Chapter 7-Sherlock

John nearly screamed, only barely managing to stop himself. For a long moment, he could only stare at the figure before him who was now watching him, curiosity mixing with sadness in his deep eyes. After an eternity, John cleared his throat to speak.

"You…you're dead," he whispered hoarsely. His comment earned him a raised eyebrow and an exasperated sigh.

"Obviously not," replied Sherlock. Despite his obvious annoyance, however, he couldn't help smiling. Not his usual, quick smirk, there one instant, gone the next. No, this was a genuine smile, a smile John had only seen on a few, rare occasions. "It's good to see you," said Sherlock quietly, reaching out towards John. John jerked back instinctively, and Sherlock pulled back, looking hurt. "Of course," continued Sherlock, as if nothing had happened, "I have seen you several times over the past three years. But you've never seen me. Except once." John frowned still trying to wrap his head around what was happening.

"The taxi," he said after a moment. Sherlock nodded, pleased that his friend had remembered so well. But Sherlock's smile changed to a frown again when he saw the look on John's face.

"I thought you would be glad to see me," he said, puzzled by the anger and confusion that were the predominant emotions on John's face.

"I don't even know if you're real," said John. "For all I know, I've finally gone mad and you're just a figment of my imagination and you'll be gone in a moment. Or worse, you'll still be here and I'll have to pretend that I can't see you so that no one thinks I'm insane."

Sherlock had slid out of the chair and was kneeling beside the bed. The pain in his eyes was evident now as he took John's hand. This time, John didn't resist.

"I'm real, John," Sherlock said. "As real as I ever was. Use your logic, use your senses and you will see how real I am." He placed John's captive hand on his cheek. John flinched slightly at the contact but slowly he relaxed. Sherlock released his hand John ran his hand down the other man's face, then up to his hair. He breathed in deeply, recognizing that familiar scent that he could never categorize as anything other than "Sherlock." He had missed that scent, and this more than anything made him begin to believe that it really was Sherlock. How could his mind ever create that scent? No, it had to be real.

"Sherlock?" he whispered. The other man smiled, a sadder smile than the first one, but definitely there and definitely real.

"Yes, John," he replied. "I'm here." John's eyes filled with tears as his heart was overrun with emotions. Relief, anger, joy, hatred, and a thousand other emotions filled him at once, overwhelming his mind. All of these emotions condensed themselves into one solid action, and before Sherlock could see it coming, before he could pull away, John punched him.