Sherlock sat on the kitchen stool with a rather annoyed look crossing over his angular features. John gently wiped the blood off of the indignant man's face with an old dishcloth, shameful but not quite ready to apologize for his earlier attack. His outburst had been rather sudden, although he was sure Sherlock would have seen it coming. Now he was tending to a couple small cuts and the large purple blotch beginning to blossom on the left side of Sherlock's face. As John cleaned out a small gash behind Sherlock's right ear he made a mental note never to tackle the lanky detective into any corner of 221B Baker street; microscope slides and other sharp objects were always lying around somewhere. Sherlock jerked back reflexively as John patted the cut with rubbing alcohol. Even the great Sherlock Holmes couldn't control his nervous impulses, and he made an unpleasant hissing noise as John continued to tend to his injuries. John threw the small dishcloth into the sink, and firmly gripped Sherlock's head, turning it left and right to check for any other possible wounds. When he was satisfied, he let go and Sherlock promptly jumped off the stool and settled into his armchair once again.
"So, I think you owe me an explanation." John cleared his throat, and Sherlock remained unresponsive. John took a deep breath, "Sherlock, you've been gone for three years. I think you owe me an-"
"I heard you perfectly the first time." John pursed his lips together in an unusual face of frustration, and nodded.
"I'm trying to think of a way to explain without shocking you or pushing you into a dreaded state of shame or grief." John's eyes widened in offense. "Me, shamed? You're the one who left me, you bloody git!" Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Yes, Doctor, to save your life." John's eyes narrowed, "And since when did you care about anyone's life?" The blanket of silence descended softly.
"I've always cared, John. I've cared so much that I knew I had to remove all possible sentiment from my mind if I wanted to maximize the chances of saving a life." A small crease formed at the top of Sherlock's nose, right in-between in his eyes. John recognized it as the hint of a rare scenario in which Sherlock was emotionally frustrated. "If I allowed my emotions to take hold, we would both be dead and rotting right now. Along with Ms. Hudson, and Lestrade." John's breath caught in his throat as the officer's name struck a chord in his mind; "Lestrade...Sherlock, we have to go see Lestrade!" He cried, jumping to his feet. "He resigned from Scotland Yard after his death, or at least that's what they said. I heard he punched Anderson and reduced Sally to tears, and so they had to ask him to leave. He hasn't been doing so well, you need to go see him. He threw away his reputation for you." Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "John, I'm dead, remember? I doubt Lestrade would enjoy the return of a ghost detective who was always an accurate reminder of his poor intelligence and worthlessness." He ran his finger along the edge of his armchair, enjoying the rough and familiar feel of the seams beneath his skin.
"Besides, I need to clear my name before I go around visiting any old friends." Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the good doctor, "Everyone still thinks I'm a fraud, no?" John subconsciously bit down on his lower lip, recalling the massive amounts of nosy reporters that use to block the front entrance of Baker St. The first year had been terribly inconvenient for all of Ms. Hudson's tenants. "Yes," He coughed uncomfortably, reaching for a glass of water, "Yes, they do." Sherlock turned to stare at John with his piercing eyes. "But you never stopped believing," He stated softly, and John's breath caught in his throat, "You never stopped believing in me." John felt as if Sherlock's gaze could easily burn through his flesh, yet he could not bring himself to look away. It was true, John had never allowed his belief in Sherlock to falter over the years. Even when Sherlock's words haunted his dreams; I researched you, John would wake up drenched in his own sweat and scream at the world from the small window of his bedroom, "What are you trying to do? I know he was real, he was everything, everything and you're the idiot for believing the lies!" There was one night when he forgot that Mary had stayed over, and her sweet breath tickled his neck as she wrapped her thin arms around his shoulders. Goose bumps formed across her skin as she shivered, partly from the cold air and partly from fear.
"John," She had whispered, voice shaking, "John, come back to bed." And he had complied, mindlessly crawling back into those covers. He buried his head in the pillows, taking in deep ragged breaths as he tried to block out the harsh city that had turned on his best friend. Mary had not been able to sleep that night, even after her shaking soldier finally stopped quivering and fell into a fitful slumber. She tiptoed out into the living room, looking at the collection of artefacts she never dared to touch. They were all memories of Sherlock, she understood that. A great man who had made John what he was, and the detective surrounded them in every aspect of their lives. She had wept silently, angered by the stranger who had left her fiancé in such a terrifying state. She only knew him by John's words and the horrid articles written by the unreliable press. She always felt that the house was missing something. The skull, the Cluedo board and the old violin were only vacant objects when there was no spirit to fill them. She wondered how empty the place must have felt when John was alone. Nevertheless, she begged for the man to never come back. He was dead, she knew that, yet she still had nightmares of his return. Perhaps she was afraid of losing John, or maybe losing herself with the dark secrets that Sherlock could uncover. She told John of her dreams once, over a nice breakfast of pancakes and eggs.
"I had a dream of your roommate," She had explained, lightly sprinkling her plate with salt and pepper, "He stormed back in here and ordered me out." It was unfair, she knew, to mention such a dream to John. And sure enough, he stiffened immediately and put his fork down. "Well, he's not coming back, so you have nothing to fear." Mary began cutting up her pancake, "I know. It was painful though. He still lives within this house, doesn't he? Within your memories." It was a terrible conversation for breakfast, and John suddenly lost his appetite. Mary continued on, "He was everything once, and it worries me that he would still be everything if he returned." She poured maple syrup onto the corner of her plate, and it drizzled down to form a pool by her eggs. John pushed back his chair and headed towards the door, grabbing his coat. He still had an hour before his shift at work, but the room had become stifling and unbearable. "You love me, don't you John?" Mary cried from the table, standing to follow him. "You love me, but oh he was so much more." She could feel her eyes becoming wet against her will. "They got it all wrong, those reporters. He wasn't your boyfriend, nothing like it. It had nothing to do with romantic feelings, but he...oh, he was your everything. He was your life, and your universe, and everything that had ever happened to you." John was struggling to put on his shoes, his own vision blurred by tears. Mary stumbled across the kitchen floor, wiping her cheeks on her sleeve. "Your life began when he walked in that day at the lab, your day with Stamford." He had told her the story of their first meeting hundreds of times. She could practically see the smirking Sherlock as his eyes darted over Harry's old phone. "And for all I know, it ended when he left you. Left you all alone, with nothing, standing over his broken body at the bottom of St. Bartholomew's Hospital." There was so much weight crushing John, he could not handle it all. He collapsed against the chipped doorframe as Mary kneeled down next to him.
"But it's alright," She whispered, caressing his face with her small hands. They were cold, and John wanted to shrink away from her touch. Yet there was a warmth that filled his body as he looked at her tearful face. She had become a part of him that day, with that dream. She had shared his pain, and all the memories that he had shared in fear that he might forget them one day. She had been his safe, where he buried all his secrets and his hurt and all of his life with Sherlock. And she was the safe keeper, the one who had to retain all the memories that he cherished. Mary kissed him softly, brushing the tears from his eyelashes.
"It's alright." She had murmured, stroking his hair; "Life may have ended for you when Sherlock died," He closed his eyes, "But I am more than willing to spend death with you."
And her words had saved him. They slowly began to fill the cracks left in John, they had acted as the needle and thread which pulled through him to close up all the cuts and gashes hidden beneath his flesh. Sherlock had given him life, and then killed them both. John had been left there on the earth, no longer alive but not yet dead. And Mary had pulled him from that grey area of numbness and anger and pain, she had gently drawn him back out into the light. It was no longer life, now that Sherlock was gone. Instead, she had labelled it as death, and sweetened their existence so he could wake up in the mornings with a reason to rise out of bed. They both cried that day, sitting next to each other on the floorboards. She had said no more, and the silence covered them both in a comforting emptiness. He ended up being late for work, but something changed in him when he arrived at the clinic that day. Sarah had sensed it immediately, looking up from her clipboard with a confused expression as he stepped into the lobby. Unable to pinpoint the difference, she gave him a quick lecture about punctuality and gave him a list of patients for the day.
The change wasn't visible. You couldn't hear it, or taste it or feel it with your fingertips. Dr. John Watson experienced a change of heart. He was finished with suffering, done with the pain. He was tired of being angry and bitter and scared. He had found a companion in death, or rather, she had found him. Mary brought out a new part of him that he had never seen before; and while it could never cover the absence of Sherlock, John understood that it was time to grow away from the rotting piece of him tied to a spirit in the heavens. He strolled down the white hallways of the health centre, listening to the echoes of his footsteps. As he walked, John felt a smile spread across his face, unable to contain his joy and relief of a life brought back into existence.