

There it is. The most fleeting of touches as John's fingers brush against the soft fabric of Sherlock's hoodie. Immediately John's eyes snap shut. Sherlock breathes.

'I'm still here, John. Open your eyes.'

He does. And this time his fingers clench on Sherlock's arm.

'Sherlock,' John breathes. And then he pitches forwards.

XXXXXXXXXX

John's eyes flicker open and he stares dazedly at Sherlock's anxious face which is hovering above him.

'John?'

Ah. That's right. His delusion. Which, actually, had turned out to be real. Abruptly he sits up, dislodging the detective from what had obviously been a precarious position as he is now looking at John from where he has collapsed on the carpet.

John stares at him.

'You're here?' he asks simply.

'Yes.'

'You're alive.'

'Yes.'

John nods once and then sinks his head into his hands, massaging his temples. 'Jesus Christ, Sherlock.'

'I know it's a lot to take in.'

'You died, Sherlock. You were dead. There's a grave with your name on it.'

'Yes. But I didn't actually die, John.'

John's numbing shock is beginning to melt into the first stirrings of what he recognises as absolute fury and also hot, burning embarrassment. His gaze takes in all the little notes and the photographs and he sees the evidence of his own desperation. And now Sherlock has seen it too. He attempts to hold back his anger but he may as well have tried to stay a tidal wave.

Moving fast he gets up from the sofa, bends down to where Sherlock is still sprawled and heaves the detective to his feet. His muscles, unused to such activity, scream in protest. Uncaring he grasps Sherlock by his hoodie before letting fly with his right fist.

Sherlock falls away from him, one of his hands coming up instinctively to clutch his face.

'You absolute bastard,' John snarls, yanking Sherlock up again and getting ready to hit him again. Sherlock doesn't attempt to get out of his grip, merely closes his eyes and turns his face slightly, as if presenting John with an easier target. Already a red mark is rising on his pale cheekbone and John knows he is going to have one hell of a bruise there. He drops his hands and takes a step backwards, shaking his head.

'Get out.'

Sherlock frowns and fidgets with the hem of his sleeve. 'What?'

'You heard me. Out. You. Get.'

Sherlock moves forwards a little, his eyes pleading. 'If you'd give me a chance to explain, John. I... this was all for you.'

John laughs bitterly and turns away. 'Don't start with that, Sherlock. I know exactly why you did it. For you. Pure selfishness. Don't try to pretend it had anything to do with me.'

'But it did!' Sherlock protests, by some miracle of will preventing himself from moving to stand right in John's eyeline. 'It had everything to do with you!'

'Stop it!' John screams, whirling around, his eyes for the first time properly alight. 'Don't, Sherlock! Just go. I have spent years waiting and hoping and praying you weren't dead. And all the while you were off somewhere, swanning around, doing what you do. Did you ever even think of me?' Sherlock opens his mouth to reply and John holds up a hand. 'That was rhetorical, Sherlock. It's obvious you didn't. Not one single thought as to how your death affected me. And now you come waltzing back in here expecting everything to go back to normal?' He shakes his head again and points in the direction of the door. 'Go, Sherlock.'

'John...' Sherlock murmurs, in one last abortive effort to try and make John listen. Instead the doctor grabs hold of him and actually manhandles him down the corridor to the front door. Opening it, he virtually throws the detective out and then the door is slammed shut behind him.

Sherlock leans against the wood, knowing it will be useless to try and get John to open up again, at least for the meantime. Carefully he raises fingers to his face and traces the tender flesh. He's had a lot worse over the past three years. A lot worse. But somehow this one hurts more than all of them put together.

Slowly he takes a deep breath, trying to quell the panic rising inside him. What if John never wants to see him again? What if, by pulling that last stunt he has somehow accidentally broken the last of John's famous patience with him? No. He cannot allow himself to think like that. John is upset, that is all. He needs some time.

Staring down at the floor he realises that his disguise is still lying scattered over the doormat. Slowly he picks up the wig, the contacts and the fuzzy goatee and stuffs them into the pocket of his hoodie. He casts one last look back at John's front door and then shuffles out, back to Baker Street.

XXXXXXXXXX

It takes Sherlock some time to calm Mrs Hudson down. Finally, after about half an hour, she heads back to her own flat muttering something about making him some food. He doesn't want to eat, he wants John. Although, now he thinks about it, he cannot remember the last time he ate. Frowning he thinks back over the last few days. There had been a hectic chase to finally find Moran in Paris, that final part of the destruction of Moriarty's web had lasted almost a week. And he is fairly sure he didn't eat anything at all.

Suddenly his vision blurs and he sits down hard on the sofa which is blessedly right behind him. He probably should have something, if only to stop Mrs Hudson's incessant worrying. A gnawing pain claws at his stomach and his sight swims alarmingly again. Desperately he clutches at the sofa cushions with both hands. Yes, he really should...

'Sherlock? Sherlock?' He groans, aware that somebody is shaking him. Slowly his eyes drag themselves open and manage to fix upon Mrs Hudson who has grabbed him by the shoulders. 'Oh, Sherlock, what have you done to yourself?' she murmurs, pulling him up to a sitting position. Sherlock can hardly hear her. All he can focus on is the steaming bowl on the table which smells a lot like chicken soup and a plate piled high with sandwiches. His stomach clenches painfully once more.

'I'm fine, Mrs Hudson,' he manages to croak, not taking his eyes off the food. 'I think I just need to have something to eat.'

'You're not well, Sherlock,' Mrs Hudson says fretfully. 'I should call John, I'm sure I have his number around somewhere.'

'No!' Sherlock says abruptly. 'Don't phone him.'

'I understand he'll be shocked but he should be here. He's a doctor.'

'I've already seen him. He... he reacted badly and I think he needs some time.' Not wanting to wait any longer Sherlock weakly drags the plate of sandwiches onto his lap and takes a deep bite, chewing only a couple of times before swallowing.

'I don't know how to deal with this, dear!' Mrs Hudson almost wails, wringing her hands anxiously. 'Look at how skinny you are! There's nothing to you, you're even worse than you used to be.'

'I'm fine, Mrs Hudson, don't fuss,' Sherlock snaps irritably, cursing his body at letting him down so drastically. His landlady scowls at him and then crosses her arms and sits down next to him. 'What are you doing?'

'I'm going to sit here and make sure you eat every single thing on that plate and in that bowl. If you refuse to call John then I'll just do the best I can.'

'And what if I don't eat it?' Sherlock says challengingly, although it's really more for form's sake as the first few bites of the sandwich have very effectively woken up his appetite and he's having trouble restraining himself from bolting the lot down. Mrs Hudson fixes him with a stern glare.

'Then I'll ring John regardless.' She points at the food. 'Now eat!'

XXXXXXXXXX

John does not even try going to bed. Instead he sits in his armchair having cried himself into exhaustion. Sherlock. Sherlock is alive and here, in London. Sherlock was at his flat, just a few short hours ago. Rubbing at his temples he sinks his head even lower towards the carpet. After a few seconds his head jerks up again, his eyes wide. Sherlock was here. Sherlock was with him, in the flesh, breathing and talking. And he'd... he'd punched him and then thrown him out. The man he has spent the last three years obsessing over. Longer than that, really. The man who has haunted his every waking thought and nightmare since the Fall.

And yes, John has every right to be angry, still is. In fact, he's furious. But he hadn't let Sherlock explain. He'd barely let him speak. He drums his fingers against the armrest of the sofa. Knowing Sherlock, there is bound to be an explanation. John expects that it will most probably be almost incomprehensible to him, most things concerning the detective are. And he doubts that, whatever the reason, he will be able to forgive Sherlock. But he owes it to their friendship to at least listen.

Hurriedly he picks up his phone and rings a number he'd never thought to use again. Mycroft picks up on the first ring.

'John. What a delight to hear from you.'

'Spare me the crap, Mycroft. I know you know your brother's alive. Where is he?'

There is the smallest of pauses and a delicate cough from Mycroft's end. 'He is where you'd expect him to be, Doctor Watson. He is back at Baker Street.'

John ends the call, throws on his jacket and heads out of the door. It is not until he is halfway to Baker Street that he realises he has left his cane behind.

XXXXXXXXXX

He finds himself hesitating as he stands before the well-remembered chipped dark paint and gold lettering of 221B. His anger still pulses, the most dominant emotion in him at the moment. He cannot guarantee that he won't hit Sherlock again when he sees him. If he sees him. Most of him is expecting that Mrs Hudson will wrap a pitying arm around his shoulders and say that of course Sherlock is not there, Sherlock is dead. Don't you remember, John?

Squaring his shoulders he raps smartly on the door.

There is a soft patter of footsteps and then his old landlady is there before him. She blinks for a moment before her face is wreathed in a beaming smile.

'Oh John! It's so good to see you!' She wraps him in a hug which he returns awkwardly before pulling away.

'You too, Mrs Hudson. I'm sorry I haven't been in touch recently.'

She waves a hand. 'Don't worry about it, dear. I understand.'

'Is he here?'

She pauses and her expression becomes anxious. More than ever John is expecting now to hear proof of his own delusions.

'He is.' Unaware he is doing so, John exhales in relief. 'But I think he needs you, John.'

'He's never needed me,' John replies curtly. Haven't the past three years proved that beyond all doubt?

'Well, he needs a doctor at any rate.' Immediately John narrows his eyes and his heartbeat picks up slightly.

'Why? What's wrong with him?'

'Well, he came in here, swish as you like and headed straight upstairs. I got him settled and went to make him some food, the poor man looked like he hadn't eaten for a week. When I got back he'd fainted on the sofa...'

Mrs Hudson doesn't get any further. John is already barrelling towards the stairs and the entrance to their old flat.

'You never learn do you?' The words fly out of his mouth without any interruption from his brain. Sherlock turns in surprise, his eyes widening as he spots John on the threshold.

'John? What...?'

'Everything I tried to teach you about looking after yourself. Basic nutrition, Sherlock!' He stalks into the living room and Sherlock takes a few steps backwards warily. John stops dead. For the first time since Sherlock's big appearance he fully takes in the detective. Sherlock's hair is dishevelled as if he has run his hands through it many times. Errant curls stand on end. His eyes are tired and his face has lines which weren't there before. High on his temple, just where his hairline begins, is a thin and winding scar. The grey hoodie and scuffed jeans are very baggy. 'Take off your hoodie, Sherlock.'

Instinctively Sherlock's hands clutch at the garment in question. 'I don't see how...'

'Take it off, Sherlock.'

Slowly, dropping his gaze to the carpet, Sherlock pulls off the hoodie. Behind him John hears Mrs Hudson's gasp. Beneath the outer layer Sherlock is wearing a thin black t-shirt which clings to his virtually skeletal frame. John can see a few more scars on his arms and dreads to think how many more the detective's clothes are hiding.

Without stopping to think about it he crosses the space between them and wraps Sherlock in his arms. The detective is rigid with shock. Slowly, however, he softens and tentatively pats John on the back.

'I haven't forgiven you,' John whispers into his ear. 'Not by a long shot. But it is so good to have you back.'

He eases Sherlock down onto the sofa and kneels on the floor in front of him. 'How badly are you hurt?' He is so focused on the other man that he isn't aware of Mrs Hudson mumbling her excuses and leaving.

'Superficial injuries,' Sherlock says, shrugging. 'Nothing of importance.'

John nods once or twice, a few muscles in his face twitching. Slowly he gets to his feet and paces over towards the window. 'Where the hell have you been?'

'Everywhere. Or that's how it feels, at least.'

'Everywhere apart from here. Three sodding years, Sherlock. You couldn't have found the time to send me a text?'

Sherlock eyes John warily. The man has oscillated between disbelief, shock and finally anger. This, however, seems to be the worst reaction so far. This dulled acceptance that he means nothing to Sherlock.

'I couldn't,' Sherlock responds. 'It would have put you at risk. You had to believe I was dead.'

'Oh well then, Sherlock Holmes wins the gold!' John spits venemously. 'A brilliant performance. You certainly had me convinced. You've got the wrong profession, you should have been an actor. Tell me, did it amuse you to watch me tearing myself apart over you?'

'Of course not. And I didn't watch you. Mycroft sent me updates regularly.'

'Of course he did. And how did those conversations go, I wonder? "How's John?" "Oh, you know, same as usual. Still standing on the edges of bridges debating whether to throw himself off." "Oh right. Well, let me know if anything changes." Is that how it went?'

Sherlock's face has drained of colour. 'You.. you didn't, John. Tell me you don't mean that.' John sighs and some of the tension leaves his body.

'It doesn't matter anymore. You're back, and I want answers.'

'Moriarty had assassins ready to kill you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade if I didn't jump. I had no choice.'

This does momentarily throw John off track, but soon enough he is back in with the attack, his eyes blazing. 'Okay. Fine. So you throw yourself off a building and force me to watch. Presumably the assassins then pack up and leave. Why on earth couldn't you have let me know?'

'Because Moriarty's intricate web had to be taken down strand by strand,' Sherlock says earnestly, willing John to understand. 'While the organisation was still intact it would have been hugely dangerous for anybody to know I was alive.'

'Mycroft knew,' John counters swiftly.

'Mycroft can protect himself,' Sherlock returns.

'Oh and I can't, is that it?' John stares at him for a moment and then a dark comprehension dawns on his face. 'You didn't trust me. That's it, isn't it? After all we'd been through together, everything we've done, you didn't trust me to keep your secret.'

'No, John, it wasn't like that. It's just the best actor is the one who doesn't know he's acting. Your genuine grief protected you.'

'Oh it was genuine alright,' John snarls. 'Hang on, I did see you jump. How did you work that one out?'

'Molly helped me,' Sherlock responds evasively.

'Molly? Molly Hooper?'

'How many other Molly's do we know?' Sherlock responds with a hint of his old impatience. 'Yes, she did. I'm not going to go into the details now but she was instrumental in helping me.'

'So she knew then? All those times I grieved in front of her and she knew you were alive?'

'Don't blame her, John. I forced her into it.'

'That I can believe. That sort of low behaviour has Sherlock Holmes written all over it.' If John notices Sherlock's minute flinch he doesn't acknowledge it. 'And Molly was more trustworthy than me was she, with this big secret?'

'Molly didn't count,' Sherlock replies, adding quickly, 'at least, not to Moriarty. She never even registered on his radar. She was safe.'

'Molly never mattered to you either. She was just someone you used to get what you wanted and then tossed aside like rubbish.'

'That's not true,' Sherlock says quietly. 'Not at the end.'

'That's all us ordinary people are to you, isn't it?' John continues, as if Sherlock hasn't spoken. 'Just tools to use when you need them and then throw aside. I'm surprised you even bothered coming back, actually. It's fairly obvious that I don't mean anything to you...'

'That's not true, John!' Sherlock says, raising his voice for the first time and getting up from the sofa. 'You mean everything to me. Everything.'

John scoffs. 'You don't know a thing about feelings, Sherlock. How many times have you told me that caring is not an advantage. That feelings are redundant? You're a machine.' Blinded by his own fury, John is hardly even aware of the words coming out of his mouth, much less that a few days after Sherlock's funeral he had said exactly the opposite at the graveside.

Sherlock blinks and stares down at the carpet before raising his gaze to John's. 'If I was a machine then doing my job would be a lot easier. I had cut off all feeling before I met you, you're right, I believed it slowed me down. You changed that. You changed me.' He takes a step forward, his eyes burning into John's face. 'I gave up everything for you, John. I worked for three years so that you would be safe, that we could be together again without the endless fear of Moriarty hanging over us. I willingly separated myself from the person who means the most to me to do it, that was my sacrifice. I hurt you, and I lied to you, and I caused you huge amounts of pain and for that I am eternally sorry.'

'I can't deal with this right now,' John says, turning on his heel and heading for the door. 'Make sure you eat something for God's sake.'

'John?' Sherlock calls, following him. 'Are you going to be moving back into Baker Street?'

There is no reply from John and a few seconds later the front door of the building slams shut. Sherlock crosses to the window where he sees John striding away down the pavement. Sherlock stands there for a long time and only notices the tears once they start to soak the neckline of his t-shirt.