Hi guys! Since Kathson is on holiday, I - Ninlock - am updating again. This is a VERY short chapter, but we promise there'll be more soon.


Sherlock

Sherlock blinks against the sudden light that engulfs him and the figure in the hallway. His eyes are slow to adjust and the person in front of him slowly swims into vision. His breathing halts.

It's John, his John, looking tired, pale and much, much older than ever. The bags under his eyes are larger, his hairs seems to have more grey streaks than the last time Sherlock laid his eyes on his beloved doctor and his whole demeanor has changed so much from what the detective remembers. This is a broken man, he realizes with a pang of guilt.

John, what did I do to you?

"I said, who are you and what are you doing in my flat?" The doctor does not sound calm this time. There's rage boiling in his voice and now that his eyes have adjusted to the light, Sherlock sees the tension in his arm and hand. The hand in which he holds the knife.

The detective lowers his gun slowly, avoiding sudden movements to prevent John from thinking he's being attacked and hurting Sherlock or himself. He bends down, not taking his eyes off of John, and places the weapon at his feet before rising again, keeping his movements slow and clear.

John seems confused and Sherlock can't blame him, but he has more important things on his mind. He licks his lips, takes a deep breath...

"John, I'm home."

John

Time stills as the words wash over him. "John, I'm home." The words are spoken in his voice. No one has a voice like his. It's unmistakable and a surge of giddy glee rips through him as his mind wrestles with the only possible solution.

Sherlock is alive. Impossible. But it's the only explanation and it's confirmed as the shadowed figure steps from the door-frame into the kitchen an proper light. John's thoughts seemed to have flat-lined because this shouldn't,couldn't be real.

He stumbles back, almost as if dealt a blow and gives a firm shake of his hand. "No." he protests, hold a hand in the air, as if willing away his vision. He's finally lost it. Hallucinations, vivid one, not the occasional shadows in the corners of his eye, are the real deal. "NO!" he nearly shouts this time, swiping his hand in the vision's direction, intending to cut clean through the form like a cloud. That should banish it from his mind. Surely.

But instead his hand comes in contact with cool,smooth flesh. Firm bone. Muscle. Shock echos through his being, and emits from his mouth in a sudden sharp gasp, to unlike those that come after being dealt a painful blow. His hand clasps Sherlock's
with a vice grip akin to desperation. He can feel each individual bone move in Sherlock's hand as he squeezes it.

Sherlock remains silent, but there is a wince at strength of John's grip,so he softens it, instead running a thumb over Sherlock's skin in further confirmation of his existence."He's real. He's alive. He came back to me.

The thought jolts John from his dream-like state with a flood of torrid emotions and blind rage blacks all other out. "That conniving bastard! Fucking lunatic, screwing with my emotions, with my life like that." Before he can fully process what he's doing his fist it flying threw the air, to contact Sherlock's face.