John's heart felt like it was going to pound right out of his chest, taking deep breaths through his nose in an attempt to calm his already-jittery nerves. His hands shook as he took the kettle from the cupboard, setting it on the stovetop before pouring in some water to let boil. He could practically feel Sherlock's pale-eyed gaze upon his back, although he did not acknowledge it, pretending that this was normal, although it was anything but.
There was the sound of fabric shifting from behind him, and the sound of a wooden chair screeching outward from the kitchen table closely following it. Sherlock was most likely settling at the table instead, though for what reason, John didn't know. The piercing whistle of the kettle brought John back to the present time, and he was quick to pour out two mugs of tea, carrying them over to the table and setting them down with a clunk. The sugar bowl was set down as well, in case either of them wanted to add some to their tea.
After settling down in the chair across from Sherlock, John sighed, folding his hands together on the tabletop. Sherlock mirrored his position, almost, hands steepled underneath his chin. They both expected each other to speak first, and that was quickly going to become a problem.
"There were thirteen scenarios in place, when I went up onto that rooftop." Sherlock began, his voice slow at first. "Each had a specific codeword, and teams were in place for every single one of them. I knew that Moriarty wanted me to die, to finish off his story, so I planned and I predicted. Him killing himself was definitely a setback, but-"
John put a hand up, effectively interrupting him midsentence.
"Shut up, Sherlock, alright? Just . . . shut up." he said, clenching his teeth together for a moment. "I don't care about how you did it, alright? I don't, I really don't. What I want to know is . . . how could you do that to me? You flung yourself off St. Bart's, I saw you, and you pretended to be dead for two years. I grieved. I cried. So many other people did, too, because we thought we'd lost you forever. And now here you are, right back in my life like you never even left it. How exactly did you think our reunion was going to go, Sherlock? Did you honestly believe I was just going to pretend it was alright, like I didn't drown myself in sorrow? You're a right arsehole, that's what."
John hadn't realized how choked up he was actually getting, now on the brink of tears by the time he'd finished speaking. Whatever shoddy excuse Sherlock was going to come up with, whether it be that 'I had to save the world, John', or 'You wouldn't understand, John, it was for the greater good', John wouldn't care. Sherlock had still hurt him, he'd still driven him so far off the edge for a few months that he did nothing but stay in the flat and drink himself to sleep. Sherlock bloody Holmes had carved himself a place within John's heart, nestled himself there, forced himself to fit, and it'd been a gaping wound after Sherlock had taken his fall. It had torn John apart, and he'd just been putting himself back together again when this happened.
Sherlock was just sitting there, saying nothing at all, and John had every notion to tip the scalding-hot tea over that stupid head of his and-
"I'm sorry." Sherlock was apologizing, again, and John's violent train of thought came to a screeching halt. "I know, John. Things aren't the same between us as they were before, they probably won't be ever again, and I'm accepting that. If you want me out of your life, that's fine. I would understand. I would have told you, you know, if I had the choice. But my brother was very secretive about the whole thing, he didn't want you knowing. Or anyone close to me, for that matter."
"Mycroft knew? He knew about you being not-dead? How many other people knew, Sherlock?" John demanded. "And don't lie to me, I'll know."
"My brother, my parents, Molly Hooper, and a select few of the homeless network." Sherlock replied, looking thoroughly put-out by that point. "But you had to believe I was dead, John. You absolutely had to. Moriarty had a sniper trained on you, and he would've killed you unless you saw me jump and you believed I had died. I couldn't- I wouldn't watch you die."
"What about afterward, Sherlock? What about then, when it was hours after, and I was safe?" John sounded extremely hurt, which he most certainly was. "You could've contacted me."
"I wasn't allowed to." Sherlock looked guilty. "Once again, John, I do apologize for what I put you through. You want me out, just say the word. I'll go. You won't hear from me again."
"No." the answer came so quick that John hardly realized he'd said it in the first place. "No, I'm not booting you from my life, alright? Even though I'm certainly going to be cross with you for a long while, I'm not just going to let you walk out of my life all over again. That'd be really stupid of me, and- y'know, Sherlock, at your funeral, I said a few things at your grave. But there was one thing that I asked you for, one thing that I really wanted. I asked you for one more miracle. I asked you to stop being dead. And here you are."
"Here I am." Sherlock repeated, although a sad smile appeared on his face. "I know, John. I was there. I heard you."
John almost laughed, but refrained, crossing his arms as he looked up at the ceiling. Sherlock had actually been there, lurking in the trees, listening to everything John had been saying to his grave. How utterly . . . Sherlock Holmes. He took a sip of tea, which had cooled a bit by now, and sighed.
"Alright. So, I'm going to go put away the groceries that you caused me to spill all over the floor, and you . . . do something with yourself, I don't care what." John got up from his chair, stretching his arms upward before heading over to the entrance of the flat, getting to work on picking up the food he'd dropped.
He heard Sherlock get up from the table, and a few minutes later, the sound of violin began to once more flow through the flat. John smiled to himself, shaking his head. He was still in shock, of course he was, and it'd be hours still until he recovered fully, maybe even days or weeks. But Sherlock was here, really here, and it seemed that months, years, of doubt had finally been put to rest.
In the days after Sherlock's death, John had convinced himself fully that Sherlock would come strolling into 221B, alive, and it would be like nothing had happened at all. But as the weeks had dragged on, his hopes had been drowned in sorrow, and he'd given up on the chance of ever seeing Sherlock again. But yet, it seemed that miracles really could happen.
Peace, at last.
Sherlock was dead, and John could see it. Pushing past the people crowded around the detective's body, his mouth dropped open in horror, his heart almost coming to a stop. Blood stained the sidewalk around Sherlock's curly-haired head, his limbs at all odd angles, and as John crouched to press his fingers to the inside of Sherlock's wrist, there was no pulse. Sherlock really was dead, there was no coming back this time, and John's heart began to ache.
John was in the flat, walking down the hallway to Sherlock's room, calling out the detective's name. But as he pushed the door to Sherlock's bedroom open, the sight that greeted him nearly caused him to faint in shock. Sherlock, suspended from the ceiling by his own scarf, his body lifelessly twisting back and forth in the scarf's hold. Oh, god.
John awoke with a hoarse scream, his legs twisted within the confines of his bedsheets, his chest heaving as he panted. It took a minute to calm himself down, to remind himself of his surroundings, to convince himself that everything was alright. He was in his bed, in his bedroom, in the flat on Baker Street. John exhaled heavily, sitting up and running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. His nightmares had taken that form for months, forced to see Sherlock dying over and over again, but they hadn't been that fully terrifying since the first few weeks after Sherlock's suicide.
John squinted at the clock on his bedside table, trying to determine exactly what time that it happened to be. 3:21 AM. He'd gone to bed at around eleven, exhausted both physically and emotionally from that day's events. Sherlock had paid mild attention to the late night shows on the telly, though he'd mostly been involved in scrolling through the news on his laptop, trying to catch up on everything and check to see if anything new had happened. They'd ended up getting takeaway for dinner, with John going out to fetch it, and spent the night in companionable silence. Just like old times.
John's door began to creak open at that very moment, and John scrambled for some sort of weapon. His gun, where was his gun? But as the door opened completely, John stopped in his frantic scrambling. Sherlock's tall figure stood in the doorway, his face eclipsed into shadow by the darkness of the landing.
"John?" he asked, his voice quiet yet curious. "I heard you screaming from downstairs, were you having night terrors?"
"Mm? Oh, yeah, but it's nothing. I'm alright now." John said shakily, and perhaps if he said it enough, he would believe it. "I thought you'd be asleep by now, you must've had a long journey back here from . . . wherever it was that you've been hiding for the past two years."
"My bedroom's filled with boxes, I didn't really feel like cleaning it out tonight." Sherlock's shoulders lifted in a shrug. "I've been in the sitting room on the sofa, but even considering that I've been sleeping on more uncomfortable things the past few months, I couldn't really . . . but forget that. I was just seeing to that you were alright."
"Fine. Perfectly fine." Since when did Sherlock even care? But considering Sherlock hadn't cared to leave his company today, even complaining at the suggestion of John going out to fetch the Chinese, perhaps he just wanted some familiar faces after being away for so long. "If you want, you can sleep in here tonight. I think I've got a pump-up mattress. Or, you could take it out to the sitting room, if you wanted to."
"I think I'll sleep in here. You've experienced these night terrors before, and you tend to not go back to sleep afterwards, instead going out to the kitchen and drinking a few cups of coffee before staying up until your shift at the clinic starts." Sherlock said, matter-of-factly. "And considering you need to be well-rested in order to treat patients, it might be better if you have someone else's presence with you."
"I'm not going to even ask how you know I do all that, even though you've been away for the duration of them happening, but alright. Let me just lug it out of the closet." John swung his legs over the side of the bed and shuffled over to his closet, opening it and taking out the box that contained the blow-up mattress. He plugged the pump into the wall and began to inflate it, unplugging it once he was done.
Sherlock, in that time span, had gone to his bedroom and brought back his sheets and his duvet, and he silently handed them to John to put onto the mattress. John rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he kneeled to set up the bed. Really, Sherlock couldn't even do it for himself? Nothing had changed, he was glad to observe. Once done, John settled back into his bed, listening to the sounds of Sherlock thrashing about on the mattress until he was comfortable. He couldn't see Sherlock, not in the darkness of the bedroom, but the mere knowing that he was there soothed John, just the tiniest bit.
"Goodnight, John." came Sherlock's voice from somewhere to his right.
"Goodnight, Sherlock." John replied, before rolling onto his side so he could get more comfortable, falling into a deep sleep a few minutes later.
When John awoke the next morning, Sherlock was not there.