John wasn't angry. Or, maybe he was, he couldn't really pinpoint exactly one feeling right now because nothing made sense. He was used to life not making a lot of sense, but recently it had fallen into quite an easy pattern of sense and as much as he missed the element of ridiculous three years was definitely a sufficient length of time for him to get used the normalcy. Being followed him by some strange man had sparked the solider in him and from then on things had disintegrated into the weird: the old man, who John had begun to expect wasn't that old anyway, had broken into his flat, seemed to have gotten taller, attacked him (to be fair, John had been pointing a gun at his head but, really, he had been followed home and his fitness levels had dropped since his life didn't including running around after criminals, so he had to defend himself in some way), caused him to get what was probably mild concussion from his kitchen table... then the man had said he was Sherlock and that he was alive and to meet him for a bloody Chinese.

He'd passed out at some point between the man declaring himself to be Sherlock (and he had looked like Sherlock, but then John had been a tad distracted by the whole head wound thing) and the man insisting that he had to be at this Chinese restaurant at seven. John thought it was quite presumptuous for the man, whoever he was, to assume he'd be conscious or willing to intend this goddamn rendezvous, yet here he was sat with an aching head in a Chinese restaurant waiting for someone to turn up.

Mycroft had been in his apartment when he came too, along with his PA and an annoying doctor who kept insisting that John had just fallen over, hit his head and had a bit of a delusion. This, of course, had been absolute bullshit... and he may have been quite articulate in expressing this to the doctor, pointing out that if he was just having a bit of delusion then why the hell was Mycroft Holmes currently drinking tea out of one of John's mugs, looking as if the fact that it wasn't fine china really displeased him. And why had the delusion started half an hour before he'd hit his head? And why his gun wasn't in its usual place in the draw with the rest of his Sherlock-related-memorabilia?

"There has been an oversight on my behalf," Mycroft had said, in that usual prim way of his that John had almost missed – because damn, he hadn't seen Mycroft for at least two years. The man had a frustrating habit, in the first year, to continue abducting him off the streets and appearing in his new flat – or Baker Street, before he'd moved out – at unpredictable times to ensure that John wasn't about to do anything rash. John had flat out told him he didn't want to see him, that he wasn't interested in doing anything rash ever again and that Mycroft Holmes made his blood boil beyond even Sherlock-levels of irritation. He was angry at Mycroft, indefinitely, and probably would continue to be so for an extreme length of time – but then the man had to deal with his own grief in his atypical caring-is-not-an-advantage fashion so something John thought being so emotionally in adept was sure to be punishment in itself.

"I don't care," John had said, "I just want someone to tell me what the hell is going on and then I want you to leave. That man said he was Sherlock."

Of course, Mycroft had given him no answers and had instead lead John into a path of thinking suggesting that the Sherlock-impersonate was obviously bad news (and, to be fair, John couldn't think of an explanation of someone pretending to be a dead man, breaking into his flat and knocking him out which was good news), but John had still wound up relying on the fact that Mycroft continually underestimated him to break out of his own apartment and get a cab to the Chinese restaurant.

Whoever it was that seemed to want to meet for a Chinese so much was currently rather spectacularly absent and John was debating whether or not to order a portion of lemon chicken or give up and go home, but then Mycroft was sure to know where he was by now and was likely to be seconds away from digitally making the Chinese menu spell out what the hell are you doing, John? Or something equally ridiculous he didn't really like moving and making it easier for him.

And that was when the man in painting overalls came out of the bathroom looking directly at John in such a way that John found himself staring at the man for a few long seconds.

Then the man sat down opposite John. Now, John could recognised the icy colour of the man's eyes ad those godamn cheekbones, where as ten minutes previously he'd looked like a different person. John fixed his gaze on the Chinese menu and thought he most definitely needed something deep fried.

"Hello." The man opposite said.

John considered the benefits of egg fried rice.

"Hi." He added in a stiff voice, trying to get his head to focus on the choice between whether he was hungry enough for pancake rolls or not, but finding it quite difficult to properly concentrate. He cast it off as a doomed idea (stupid, too) and then looked back up at the man opposite, not entirely sure what he should damn well say. "You're late." He finally settled on because everything about this was ridiculous and he was currently knee deep in shock (perhaps he was having a bit of a delusion?) and so he should definitely have the right to be just as ridiculous if he wanted to bed.

The man opposite – John wasn't about to think of him as Sherlock, because he'd watched Sherlock jump of a building and he'd identified the body and he'd accepted the fact that his best mate was dead – raised his eyebrows slightly.

And there was silence.

John concluded that this was a bit bloody awkward.

"Not dead then?" John suggested conversationally.

"No." Sherlock said evenly, eyeing John the way he'd eye chemicals which were supposed to be reacting in a very obvious quite violent way, but were doing absolutely nothing. "Are you...okay?"

"Bit confused," John said, "sure it will all clear itself up in a minute."

John hoped the sarcasm involved in that was evident.

"I... faked my own death."

"Right, course," John said, nodding, "obviously."

"Are you hungry?"

"Starving," John said, "nothing like getting knocked out by your dead ex flatmate to work up an appetite. What the hell is going on?"

John hadn't expected his fist to hit the table, exactly, nor had he expected his final words to come out quite so loudly.

"You should order," Sherlock said, catching the waitresses eye, "your lunch at work was minimal because they make terrible sandwiches, you went trekking across London straight after work to take your mind off the imminent break up before getting knocked out –"

"– by you – "

"– by me," Sherlock agreed, "and we're already running late."

John closed his eyes and tried to make everything make sense. When he opened them again, Sherlock was ordering him the lemon chicken with egg fried rice and pancake rolls and it still didn't make much sense. He was considering that this was some strange, perverse dream, except John didn't dream but for the dreams about the war. He considered a few more wild probabilities, but came up with nothing more creative than someone slipping a magic mushroom into his dinner last night.

"Not eating," John said slowly, "on a case?"

"Yes."

"Long case, is it?"

"Somewhat," Sherlock said, leaning forwards slightly, "they were pointing a gun at your head, John, I had no choice," John had never heard Sherlock talk so damn quietly, "I wanted to come back."

Sherlock had always been balls at emotions, but the more John began to get past the fact that Sherlock was bloody there the more he was able to take in the fact that the man looked bloody awful. Combined with the fact that he had mild concussion, he was very very confused and he was oddly aware that Sherlock breaking into his flat hadn't been very rational, he thought that he might be able to make a small allowance for the fact that this was all flaming nonsense for a few seconds and not demand a full and conclusive explanation from his dead (?) best mate right this second.

At least until his rice arrived.

"Need me on this case?" John asked, pressing his knuckles into his forehead.

"Of course." Sherlock said and he smiled slightly, in a way that suggested that he was very much dreading the point in time when John had gotten through the confusion and the headache enough that he could demand the full story and perhaps actually put some faith in the fact that this real, living, breathing Sherlock actually existed.


Why is it that I always find myself updating this at a stupid time in the morning? Sorry for the delay in update, I've been finishing my Alevels then when on holiday with my best friends and had a mild case of writers stop. Hopefully, now its summer, I'll have the time to write this straight through to the end at some point soon. Thanks to anyone who's still reading! CC is always welcome and reviews make me very cheerful. :)