Well, here we are! The one big day! Wuuuhhuuuuuu! Sherlock's excited! Whatever. Here it is :)
John's POV:
The day at the surgery keeps John well occupied; the homeless network had realised after he had found and helped some of them, that John worked there and was willing to help them for no money. It took a long time, but then again, he did have nearly two years since Sherlock – he forces himself to think it, it's no use to be afraid of his best friend's name – fell. He hates to say that Sherlock jumped, though. The ex-army-doctor still doesn't believe that. Sherlock's ego had been so huge, fuelled by his brilliance and the constant praise that John had given him, that he wouldn't kill himself just because his reputation was destroyed. Furthermore, John had served in Afghanistan. It was a time which he would definitely remember forever, both the good parts and the bad ones, but he had to admit – it had given him, after all, a lot of confidence and knowledge that had been most useful. It wasn't as useful now, but it surprised him again and again with what kind of wounds the homeless network came to him. One part of experience had been witnessing one of the soldiers go through depression and suicide. Many others had thought about it, him sometimes, in the very dark days, as well, but the point is, he does know what people look like when they are going to commit suicide. Well, you can't always see that, you might argue now, but John knows that Sherlock didn't die because he wanted to. So he prefers the term fell.
After treating Phoenix last, he leaves after a quick "Goodbye" to Mary and the other nurses, and begins the way home. The underground surprisingly isn't that full any more, but then again, as he realises when he looks at his watch, it's long after rush-hour.
The brass letters that spell 221B are still as shiny as ever and as he's limping toward the black door he has a strange feeling of deja-vu. Is the cab, which is driving behind him, going to stop? Is a tall man with dark curls and high cheekbones going to step out, call out his name and shake his hand?
But the cab drives by and John smiles about himself. That was a long time ago, and not happening again.
The address 221 Baker street is still owned by an old lady called Martha Hudson. The address 221 B Baker street is still home to Dr John Watson, formerly Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, but so much has changed. The flat is much tidier now. Most of the papers, books, science equipments and other clutter are in the room on the first floor, Sherlock's old room. John is still sleeping in his old room, he couldn't live in Sherlock's because well, it was Sherlock's.
The kettle is new. Sherlock had been using the old one for an experiment during the 'Reichenbach Fall' as the Newspapers had called it, and John had just thrown it away. When he thinks about it, he thinks that it is a good name. It describes what Sherlock went through and how it had all started.
John sighs when he tastes the slightly bitter taste of the Earl Gray once again and relaxes. Home isn't what it used to be, but it still is home.
A few hours later, John is sitting in front of his computer, the cold and empty take-out box forgotten next to him. Every few minutes he looks up at the chair in front of him, where the violin-case resides. It has been there for two years, only moved every six months to be checked and repaired.
It's still light outside (it's nearly June!) when he hears steps on the stairs. He isn't expecting anyone, Lestrade called him just yesterday and Mrs Hudson sounds a lot different. The steps are slow, uncertain, but heavy. A man, a big man, who seems to know the steps. He avoids most of the creaking ones, just not the new ones, and John is alert instantly.
Who would come in here just like that? It's none of his friends (he doesn't have many), they would have just come up quickly and the homeless network would have rung the bell. So there's only one conclusion: Someone who isn't meant to be here, somebody who knows that.
The laptop doesn't make a sound when the soldier – when did he change into soldier mode? - puts it on the desk, and gets up, readying himself. He scolds himself for a second for not having his gun on him, but there's nothing he can do about it, so he pushes it to the back of his head.
Slowly the door swings open and a man enters. His hair is shorter than it used to be, his face is even thinner and he isn't wearing coat and scarf, but John recognizes him anyway and forgets to breathe.
"John." The deep baritone is calm and confident, and so, so familiar, that John breathes in and blinks once, twice to make sure he isn't seeing things. He is sure that the man isn't a hallucination, he never had any and he's through his grieving, but how is this possible?
"Sherlock?" John's voice is quiet, not quite believing what he's seeing, but hoping so desperately that it's real.
Then his mood changes. Sherlock Holmes, dead, stands in front of him. Well, obviously not dead, but this man faked his death in front of him! Made him watch! Told him lies, told him to keep his eyes on Sherlock!
The anger kicks in and John knows it is visible on his face.
"You... You!" The doctor nearly screams and steps forward. He isn't sure whether he is going to hug or punch Sherlock, and by the sad and slightly confused look on Sherlock's face the detective isn't either.
He isn't much closer to Sherlock when somebody else enters the room, limping slightly. Kiara Moriarty looks quite different to the last and first time he saw her. Even though she had been pretty before, she is beautiful now. Her red hair frames her pale face, and brings out her bright green eyes. The freckles are dusted on her little nose, and her full lips complete the picture of a model-like beauty.
She is behind Sherlock, who hasn't turned around at all, and John's instincts kick in. Within milliseconds he sees the gun in her back-pocket, the knife beneath her shirt and the needle strapped to her biceps.
He also sees that she is reaching towards Sherlock's shoulder, her other hand near the gun, and that's when John jumps into action.
Pushing Sherlock to the side, he grips her shoulder and spins her around, and grips her in a quick choke-hold, holding her right arm up to keep her from getting the gun, knife or needle. She doesn't really resist, only struggles a bit and tries to move her head to avoid choking. Her frantic breaths are getting shorter and harsher, and he silently starts counting seconds, when Sherlock grips his shoulder.
"John! John, stop!" The detective needs a few seconds to get through to his friend, until he loosens his hold just a bit, a tiny bit, so that just enough blood can flow to keep the girl alive for longer than fifteen seconds. It's still painful though.
"What, Sherlock?" his voice is sharp, clipped and in full soldier mode, instinctively he had snapped back instantly into protecting his friend.
"She's not dangerous!"
"She's Moriarty's daughter!"
"Yes, and she has not only helped me to destroy his web the past two years but also saved my life countless times!"
"She helped?"
"Yes, John, now please let her go, I can explain!"
Still not very sure, he lets her go and watches as she falls to her knees and starts coughing. He steps away, deliberately away from Sherlock, and waits for her to stop, which she does after a few seconds.
"What the hell is going on here?" John's voice is clipped, angry and confused, which shows his emotions quite well.
He watches how the girl slowly gets to her knees and then stands up, and how Sherlock looks at her, just briefly, but jealousy flares up in John. Sherlock used to look at him like that, searching for help, for words. Then Sherlock begins to speak.
"John, this is Kiara Moriarty, you've met her before."
At this point she steps forward and extends her hand.
"Dr Watson, I'm sorry that both our first meetings have been like this; I am happy to finally be able to talk to you properly. Please call me Kiara." Her tone and body language are friendly, polite and slightly guarded, but for John that's quite understandable. Her whole demeanour is a lot more grown-up than it was two years ago, and in her eyes he can see a wisdom beyond her years. She must be, what, seventeen now? Eighteen?
He shakes her hand and nods, not bothering to say anything.
"She helped me to find, attack and destroy her father's and now Moran's web over the last fifteen months. Despite – despite who her father was, she is not an enemy, John. Without her, I wouldn't be here. Kiara found me nine months after my fake-suicide and we have done it – with Mycroft's help. Moran is dead." Sherlock's voice is nearly monotone, but John believes he can hear a slight pleading in his voice.
With his head bowed, John takes it all in, and he can't help the flares of jealousy and anger he feels towards Kiara whenever Sherlock says "we" or expresses how much she did for him. Of course, he is grateful that Sherlock is alive, but he could have done the same. He could have helped him.
"Who else?" John's voice is very quiet.
"Who else what?" Sherlock asks confused.
"Who else knew? Who else beside Mycroft, whom you hate, did you tell?" John's voice gets louder and louder with every word and Sherlock's eyes widen.
"Molly." His voice is nearly inaudible, and John explodes.
He punches Sherlock squarely in the jaw, knocking him back and sending him sprawling to the floor.
"You told Molly? You always use and hurt her, and don't care for her very much, and you told HER? I thought I meant something, Sherlock!" John screams those words, screams them out, and watches with a cruel joy how Sherlock flinches.
The little gesture Sherlock makes to Kiara with the hand not holding his jaw is what makes him stop. Kiara's obvious worry for Sherlock is calmed by her trust in Sherlock, and Sherlock trusts her enough to know she's watching his back – something John always did.
It's something he can't process. Sherlock still sitting on the floor, holding his jaw but not defending himself seems so unreal, so John does the only thing that's possible for him right now. The door is right behind him, and slams shut when he's through, leaving Sherlock and Kiara alone in silence.