John had received the call from Lestrade not three hours ago. An hour after that, he was still sitting on the couch in 221B in shock, phone clutched in his hand.
"He's not dead, John." Lestrade didn't have to say the name, he already knew.
Two hours later the phone rang again. John stared at it, weary. His face heavy with whatever it was he felt at the moment. It wasn't until the phone went to voicemail that he picked it up quickly with a gruff, "Yes?"
"Ah, Mr. Watson."
It was Mycroft, Sherlock's older brother and, if he was right about the not so subtle hints of the past, an important man in the government.
John was silent as he waited for him to continue.
"He wants to see you."
John cleared his throat, "Where?"
"Well, there is good enough I suppose. He'll be home within the hour."
"Right." Home? What home? The flat hadn't been anything of the kind since the day Sherlock jumped.
"Try not to be too upset with him, you know what he's like."
John hung up the phone. No, he didn't know. The Sherlock he thought he knew would not have gone through such great lengths to deceive the public much less the man who he considered to be his only friend.
John got up, unable to stay seated any longer. His heart beat was out of control as he paced in front of the window. What was he to say to this man who he had considered dead for the better part of two years?
John's rational side told him to stay calm, that Sherlock must have had a reason for doing this. However his more passionate side wanted to tear everything down around him. He tried to contain the anger, the sadness that pushed its way to the surface.
He stopped abruptly and faced the door when he heard the footsteps. John was taken aback at how familiar it sounded. Steady, not in any rush. As if he was returning from another case, about to take an evening tea. John swallowed and stared at the approaching figure.
His hair was the first thing he noticed. It was shorter, though the curls were still visible. He hadn't shaved the last few days; the stubble around his mouth was different from the clean cut man he remembered. But the coat was the same, and the scarf.
John could barely meet his eyes then either.
Sherlock moved forward and stood just behind the chair, placing his hand on the back of it, as if to hold himself up.
"Hello, John."
Was that it? Of course it was. What was he expecting, honestly? A full break-down complete with diagrams of exactly how Sherlock managed to fall from such a height and just walk it off. John should have known better.
John ran a hand over his face, shaking his head and looking at the man across the room again.
"Hello? Is this a joke?"
"-no,"
"Stop. How- no why? Why are you doing this?"
"It had to be done John." Sherlock hadn't moved from his spot behind the chair. Perhaps he was remembering the last time he'd angered John.
"Oh, did it? And you couldn't tell me, you couldn't trust me?" It was at this point that John had resumed his pacing.
"I couldn't. The circumstances would not allow it."
Disbelief filled his face. "The circumstances?"
John stopped his pacing and suddenly walked towards Sherlock, stopping only a few feet from him.
"It's been two years. I brought flowers –," John cleared his throat, struggling to stop the tears before he continued.
"I brought flowers to your – the grave on the anniversary…" He trailed off and just looked at Sherlock.
Sherlock swallowed, his eyes a little wetter than usual, "I couldn't let anyone know, especially not you, John. It was part of the agreement I made."
"Agreement?" John suddenly felt like a parrot. He could do little else other than repeat the last of Sherlock's words and try, unsuccessfully at that, to process them.
"It was safer if I kept my distance. There were still people on a payroll to kill me. I couldn't have contacted you."
"I don't understand, Moriarty is dead. Why would there still be assassins out to kill you?"
"This whole thing was a lot more complicated than just Moriarty."
John looked down at the rug, rubbing his eyes as Sherlock looked on, pity etched in frown on his face, pain in his eyes.
"So what do you want now Sherlock? Hm? Should I rejoice at your miraculous reappearance and forget everything you put us through?"
This is not how it went in his head on the way over to the flat. He was to play the role of calm detective and John was to be angry, but logically accept that what Sherlock did was necessary, for the both of them.
Neither of them said a word. The silence was more tense than awkward and was only broken minutes later when a door slammed downstairs.
A pause, then John asked, his voice low and gravelly, "Did you tell Mrs. Hudson?"
"I don't think Mycroft has had the chance to contact her yet," Sherlock replied, his eyes wide as he backed away from the entrance of the apartment. He made his way into the room until he was standing a little behind John, as if for protection.
Mrs. Hudson was humming a tune as she made her way up the stairs, head down as she fished through her bag for her keys.
She glanced up at John "Good evening, love. I'm making some cake if –," Mrs. Hudson stopped in sudden realization, she looked up again and locked eyes with Sherlock.
"Who are you?" She asked, her voice soft and fearful. John quickly made his way to the older woman, afraid of the way she may react.
"It's me," Sherlock replied cautiously.
"He didn't die, Mrs. Hudson."
"Don't be ridiculous, John." She moved closer to Sherlock with each word. He said nothing only looked on as John attempted to calm her.
Mrs. Hudson reached out and touched Sherlock's face and gasped as she began to cry. She resisted John's efforts to steer her to a chair. Instead she turned on Sherlock.
"How could you Sherlock?" She then pulled back a fist and punched him.