This one was finished quite quickly for me, unusual I know but I had a lot of spare time on my hands this weekend. Enjoy!

The Return of Sherlock Holmes 3; Back From the Dead

"I understand you must have so many questions for me John," said the nostalgic voice, as Sherlock sat across from the ex-soldier in his flat on Melbourne Street. "About how I 'died', why I didn't tell you, and why I have come back now."

The blonde only stared at him with that same expression; it was somewhere halfway between a burning hatred and a longing. He murmured something about total pricks but said nothing else. It was now that the taller man could look at him in their silence, their momentary pause, and regard his friend with the same awe that he always had done. While it was true John had been affected harshly by the loss of his friend, he had never given up, and he had battled on, just as Sherlock had wanted him to. He held his last promise until he could no longer walk forwards and then some. He was short, this was a fact, his limp seemed to have returned – much worse than before – and he had been neglecting his personal appearance somewhat. It seemed as though he was no longer intent on finding himself a wife, which worried the detective, as John had always been one for the dating 'scene'. He was still quite well cut for a man of his age, but the light from his eyes had been blown out, and the hard scores of frowning outshone the lines of laughter which used to be so prominent on his face.

It pained Sherlock to see him this way, he was never sure why, but when it came to the doctor it was obvious that he cared more than he would like to; and it confused him. Of course he was familiar with the chemical workings of attraction, dilation of the pupils, increased heart rate, heightened breathing, flushed cheeks, and those disgusting animalistic desires which could surface every so often. Feelings, however, were not something that he had a grasp on – like how the sight of his companion's laughing face could instantly cause him to smile himself, or how seeing him hurt like this at his hands depressed him beyond much else. Some people might call it friendship, some people might call it love, but the detective did not know what it was, and not knowing was agony to him.

"When I stood on that rooftop, I faced Jim Moriarty for the last time," he began, staring intently into his friend's eyes, elbows on his knees and hands tucked under his chin. "It was our problem, as he called it; our final problem. If I could find some way to beat him, some last piece of the puzzle then I would walk free – but if I could not, then I would die. I had two options; he had sent assassins to kill you, Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade. This was why I made you stand in the exact same spot when I..." he broke off for a moment, pausing to gather his words as he noticed the hitch in John's breath. "When I spoke to you last."

The blonde seemed to be holding in his words until the end, which was a good thing in many ways as it let Sherlock explain fully.

"The only way to call them off was to complete Moriarty's game, to kill myself, to die in disgrace. He made one mistake, the mistake of letting me know there was some other way to call off the assassins; however, once he realised this, he shot himself in the head and I could never rescue you in any other manner than if his men saw me jump." A small smile played around the edge of his lips as he continued. "But that was just it, if they saw me jump. They didn't have to check if I had died, why should they? A fall from that height without anything to break it was most definitely fatal."

"But you did have something to break your fall." John choked out in response. The reaction surprised the detective a little, but from what he knew of the doctor, he wouldn't have been able to say nothing for the entirety of their meeting.

"Yes, it was the garbage truck. I jumped into it; if I made you stand where you did, then the assassin wouldn't see me hit the floor either. They would have to focus on both you and me; just watching me make the initial jump would have convinced them well enough. Of course, simply jumping into a truck of garbage and repositioning myself on the floor before you came around the corner – which reminds me, that cyclist deserves a medal, it was entirely unplanned that you'd be hit but it really helped make things more convincing – would never have been enough. I had to make you think I was really, truly dead so that you wouldn't betray yourself and put your life in danger. No, I had to really disappear. Rhododendron ponticum, the symptoms of its toxins include weeping or leaking eyes, shortness of breath, tight chest, and a slowed heart rate. Of course that itself wouldn't fool a trained professional, so I placed a rubber ball under my arm, it cuts off the circulation completely – no pulse when you checked me. The blood I took the liberty of removing from the morgue earlier that day when I realised my death was most likely immanent. And there you have it, one living corpse."

It was silent for a very long time. John was taking in everything that Sherlock had said to him and thinking it over, trying to make sense of it all in his head; to make piece together what had happened.

"But then, what about your autopsy, you were confirmed dead. And I was one of," he paused, trying to compose himself. "One of the coffin bearers; there was definitely a body inside it."

The brunette didn't respond for a long while, he wasn't sure how his friend would respond to knowing he'd buried another man; buried Moriarty.

"It was... It was him, John. You buried Moriarty – that's why his death hasn't been reported. No-one knew, and no-one was looking for him. I am truly sorry for that, and as for the autopsy, it was Molly. Molly performed it. The first people around me when I 'jumped' were two homeless people and a couple of St Bart's staff, they knew, they were briefed on how to play on the bewilderment and shock of the public to make it believable."

Again that awkward stretch of silence engulfed them both.

"Why?" came the quiet mumble several minutes later. John swallowed hard, and licked his dry, chapped lips before speaking again. "Why did you tell Molly, and not me?"

Sherlock tapped his fingers impatiently against the arm of the chair he was sat in. He was tempted to point out that he'd already mentioned this and that the doctor was being dense by not noticing this, then he thought better of it.

"Because, John, if you'd known, the temptation to see you again might have been too much; I would have never been as careful as I was, and you would never have been as convincing in your grief. They say that an actor is at his best when he does not know he is acting."

For a while, John just seemed to focus on his breathing, closing his eyes and trying to bring his thoughts together. There was the typical atmosphere of London surrounding him, cars, people, the low cloud and patter of the first few raindrops against the window. Did Sherlock not realise how much he'd missed him? If he'd been checking up on him surely he'd have heard some of the things the doctor had said, some of those embarrassing things. Perhaps he'd missed them, or he simply chose not to take anything into account. How he'd missed him, how he'd cried into his pillow at night, slept in Sherlock's bed for a few weeks until the smell of the other man had all but disappeared, kept his coat and told his skull his life story; all in an attempt to rid himself of the guilt of being unable to protect his best friend. Before he knew it, the rain was pouring outside, crashing down on the windows.

"You should stay here." He said eventually. Sherlock made to protest, but quelled it, it was true he didn't really have a place to stay, not that he really wanted to leave, and Moran might spot him now that he was well and truly aware he had returned to London. "It's raining, and..."

John trailed off, staring out of the window, the street seemed to clear almost like magic once it started raining, there weren't even any cars, people tended to think that rain brought out more drivers but cars were one of the slowest forms of transport in London and everyone knew it. A few businessmen and businesswomen still walked past in their heels and Italian leather shoes with their black coats and their black umbrellas. Sherlock patted him on the knee, trying to bring him out of his escapist version of the world around him, where he didn't have to think about anything or anyone.

"And what John?" the suspense in the detective's voice was evident.

And what indeed? What should he say? I missed you, I need you, I can't be without you, and I love you –

"I don't want you running off again... getting yourself," he swallowed hard. "Killed."

Sherlock pawed at a bruise John had left him below his left eye while he let his mind wander into free thought. He'd been hoping the doctor would offer him a place here for the night. He wasn't sure why, he was going to protest when the blonde said 'you should stay here', though he knew it would have been weak at best; for some reason he was compelled to know the motives behind it. He wanted the other man to want him to stay, he needed him to want him to stay, and nothing short of what John had just said would have sufficed.

"Of course I'll stay John." He responded, blue eyes coming back into focus on his friend, with a smile on his lips. "How could I refuse a night in with my friend? It would feel un-natural, seeing you in an apartment like this and then leaving to stay elsewhere."
The blonde smiled in response, and chuckled, it evolved into a laugh, and the detective joined in, soon they were both in tears trying desperately to get their breath back.

"If Mycroft was still spying on me," John managed to choke out in between wheezes. "People would have even more reason to talk."

"But of course," came the similarly breathless response. "My brother has always loved those gay TV dramas."

This prompted another round of laughter, and well into the night they exchanged jokes and pleasantries as though nothing had ever happened between them. It was tinged with bitterness, but it was familiar. As Sherlock fell asleep, and John dragged him into bed, the doctor remarked that only a good chat and a half bottle of whiskey could make him pass out like that. There was only one bed, but they'd had to share before, and really it had never made either of them uncomfortable. If anything it felt more natural than staying in separate rooms. The doctor set his alarm for work at the clinic first thing in the morning, 5am, and left an envelope under the bed, addressed to Sherlock. With a sigh he changed into his pyjamas and clambered in next to his friend; his only real, true friend – the friend that had come back from the dead.

Sherlock woke at 11am, feeling somewhat groggy, but comfortable. The silhouette of John was still echoed slightly by the sheets next to him, and the lack of the doctor's coat on the door told the detective that he'd gone to work. Yes work, his companion would have a menial, boring job now that he'd been going on without the brunette. Something sticking out from underneath the side of the mattress caught his eye, nice paper, addressed to him. It had been deliberately left there to ensure he read it. Well, he should be polite and do as was asked of him for once.

Sherlock,
It's only been a couple of months since you disappeared. I still expect you to come thundering in one day with a harpoon in your hands and demand a cup of tea. But it never happens. I still make two cups every morning you know, yours goes cold, but I can't bring myself to clear it away until I go to bed at night. I don't think I can live here much longer, the place brings up too many memories for me, but you were right about the skull, he's a great guy to talk to – before you try to correct me I know it's a male skull, I am a doctor remember. I met a girl, her name's Rebecca, and we've been out twice, but honestly, I can't decide what's more irritating; her dog or her. She insists on bringing that thing everywhere with her. Sometimes I wonder if she's really dating the dog and I'm going to become its PA.
I miss you, so much. I don't think you realise truly how much you have done for me, and what would have happened to me if you never came along. You're everything I wanted in a friend, a companion, and come to think of it – I'm aching with the loss of such a presence in my life. I'm nothing without you Sherlock; I can't even solve simple cases. You'd find it funny if you could see me now, practically a widower. People keep asking me how I'm coping with the loss of my 'life partner', though I find it pretty ironic that they mean something else, but the term fits you pretty well.

John

There was nothing else included with the letter other than a small note written on the inside of the envelope.

The next one might be a little corroded.

"Corroded..." mumbled the detective out loud. John meant back at 221B, the chemicals there, Sherlock was always spilling hydrochloric acid on the table. Grabbing his coat from the end of the bed where the doctor had kept it these past years, the tall man made for their old apartment with haste.