Hello, readers! Last chapter here! Sorry that it took a little while. I've been insanely crammed with work and it's a miracle that I was able to find time to write this. Okay, honestly, I slacked off in other areas to write this, but it's all good! I got it finished! I hope you enjoy it.

Let me know what you think!

Disclaimer: I don't own "Sherlock"

Nice Having Him Back

John stared at the awkward form of Sherlock leaning against his desk, examining his flat. His long legs were lazily crossed in front of him and his arms were casually slung over his lower stomach. He watched as Sherlock's bright eyes flitted about the flat, absorbing every detail faster than John could acknowledge an object's existence.

The doctor's own observation was cut short as the lithe man across from him let out a short breath. He sucked in his cheeks ever so slightly before stating, "Simple. Basic. Quaint. Just like you, John."

"Simple? Basic? Quaint?" John repeated incredulously.

He rolled his crystal ices and retorted, "You know what I meant. I said that with the sincerest of sentiments, John."

John huffed and crossed his arms, burying himself deeper into his chair. As a prickly silence blanketed the two, the former soldier's mind drifted back to Mrs. Hudson's phone call earlier in the day.

"He's miserable, John. The bloody gunshots. The holes in my walls. Have pity on my poor walls and speak with him, please!" her near hysterical voice came through the phone.

"We have nothing to say to each other."

"Oh rubbish! I'm sending him over there, and you two work this all out. Come to an agreement. Beat each other up. I don't care! But you boys will become friends again, and you will move back in! It doesn't feel right being any different."

"Mrs. Hudson, look I—"

"No. I won't hear any of it. The moment I can drag him off that couch and into some presentable clothing, he'll be on his way over."

John snorted unintentionally. "That could take a while. I don't envy you that job."

The woman on the other end of the line let out an amused sigh before a moment of silence fell between to two.

And here the man was. The man he had thought dead these past two years. The friend he had thought he lost. The man he had owed so much to.

Sherlock.

He was living, breathing, and right in front of him. John was at odds with how he should feel. For one, he was definitely pissed at him. He had abandoned him. There was no way to look at this situation and believe that he hadn't.

But, he was back.

Sherlock was back and he was alive.

He had always believed, but doubt was a tricky pest to eradicate.

"Mrs. Hudson is under the impression that an agreement can be reached between the two of us," Sherlock began as his eyes lingered outside a small window to his left.

"Well, I don't see how that is possible, Sherlock."

His former friend's lips stretched into a thin line as he pushed himself off the desk and stalked towards the window. As his eyes surveyed the people passing below, his long fingers absentmindedly fiddled with the top button of his suit coat.

"How so?" came his soft voice.

"For God's sakes, Sherlock, you abandoned everyone, you abandoned me!" John exclaimed as he pushed himself out of his chair.

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh as he rolled his head back to glare at John. "Are you still quoting such a pathetic argument, John?"

"It's not very pathetic seeing as it's true," John scoffed in return. "Not only that, but you," he accused pointing a finger at this friend from so long ago, "hardly came here out of your own free will. Mrs. Hudson practically pushed you into my flat! You've been back for almost three months now and you've made no effort but expect me to understand. God's sake, Sherlock, I'm not you! I can't just deduce everything that has happened these past two years."

"On the contrary," Sherlock stated as he brushed past John, "I never anticipated such a straightforward mind to know what happened or to fully understand for that matter."

The doctor turned to follow the tall figure's pin straight retreating form. It stopped at the door and a slender hand reached for the door knob. Bright eyes flashed behind dark hair as Sherlock looked over his shoulder to John.

"I know that time is something needed in a situation such as this, and I will continue to be patient. But John, patience isn't a strength of mine; you should know that all too well."

John gave a gruff laugh and the corner of his friend's mouth quirk upwards for a spare second.

"And John, I was counting on the straightforwardness, that simple mind. I was hoping for it to at least accept and put effort into understand, to at least see that I did this with everyone in mind, with you in mind. Good-bye, John."

Those words struck at John's heart once again as the door closed between the two. Delaying the pain, he rushed to the door and locked it. He pressed his back against the hard wood and took a shaky breath. His knees trembled violently before he felt his body pitch downwards. Grasping the smooth surface of the door with weak fingers, he managed to simply collapse on his knees.

Good-bye, John.

Good-bye,

John.

Those bloody words. They were worse a second time. Burning hot tears streamed down John's cheeks and dripped off his chin.

I was counting on that simple mind.

I was hoping for it to accept…

To at least see that I did this with everyone in mind,

With you in mind.

Sobs shook his frame and several minutes passed before they were abated. The drained man pulled himself off the floor and shuffled to his bed in the corner with the last of his energy. As he collapsed onto the bed, he shut his eyes to the world and tried to close his heart to the pain. Slowly, he fell into a fitful sleep. Warbled and dark images floated through his dreams.

A lone figure with a billowing coat.

Flailing arms attempting to fly.

Precious life's blood spilt on the pavement.

Pain.

Heartache.

Brokenness.

As John fell deeper into despair, he lashed out, his fingers searching for something to grasp on to, something to hold on to, something to ground him.

A cool hand wrapped long fingers around his wrists and pulled gently upwards. John felt himself ascending out of his personal darkness thanks to this guardian angel. As he rose above his despair, he turned to steal a look at the being that saved him. His eyes fell upon his face with that look.

The man jolted awake in a cold sweat, his heart hammering as he gazed upon his dark and empty flat. As reality slowly fell upon him, his shoulders slumped with a heavy weight that was rivaled only by that which was on his heart.

He had to see Sherlock.

John swung his legs off the bed and rested them on the rough carpet. His bleary eyes landed on the digital clock and the red numbers blaring 2:34. He sighed and fell back against the pillow and stuffed his feet under the sheets.

In the morning.

John's hand hesitantly hovered above the doorknob to 221B Baker Street. Taking a deep breath and with a brief glance skyward, he grasped hold of the cold metal and gently twisted it. He silently slid the door open and shut it behind him. With soft treads, he made his way up the stairs. As he lurked in the doorway to the living room, he spied Sherlock sitting in his chair.

The consulting detective slouched into the cushions, his legs extended in front of him. One blue robed covered arm dangled uselessly over the arm of the chair, his violin bow loosely grasped in slack fingers. His other arm had its long fingered hand wrapped around the neck of his violin that sat perched on his pajama clad hip. Sherlock's hair was more unkempt and unruly than its usual mess. Stray, dark curls flew off in an odd halo around his head. His thin lips were set in a childlike frown. His pale skin had a clammy complexion which was worsened by a white shirt and dark lines that shadowed his eyes.

His eyes.

Oh God.

Sherlock's bright eyes were dead, devoid of life and passion as he stared straight ahead at the wall.

A piercing twang struck the flat as one of the lithe man's long fingers harshly plucked a string on the violin halfheartedly.

John's heart sank as he observed the pain on his friend's face. He might not have Sherlock's deductive skills, but he could see the pain that enveloped his heart. He knew that pain all too well; it was exactly what he had been feeling these past years. As John gazed on for several more minutes, he forgot what he had been so angry about. Sherlock knew what he was doing; he had a reason. He always had a reason. He always knew what was going on.

John understood.

As his friend continued sitting in pain, his heart couldn't take it any longer. He took the last step into the room and leaned against the doorframe with his hands in his pockets.

"Bored?" he asked casually.

Ice eyes briefly flickered to his face before returning to the wall. He remained silent but deepened his childlike pout.

John sighed. "I guess I'm going to have to get used to this again, two years without it can throw a person off."

"Why might you need did readapted yourself?" came the curt question.

"Well," John said as his eyes roamed the flat, "it would appear Mrs. Hudson took your skull again. I'd think you'd need someone to talk to."

Sherlock's eyes flashed towards his face, searching and fragile. "You're moving back?" he asked tentatively.

John nodded.

The despondent man jumped to life as he left his violin and bow forgotten on the flat floor and quickly closed the space between him and the doctor. Before John had time to protest, long arms wrapped around his shoulders and he was pulled into Sherlock's chest. After a moment, John's arms returned the gesture as he took a deep breath.

Sherlock smelled like himself.

He smelled alive.

He smelled like home.

"I missed you, John," Sherlock's warm breath tickled his ear.

"Yeah, me too," he replied gruffly.

Suddenly, John cleared his throat and said, "People will definitely talk now."

Sherlock sighed and pulled away. He glanced over the man in front of him and stated, "You can move your things now. As soon as possible would be preferable."

John's eyebrows pulled together as he questioned, "Do you really expect me to do that all on my own?"

"You did when you left; I'd trust you can do it again coming back," he replied waving a hand in dismissal as he walked to the couch.

The doctor shook his head with a small smile dancing on his lips as he slumped into his chair, allowing his limbs to relax for the first time in so many months as he watched his dear friend jump onto the couch and stretch out his longs limbs. His dark haired friend tossed a robe covered arm over his eyes and let out a deep breath. The two sat in companionable silence for some time, content to simply acknowledge the other's existence.

John was the first to toss off the silence. "Sherlock?"

"What, John?" his friend mumbled through thin lips.

John swallowed and rubbed the back of his neck before asking, "How did you do it?"

The man watched as the corner of his friend's lips pulled back ever so slightly as he explained simply, "It's elementary." With that he pulled the blue robe tighter around his body, and curled into a ball facing the back out the couch.

John let out an exasperated chuckle. God, he thought, it's nice having him back.

Thanks for the support I got with the story. You people are wonderful! Please leave a review with your thoughts! They make my day and help me improve on my writing skills.

~Alexandria Keating