Chapter 3:
John's arm subconsciously diverted away from the landlady and he ended up punching the arm of Sherlock's grey chair, swearing both at her impulsiveness and the pain that shot up his arm. She didn't miss a beat. "John Watson, you stop this right now!" she yelled, quite louder than seemed humanly possible for her slight frame. Instantly the doctor stood up straight and stopped swearing. Ashamed, he apologised to Mrs Hudson, head lowered. He did not apologize to Sherlock. "Promise you behave in a civilised manner?" she asked John. He nodded and she moved slowly out of the way, not looking away from his eyes, gauging whether he would lunge again or not. When she seemed satisfied John wouldn't tear Sherlock's head off, Mrs Hudson walked behind him and began to clean up the miniature, deliciously fruity pies he hated so much. The army doctor faced the consulting detective and frowned.
"Sherlock?"
"Yes?"
"What the hell?"
Sherlock grinned at John's lack of elegance, but this just made him angrier for some reason. Sherlock could see this and reverted back to a neutral expression.
"Moriarty told me I had to jump-"
"Oh, so naturally you did?"
"-if I didn't want you to die." he said, speaking over his companion, who now looked in shock.
"What?" he breathed. Sherlock seemed to almost roll his eyes, but stopped himself.
"It's obvious, John, it was blackmail. Moriarty said that if his men didn't see me jump they were going to kill Lestrade…" He looked behind John to see if the land lady was still there. She wasn't. "…Mrs Hudson and…you." John sat down in his chair, breathless from the shock and tired from the fight. "But, how did you do it? How did you fake your death? I-I saw you, l-lying on the pavement. You were covered in bl-blood. How?!" The last word came not as a question, but a desperate demand for an answer. Sherlock stared at him with what seemed like pity for a while and then merely said, "Elementary." and with that the subject was dropped. All the previous tension fell away and suddenly it was like it was before, but happier and with a bit more blood. Finally John looked over at Sherlock and asked, "How did I get upstairs?"
"I carried you."
"You carried me?" Sherlock was unfazed.
"You're very thin these days, it wasn't very hard." John thought he could see worry in his friend's eyes, but dismissed it. He knew he was thin; could he help it if he didn't have an appetite? He cleared his throat. "And, um, how is it that I am in my pyjamas?" Again, a look of passivity dominated Sherlock's face.
"I put them on you. You were wearing that awful, itchy sweater Harriet got you last Christmas and I knew you'd be uncomfortable." Heat rushed up John's neck.
"Right. Why didn't you just take the sweater off?" John thought he could see the slightest flash of colour rise in his flatmate's face for a moment, and then recede. The detective didn't answer, but got up and placed a pale hand on the violin whose silence John hated so much. Pulling the bow off the bookcase, Sherlock Holmes wandered over to the window, basked in the morning sunshine. Then he began a cheerful rendition of 'We Wish You a Merry Christmas', as Mrs Hudson entered the room quietly behind the both of them. A part of John told him that it was Boxing Day, and that Christmas was over, but he had a feeling that none of them cared what day it was; just that Sherlock was back, and that was the best Christmas gift they could ever wish for.