Hello everyone! This was inspired by a headcannon on Pinterest, so I wrote it up! I'll be on vacation for 2 weeks, so if I don't update, that's why!
Enjoy :)))
Sherlock Holmes took a deep breath, and let it go. He was standing outside the apartment door leading to 221b Baker Street. He was eager to see John of course, but just nervous as to how he would react. After all, he'd nearly rendered poor Mrs. Hudson unconscious with fright when he saw her yesterday. His explanation of how he'd done it was blown off, and she'd hugged him so tight, it made the wounds on his back from his recent time in Serbia ache. She'd gone off for a while, claiming that John and Sherlock would need 'alone time'.
He raised his hand and pushed open the door that led to the sitting room of 221b. John Watson looked up, and shock flashed across his face for a fleeting second. He shook his head, and looked again.
"Um...hello, John." Sherlock began nervously.
"Sherlock," his friend breathed out. "I should've known, too much time alone or something," he mumbled to himself before turning back to his friend.
"Tea? The kettle just boiled."
"...Tea…" Sherlock repeated, shocked. He'd expected a bit more of a reaction, honestly.
"Well, come and sit down," John invited, handing him a steaming cup.
Sherlock sat in his chair, enjoying the familiarity of it, and sipped his tea.
He could feel his drink scalding his mouth, but he let it happen until he could think of what to say.
What does one say to their best friend who thought you were dead for two years?
"So, John," he began, "you probably have some questions."
John set down his own mug. "Well, yes."
"I'll start with the most obvious question: how? Well, there were 13 different outcomes-"
"No, Sherlock, I don't care how. I want to know why."
"Because I had to do everything in my power to stop Moriarty, that's why." Sherlock knew that wasn't what John was asking, but he didn't want to reveal the real answer.
"Is my bedroom still…?" he asked, trying to change the subject.
"Yes. It's going to be very dusty though," John answered.
Sherlock nodded, looking down. When his gaze lifted back up, he saw John was gone, as were his shoes, so he must have gone out.
He got up, and began playing a game with himself, deducing how many times things had been touched in his absence.
His violin case? Hadn't been touched at all, thankfully.
His microscope? Only a couple times, and Sherlock deduced it had been cleaned recently.
He made his way around the flat like this, until he reached the drawer where John kept his gun,
It had been opened, and fingers had grasped the gun. Many times.
Sherlock closed the drawer quickly, and inhaled shakily.
Did my "death" really affect him that much?
When John got back, he looked angry.
It was okay. Sherlock had anticipated that.
"Sherlock, I don't understand. How are you back? You can't be back!" he yelled the last sentence.
"You can't be here, you're dead," he whispered, and sat in his chair, tears threatening to fall.
"You can't be alive," he repeated.
Sherlock knelt beside John.
"No, John, it's me, I promise. I'm not dead, see?" Sherlock replied, trying his best to comfort him.
John just smiled sadly to himself, got up and left without a word, not giving Sherlock a chance to ask about the gun.
A few days passed without incident; John spoke to Sherlock sometimes, ignored him other times, and Sherlock just went along with it, glad John was acknowledging him.
A few days later, Mrs. Hudson had returned from visiting her sister. She quickly headed into 221b, eager to see the consulting detective again.
She opened the door, and smiled.
"John! So lovely to see you again!"
John smiled in return, but it failed to reach his eyes; Sherlock had noticed that a lot.
"And Sherlock, I'm so-John? John, are you alright?"
Sherlock turned to his friend, concerned.
John's face had gone white as a sheet. He licked his lips nervously, before looking to Sherlock to Mrs. Hudson, and said, "You can see him too?"