Author's note: Okay, here we go.
Final part.
Do enjoy. :)
...
Nearly three years.
Three years gone, three years older for everyone on earth; the black headstone had become worn, smoothed by the elements at the edges and on top, and the gold name was slowly beginning to fade.
The visitations to the grave of Sherlock Holmes still continued; in this way John Watson was able to observe the passing of time, slowly stretching on and on in a continuous long, straight line. Always the same, always going on.
The exception came one rather dreary day in April when, on the way to work, John encountered a large crowd gathered around an address on Park Lane- a well-kept section of apartment building, ringed in lines of yellow tape on stakes. He hovered on the edges of the throng, catching glimpses of the scene over shoulders. Someone he recognized from Scotland Yard was standing by the door, having an irritated conversation with someone on his mobile phone; John picked up single-word snatches from his position, including "Adair", "murder", "accounts", "gamble"….
He pushed past a young man and a middle-aged woman to get to the front, brow furrowed, curiosity having gotten the better of him. So Adair- a mildly important man, being the son of some prominent figure in Australia- had been murdered… the conversation of the Scotland Yard inspector and the person on the phone was not going well.
"Well, how should I know, the door was locked from the inside and no one heard the shot… I told you already, it was a revolver bullet… what- good god, no…." The man then noticed the staring crowd, glared, and turned away.
Sighing, John wove back through the crowd to the street; however, just as he paused for a moment to get his bearings, a tall man came hurrying along the sidewalk. John's shoulder collided with him, and several books fell to the pavement.
Wordlessly, he bent down to pick them up, but the stranger got there first- with a sweep of his arm the books were tucked back under his coat again. John caught the glimpse of eyes, narrowed in a hostile gaze, but strangely familiar….
"Hey- hey, wait!"
But he was gone, having disappeared into the crowd.
The doctor stood still for a moment, blinking; it was almost as if….
No. No, it couldn't be; it was impossible.
He shook his head, continuing along the sidewalk in the direction of the hospital.
…
He'd barely been in his office ten minutes, however, when the phone rang. John, having just settled down to some paperwork, sighed irritably and answered.
"Doctor Watson?" The secretary's voice sounded a bit strange.
"Mm?"
"There's… someone to see you."
John sighed again, rubbing his free hand over his eyes. "Well, I haven't got an appointment until half past ten…."
A deep voice was heard saying something at the end of the line; the secretary murmured a response. "He said it's urgent… and it won't take up your time, which he- wait, no, sorry…."
What has it come to these days….
"Oh, all right, send him up."
He rose out of his desk chair and moved about the room, pushing books back into their places on shelves, straightening objects on side tables, before ending up at the window. He pulled the curtain aside, blinking in the rather feeble rays the sun managed to send in; the opening of the door found him in this position.
"What can I do for you?"
"I am not sure that question should be asked by you, John," said a familiar voice.
The doctor whipped around. The tall figure closed the door, then turned to face him- dark hair, long coat, scarf, blue-green eyes, a slight smile on his face. Nearly exactly the same as the last time they'd spoken. Rather paler and leaner, yes- but otherwise a perfect copy of that day in the lab.
"Sherlock," John stated.
And then he fainted.
…
The ceiling tiles blurred above his head; there was a throbbing ache in his temple. He blinked, reaching out his hand to grasp something to keep him steady… and met an arm, thin and sinewy under a thick coat sleeve.
John bolted up, looking wildly around.
Sherlock Holmes was sitting in his desk chair, looking at the doctor, amused.
"Sorry about that, I had no idea you would be so affected. Up you get, now, careful."
The doctor swung his legs over the side of his office sofa, wincing slightly. He rubbed his hands over his face, like the man now sitting in front of him was a phantom, a ghost; but, no, he was still there.
They rose at the same time; Sherlock just watched him, John ventured over to the window again. He's not dead. He's not dead. No, he is dead…. GOOD GOD.
"I take it the confusion and relentless inquiries will come later?"
He turned again; the dark-haired detective smiled slightly and drew in his breath to say something. However, he never got the chance- for John Watson strode firmly across the room and, with all the force he possessed, punched him in the jaw.
…
Sherlock staggered.
"John, what on earth was that?!"
His friend didn't say a word; instead, he just stood there, looking livid, as Sherlock rubbed at the left side of his face, trying to ease the pain. Well, he hasn't changed much….
"You were dead."
His statement hung in the air between the two of them, like glass.
"You were DEAD, Sherlock- I saw you- I was down there with you on the pavement and your blood, the blood was everywhere, they could hardly wash it away….
"You have a grave, I saw you buried, you're supposed to be- I- I don't know-"
"Moldering?"
"I took your pulse! And do you have any idea, any at all, what it was like, on the sidewalk? Do you, can you honestly say it?!"
"John-"
"My best friend had just jumped off a building, I went to his funeral, and for three years he's dead and I have to live with myself; and now, Sherlock, you just come right back in like nothing's changed, like it's okay-"
"Isn't it okay?"
"NO, IT'S NOT! You can't do that, Sherlock! You can't just- just leave, for THREE YEARS, and suddenly come back and expect it to be the same, because things have changed and will never be the same again, they will never go back to the way they were!"
John broke off, breathing hard. Sherlock felt as if he'd been slapped in the face; though he probably deserved it….
He sighed and looked down at his feet, saying quietly, "They would have killed you."
"What-"
"The snipers. One for you. One for Ms. Hudson. One for Lestrade. If I hadn't jumped, they would've shot. Moriarty… he was the only one who could call them off. Which is why he is now dead."
John looked stricken. "It wasn't-"
Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes. "He was the only one who had the code word to stop them, so he put a bullet through his own head. Convenient, now there was no stopping them… unless I decided to die, unless I sacrificed my own life for those of my… of my friends."
"So…." The doctor's voice was quiet now. "So, all those things you told me on the phone, how you were a fake, how it was all a lie…."
"I had to. It was the only way, John."
The two men stared at each other, finally silent. Sherlock's eyes pleaded with his friend to understand; while John still looked disbelieving, but maybe, maybe daring to hope….
Slowly, he crossed the room again, until he was looking up into the face of his best friend, studying him, making sure he was real; then, like he'd reached a decision, he slipped his arms around the figure in the black coat, hugging him, holding tight.
Sherlock stood, frozen. He hadn't quite expected this; John's anger was perfectly predictable but maybe not… this, not standing there with his arms wrapped firmly around him….
It felt… nice.
Hesitantly, he returned the embrace; bending down a bit to compensate for the height difference, he enfolded his friend in his arms. He became aware that John was gripping the back of his coat, like he might fly away again if he didn't hold on to him, and whispering his name, softly, into his shoulder.
"Sherlock…."
"I… I know, John.
"I know."
…
"So… if you don't mind me asking, how did you do it?"
The day was over; Sherlock had gone off while John finished his shift, then reappeared at the door of the hospital that evening.
"Well, Molly helped… and there was the homeless network, and Mycroft. They were the only ones who knew. My brother did most of the planning, Molly helped with the decoy, and the network were there to... well…."
"Distract me."
"Yes."
John smiled, looking down at his feet as they walked. "It's mad, that's what it is…."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "Would you like to bet on that, John?"
He laughed, then raised his head. The familiar black door with its polished gold numbering was suddenly in front of him, and he stopped in his tracks.
"… Sherlock?"
"Mm?"
"Ms. Hudson."
"Ah, yes." Sherlock extracted the key from inside one of his inner pockets and unlocked the door, pushing it open into the dark hall. "Don't worry, she's out at the moment, she'll be back soon enough… after you."
The flat smelled like new paint and varnish; there was dust on the carpet, and most of the furniture was gone. However, the two armchairs still remained, as did the desk by the windows and the sofa beneath the yellow smiley face on the wall, riddled with bullet holes, not yet papered over.
Slowly, still gazing about the room, John sat down in the chair on the left; Sherlock flung his coat over the arm of the right one and occupied his own, sitting back and pressing the tips of his fingers together, lost in thought almost immediately. His friend smiled, and the pair of them nestled into the silence; that is, until there was a shriek and a crash from the doorway, and Ms. Hudson was revealed, the contents of a paper sack scattered across the landing.
…
John remained in his own apartment for a week before moving back into 221B. In that week books and papers slowly migrated into the living area; pictures were pinned up on the wall around the mirror, and the new side tables quickly became cluttered, so that when he slipped into the kitchen for breakfast for the first time in three years, the flat was on its way to looking the way it once had.
Sherlock ambled into the room in his blue dressing gown just as the kettle was starting to sing, yawning and picking up the paper. He acknowledged John's curt "Morning" with a nod, and spread the front page over the table, buttering a slice of toast.
Breakfast was eaten in a comfortable silence; they shared the paper, exchanging pages when the other was finished with them, while their coffee was slowly depleted. John was just draining the last of his, in fact, when Sherlock's phone, perched precariously on top of a stack of books, started ringing.
"Hello?"
John looked up at him, raising his eyebrows. The person on the end of the line was evidently agitated; they were talking rapidly, hurriedly, and meanwhile a smile was slowly stretching across Sherlock's face.
"Yes. We'll be there."
He put the phone back on the table and looked at his friend.
"John?"
"Yes?"
"Get your coat."
...
And, there you have it.
I do hope you've enjoyed it.