Chapter 2 -
Silence and dark. Not the inky-blackness that one might associate with the dead of night, but dim. More like early evening, the sun almost setting.
John was aware he was lying on the couch in the sitting room. He kept his eyes closed and took a moment to clear his foggy mind.
Must have fallen asleep on the sofa. John thought to himself. That sounded reasonable enough, but he could not help but think he was missing something. There was something different.
Then he heard a rustling noise beside him. Someone was sitting on the coffee table very near him. John took a deep breath through his nose. A myriad of familiar smells brought him back to the reality that hit him not ten minutes ago. Faint chemicals, a hint of cigarettes, tea, and something that was definitely...Sherlock.
John's eyes fluttered at first, trying to put his befuddled mind at ease. A long, pale face took up most of his vision, worry etched in every crevice. Thin fingers held at a triangle at the man's chin. A dark mess of curls a halo above this long lost face.
John bolted up right, almost colliding with his once dead flatmate.
"SHERLOCK!" John all but yelled.
"John," Sherlock breathed as the worry left his face.
"Sherlock..." strained with emotion, hands curling in on themselves.
"A thousand apologies, John. I had no idea you would be so affected."
John straightened and moved his arm behind his torso. Allowing all his tenseness to find a home in his right arm, he punched Sherlock will all his might. Sherlock let out a loud grunt as fist met cheek. Sherlock was thrown back and tumbled backward off the coffee table.
John stood, both hands still held in tight fists. Holding stock still, so much a soldier at attention. Eye closed tight.
"Sherlock, bloody, Holmes...What. The. Hell." John's tone was even and controlled.
Sherlock had a hand on his now sore cheek. The other arm bent at the elbow propping up his upper body. He looked at John, taking in all the information he could from his remarkable senses. Sherlock gracefully found his way to his feet and let his hands fall to his side. He kept his head bowed slightly as he tried to deduce the right words.
"John," he said in barely a whisper and closing his own eyes. "I...I...I'm..." His unfinished statement hung in the air as John closed the gap between them. Sherlock looked down in surprise to find the smaller man pressed against him, John's cheek against his chest, arms wrapped tightly around him. Sherlock was confused and was unsure of his next move, but instinctively found his own arms wrapping around his friend. Sherlock hid his face in the short blond pillow beneath him.
They stayed like that for an immeasurable amount of time. They both released their grip at the same moment. John took a step back and turned away, wiping a few defiant tears from his eyes.
"John," Sherlock tried again, "I am sorry."
John looked up at him. "I knew it." Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his statement.
"I knew you were alive."