A/N: Sorry, guys. Um, there's also two missing song titles in the name of the chapter. I Am The One and I'm Alive. Again, anything that seems like song lyrics most likely is. Enjoy!
John breathed heavily as he entered the flat for the first time in three years. Moving back in was going to be hard, but his therapist had recommended it; to help him cope with Sherlock's death. He looked at the yellow smile painted on the wall and sat on the sofa, putting his head in his hands. Looking up for a moment, he saw Sherlock standing in the opening to the kitchen. It was just his back, but John recognized the detective's curls, the way he held himself. He held his breath, silently begging the man to turn around. Slowly, he did, and John found himself face-to-face with Sherlock Holmes.
"Sherlock," the name barely escaped his lips.
"John. I need you to listen to me. I am not here. This is just your imagination."
Sherlock left the room, shaken. He'd no idea that John would be moving back into the flat. In his bedroom, he called Mycroft.
"Sherlock… what a surprise," Mycroft answered.
"Hello, brother dear. I need you to get John out of here. Help him forget me."
"Sherlock, you need to tell him that you're alive."
"Mycroft, I- I can't. I've already hurt him too much. Please."
"I'll see what I can do." Sherlock hung up and angrily phoned Lestrade.
"Lestrade, I need your help. John's back."
In the sitting room, John lay on the sofa, trying to wrap his head around what he had just seen. He couldn't be hallucinating, could he? His mobile began to ring, and he answered.
"John, this is Mycroft. Mrs. Hudson told me that you've moved back in. How are you getting on?"
"Well, thank you. But I saw Sherlock. I swear on it. Sherlock Holmes was in the flat." "John. My brother has been dead for three years. He's not here. I know you know."
"Mycroft- I swear it. I saw him."
John wheezed out a breath, then tried to take air in, but it caught in his chest, and he found tears falling onto his cheeks.
"Sherlock," he whispered, trying to catch his breath, "Sherlock, don't be dead!"
This, he had cried out louder, and in his bedroom, Sherlock heard him. John's body fell into sobs, and when Mycroft arrived at 221 B, he immediately went to him.
"John. Listen to me. He's not here. Why is it you still believe? Do you dream, or do you grieve? You've got to let him go. He's been dead-"
Lestrade entered the flat, finishing Mycroft's sentence, "Three years, John. He's not here."
"HE WAS MY BEST FRIEND!" John roared through his tears.
"We know," Lestrade answered.
"Oh? What do you know?"
"I know that you're hurt, John, and that you feel like it's your fault because you were the last person to talk to him. I'm hurting, too. So is Mycroft. His brother. How do you think he feels?"
"He hurts, too, but he can't feel as bad as I do. Do you wake up in the morning and need help to lift your head? Do you read obituaries and feel jealous of the dead? It's like living on a Cliffside, not knowing when you'll dive. Do you know? Do you know what it's like to die alive? When a world that once had color fades to white and grey and black? When tomorrow terrifies you, but you'll die if you look back?"
Mycroft nodded, but John continued: "You don't know. I know you don't know. You say that you're hurting, it sure doesn't show. You don't know. It lays me so low when you say, 'let go' and I say, 'you don't know'."
Before he could keep rambling, Mycroft cut in, "the sensation that you're screaming, but you never make a sound?"
Nodding, John said, "or the feeling that you're falling, but you never hit the ground? It just keeps on rushing at you, day by day by day by day, you don't know, you don't know what it's like to live that way."
"Can you tell me," Lestrade began, "what it is you're afraid of? I am the one who knows you, I am the one who cares. I am the one, I've always been there. I am the one who'll help you, and if you think that I just don't give a damn, you just don't know who I am. Can I leave you?"
"John, it's me." He looked over to see Sherlock again, staring at him, his face concerned.
"Will you let me go under?" John asked Lestrade, "Will you watch as I drown, and wonder why?"
"John, of course not! Are you grieving?"
"Are you hurting, are you healing, are you hoping for a life to live?" Sherlock joined John on the sofa, and the doctor watched as Mycroft and Lestrade followed him closely with their eyes. "Does it help you to know, so am I? 'Cause I'm holding on. And I won't let go. I just thought you should know. I am the one who knows you. I am the one who cares. I am the one who's always been there. I am the one who needs you, and if you think that I just don't give a damn, then you just don't know who I am."
"Sherlock?" John asked, not believing his eyes. The detective put an arm around his shoulder, and the doctor fell against him, sobbing again,
"I am what you want me to be, and I'm your worst fear. You'll find it in me. Come closer. I am more than memory, I am what might be, I am mystery. You know me, so show me. I'm alive, I'm alive, I am so alive."
"No," John sobbed into Sherlock's chest, "it's not even possible."
"Go," the detective told his brother and the inspector.
Sherlock held John until his tears subsided, long after the man had fallen asleep. Gently, Sherlock laid him on the sofa and covered him with the blanket from his own bed. He then sneaked out of the flat and did some shopping, making sure to buy loads of tea. When he was back at 221 B, John was no longer on the sofa, and Sherlock timidly called out his name.
"You- complete- arse!" John yelled as he punched the detective in the face. "I thought you were dead, and you weren't the whole time! I fell apart and where were you? NOWHERE!"
"John," Sherlock said, rubbing the bruise forming on his cheek, "you're not that angry."
"Why not, Sherlock?"
"Because," he sighed, "you avoided my nose and jaw."
John breathed heavily and started giggling.
"John! What is so funny?"
"I don't know. I think I'm laughing to keep myself from crying over you."
not to have you to talk to, hard to think. Hard to…" Sherlock trailed into silence as a tear rolled down his face. He quickly wiped it away, flashing a smile at John. "Now, I understand why you're laughing, John."
"Tea?" he asked weakly.
"I'll make it," the detective said, walking into the flat's kitchen.
John sat on the sofa, pulling Sherlock's blanket over his shoulders.
"Sherlock," he called, "I love you."
In the kitchen, Sherlock chuckled, and answered, "I love you, too."
The detective entered the sitting room with two steaming mugs of tea, handed one to john, and took his place next to him. The doctor set his mug on the coffee table, smiling at Sherlock, "thank you," he said, and softly kissed the detective. Despite his own wishes, he teared up again.
"God, I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm a complete wreck, and now you have to see it."
"John, there is nothing wrong with it."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes." He put his arm around John, who in return, threw Sherlock's blanket over them both, resting his head against Sherlock's chest, closing his eyes as tears began to flow, his body silently shaking with sobs. He didn't know what to feel, but he was angry, sad and happy all at the same time. He heard Sherlock murmur his name over and over as he tried to hold in his sobs. John grasped Sherlock's hands tightly as he held him.
Again, the doctor cried himself to sleep against the detective, but this time, Sherlock didn't move; he wanted to be as close to John as possible. He kissed the top of the sleeping doctor's head, breathing in the scent of John and closing his eyes.
They sat through the night together, John in Sherlock's arms; Sherlock studying the face of the man he loved, occasionally pressing a kiss to the top of his head. During the night, John startled awake, calling Sherlock's name.
"John, I'm here. I'm right here," he said, grabbing the doctor's hands, holding him close. John made eye contact with him in the dark and leaned back in to the detective, instantly asleep in his embrace. He woke to find himself in Sherlock's arms, the detective's head tilted back in slumber.
Everything that had happened the night before was real. The doctor felt the corners of his mouth turn up; he wasn't crazy. He kissed the detective awake, and Sherlock smiled at him, pulling him in for another.
Finally, John got up to shower and change, as did Sherlock, when he was done.
The day was spent on the sofa, watching crap telly as Sherlock yelled at it, and John listened, enjoying the sound of his voice and the feel of his arms around him. Every once in a while, John would kiss Sherlock, and the detective would hold him closer.
"I missed you so much."
"I'm sorry that I wasn't around. I know you needed me, and I know that I wasn't there. I'm so sorry, John, I really-"
John silenced him with a kiss.
"Not today," he said, "not now. I just want to spend today with you."
Sherlock pulled a frown, "all right, fine. Can I take you out tonight?"
"Yes," the doctor answered, looking at Sherlock, "I would love that."
"Does this count as a date? You know: when two people who like each other go out and have fun?"
Laughing, John replied, "Yes, that does count."
"Okay. Good."
"Are you going to eat?"
"Yes," Sherlock answered.
"Where are we going?"
"That," the detective confessed, kissing John quickly, "is a surprise."
"Sherlock, you can't keep a secret from me. Not for another day."
"I thought you said you didn't want to talk about this."
"I don't, but I don't like secrets anymore. Understood?"
"Yes"
"So, where are we going?"
"Angelo's"
John smiled, remembering the first case the two had worked on, when he had denied many times that he was Sherlock's date.
"That sounds fantastic," he said, stealing a kiss from the detective. Sherlock chuckled against him, pulling John in again.
"We don't have to go, you know," Sherlock breathed between kisses.
"Yes, we do. And do you want to know why? It's because you've been gone for three years, and I want to have dinner with you."
"Oh, all right." He smiled broadly at the doctor, "let's go."
