Sherlock sat on the sofa with his head tilted back, pinching the bridge of his nose. He'd rather expected a warmer welcome. Though perhaps he couldn't entirely blame John for acting so rashly. Of course, if John had just used his brain and his damned eyes none of this would have been an issue.
"It's not broken," John said, bringing in a cold compress. "You should have some fine bruising though."
Sherlock could tell by his hoarse voice and blood-shot eyes that John had been crying moments ago. Or, more correctly, trying not to cry. He took the proffered compress and lay it across his nose, as John sat heavily beside him. Even from his peripheral vision, Sherlock could see the past few months had not been kind to John. The grey in his hair was clearly from emotional stress, possibly from grief, more likely because he didn't find his therapist at all helpful (obviously he had a therapist; he'd been sleeping on the sofa long term). The grey couldn't be from simple age advancement, fair-haired individuals didn't typically start to lose pigment in their hair until much later in life. Judging from the lines around John's mouth and the furrow between his eye brows, he hadn't had much cause to look terribly happy. Then there was the overall state of him, pallor of the skin, rumpled clothes that he'd obviously slept in, the slight arch of his spine, cracked and dry hands, and the air of sickliness all leant to the fact that John hadn't been taking very good care of himself. All obvious. The fact that John wouldn't meet his eye made it apparent, it wasn't all a coincidence, it had to do with Sherlock.
"So er… not dead?" John asked.
"Decidedly not," Sherlock replied.
"Right. And I'm not… dreaming? Drugged?
Sherlock caught John's eye, if only for a moment and smirked. "I should think not."
"Then I suppose… how could you fucking do this, Sherlock?" John voice shook with barely suppressed rage and Sherlock thought he looked as though he were resisting the urge to hit him again.
"Oh John, you saw the whole thing, but evidently you noticed nothing."
"That's not what I mean," John covered his mouth, his hand was shaking. "I mean, how could you have done this to me?" his voice was muffled.
Sherlock had known exactly what he meant. "It was necessary."
"Necessary?!" John exploded. He stood from the couch and shouted, "What could possibly be necessary about letting the people who care about you think that you've killed yourself? What possible good could it do to let m- us mourn you and then, just as we're all getting on with it, show up like nothing's happened? What situation called for this you arrogant, selfish sod?"
Sherlock tried very hard not to smile behind the compress, John may not be particularly astute, but surely he would notice that. "Come John, you and I both know that you were not getting on with it."
John dithered for a moment, opening and closing his mouth like a guppy, clearly at a loss of how to reply.
"But all that's done with. You can stop going to that therapist of yours now."
John groaned and scrubbed his face. "If anything, I think I'll need more intense therapy now. Best friend back from the dead? She'd have a field day," he mumbled. "Let me have a look," he gently removed the compress from Sherlock's face and assessed the damage he'd done. "You'll survive. I must've pulled my punch," he locked eyes with Sherlock's. "I won't make that mistake again."
Sherlock watched him stride into the kitchen to refresh the compress. He touched his fingers to his nose and cheeks. There would be some swelling and no doubt some bruising, but John was right; he had pulled his punch. "Would you be so kind as to put the kettle on?"
"Don't," John began sharply, "push your luck. I'm still bloody furious with you."
"Can I at least have my phone back?"
"Armchair."
Instead of going for the armchair, Sherlock swept it up off the floor below the armchair and typed in his four digit passcode. The message he'd been expecting was there, glowing benignly at him.
"So," John handed the compress back to Sherlock, who dabbed lightly at his face with it. "What was so… necessary?"
"Frankly, it doesn't matter at all. I was a fool to think he wouldn't notice."
"Say that again."
"It doesn't matter?" Sherlock knew exactly what John wanted to hear.
"No, the bit after that."
"I was a fool." Sherlock indulged John in savoring that moment.
"And why have you come back now? After all this time?"
"You know the answer to that."
"JM?"
"James Moriarty."
"I'd thought it was a coincidence." John sighed.
"Wishful thinking?"
John looked up at Sherlock and smiled, "Nope."
John's life must've been far more excruciating than Sherlock could visually deduce for him to hope that the threat meant him.
"So what do we plan to do?" John asked.
The reply was simple. "Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"This message was sent early yesterday, Moriarty will be hoping to instill panic. That's what he does; brings you down from the inside," Sherlock knew this truth all too well. "But not in me, he'll know I'd have him worked out, so you were the intended recipient of this message. He wants to fill you with paranoia so you look around every corner and fear every doorway. He wants you to know it when he finally does strike." Sherlock smiled, "But he's underestimated you, hasn't he John? You won't panic, in fact you were waiting for something like this and you're ready to face it head on."
"I'm going to hate myself for asking this, but how d'you know I've been waiting?"
"Because I know you John."
"Right."
"This has gone warm again," Sherlock held the compress out to John.
John's eyes flicked from the compress to Sherlock's face.
"Not good?" Sherlock asked.
"Very, very not good."
A/N: Wanted to get the Sherlock and John banter just right, but I'm still not entirely happy. If only I was Mark Gatiss or Steven Moffat. But I'm not, so insert legal jargon about BBC owning Sherlock yada yada. Review if you like please.