hey, sorry this has taken so long! Like, a whole extra week. I screwed up, and had to totally rewrite this. And, considering I'm now actually doing something different than I originally did, I deleted all the other chapters. I already saved them, so I'm going to edit them but its getting different enough that it wouldnt make as much sense reading past the edited chapters, vs. only a change in quality. And, as a result, I'm officially deleting An East Wind, as this is currently back to a WIP.

Anyways! Time for the chapter :)

***JOHN'S POV

I climbed on one of Mycroft's private jets, and tried to sit and relax, but I couldn't. All I could think about was my best friend, laying in a hospital bed somewhere, overdosed and thinking I'm dead. To me, the jet couldn't go fast enough.

I got to London in about three or four hours, but it seemed like a eternity. I ran off the plane to find that Mycroft was standing by the plane, waiting for me, his face unreadable as always. "Where is he?" I demanded

"St. Barts." he replied. I could have laughed if the situation wasn't so serious,'how ironic.' I thought.

"He's still in intensive care," he informed me as I got in the car that was waiting for me, not even noticing when he didn't get in with me.

Of course the first person I saw when I entered the waiting room was Greg Lestrade, sitting and staring blankly at the magazine he was holding. I froze, not sure whether to approach the man or not. Not sure whether, after all this time, I wanted to or not.

Taking a deep breath, I knew I should face him. He would find out soon enough anyways, and it would only be fair for me to approach him first.

I quietly walked over to him, pausing when I was about five feet away. "Hello Greg."

The man jumped up in surprise, dropping the magazine he was staring blankly at.

He eyed me warily, "who are you?" he questioned.

I raised my eyebrows, "I'm surprised you don't recognize me, Detective."

the DI shook his head, "John Watson is dead."

I sighed, "No, Greg. I'm alive."

Greg crossed his arms in front of his chest, "I'm not going crazy, am I?"

I shook my head, "No."

"I haven't been drugged?"

"Not that I know of."

"So this is really is real?"

"As far as I know."

"Oh you bastard," he said as he stood up and punched me in the face. Hard.

I stumbled backwards a bit, but didn't resist, fighting the instinct to fight back that has been long ingrained.

I was expecting this. Well, I wasn't expecting it to be that hard, exactly. But I was still expecting the punch. I would have been surprised if it hadn't come.

"One year, one bloody year John!" he yelled at me, grabbing me by the shirt to drag me closer before punching me again.

I remained silent. I deserved this. Every shout. Every hit. Every glare I knew deserved. Although, I honestly would have preferred if it happened in a less public place, because now everyone was staring at us, uncertainly holding onto their phones as if unsure whether they should call someone to intervene or not.

"I know. I am sorry," I replied at last, keeping my voice low.

"Sorry isn't going to fix this." he growled, letting go of me and clenching his hands into fist's at his side.

"I know."

"It won't ever be the same."

"I know."

"And you know, you don't seem like it bothers you that much. Like you even really care," he hissed, anger still sparking in his eyes.

Now, that set me off.
"Yes, it bothers me. Yes, I care. If it didn't bother me, if I didn't care about all of you, then I wouldn't be here. If it didn't bother me, I wouldn't have jumped. If I didn't care, I wouldn't have called Mycroft to tell him that his brother overdosed! And I certainly wouldn't have spent this last year slowly dismantling Moriarty's organization!" I said, voicing raising until I was nearly yelling.

I watched as Lestrade sat down with a heavy sigh.

"I'm sorry, mate," he said, sudden weariness taking over his face as he ran his fingers through his hair.

I sat down next to him, taking in his exceptionally weary state. "I take it this isn't the first time something has... Happened?"

He shook his head, "it isn't. Haven't heard of it being this bad though,' he admitted. "It's been.. Hard, you know? Seeing him go back to it all."

And I could tell it had been hard, by the way his body screamed exhaustion and stress.

I was about to reply when the doctor came out and headed over to us, a nurse following.

"Family of Mr. Holmes?" he questioned, and I immediately nodded.

"How is he?"

He sighed. "He is stable, and they're hooking him up to a IV drip as we speak, as well as endotracheal intubation to give him activated charcoal, for the drugs that may have already been partly ingested. We flushed his stomach, and got some blood samples, we just need you to answer a few questions for us."

I nodded in understanding, feeling slightly better at the news.

Once the typical questions were out of the way, the doctor smiled and nodded. "Thank you, the nurse can take you to Mr. Holmes room now," he said before walking off.

Greg and I quickly followed the nurse down the multiple hallways until we reached a private room, more secluded from the others.

Inside laid Sherlock, unconscious and hooked up to a IV, unusually pale and still, for how I remember him. Guilt was quick to stab me, and I breathed out a breath I didn't know I was holding in, I felt tears trying to push their way up again, so I briefly delved into my mind palace and turned it off, so to speak, before opening my eyes again.

I felt Greg set a hand on my shoulder, heard him say something about giving us some time alone, before dully hearing him leave and the door close. I took a deep breath, and made my way to the chair against the wall, facing the bed.

"What am I even doing here?" I mumbled to myself. Now that I was here, really here, I wasn't completely sure I should be.

So instead I whispered a apology and stood up. I was too wrapped up in my thoughts to hear Sherlock starting to move, waking up, and I was nearly to the door when I heard him hoarsely whisper my name.

"John?"

There was so much confusion in his voice. I paused and slowly turned around, only to see weariness and wariness in his expression.

"How are you here? I thought they flushed the drugs." he said, and I slowly made my way back over to him.

"I'm not a hallucination this time."

"Of course you are. How else would you be here?"

I almost laughed. "I'm real. I'm alive."

His eyes narrowed just the slightest bit, and he started shaking his head. "You can't be. I watched you jump off the roof, I saw you laying on the cement, I checked your pulse. You weren't alive. You can't be alive."

I shrugged the slightest bit. Honestly, I wasn't completely sure how it happened either. By all logical explanation, I shouldn't be here.

"I shouldn't be, but I am. I'm not entirely sure how, Mycroft didn't give specifics and I didn't ask."

His eyes took on a more hardened look, and I knew immediately I messed up.

"Mycroft knew about this?" he said, and I frowned.

"Yes.." I replied hesitantly.

"He knew you were alive this whole time, and he didn't think to tell me about it?" he hissed.

"It was for your own protection. Moriarty's remaining men, the new leader, they were all out for you. You were barely safe when you hadn't known, but if you had, it would have been twice as hard to keep you safe."

Sherlock merely closed his eyes for a few moments, before opening them and weakly pointing to the door. "Out."

"What?"

"I said out. Leave."

I hesitated, "that's all? I was expecting... Something more." I admitted.

His lips pressed together the slightest bit, his eyes cold and calculating. "Well I'd like to punch you, but I don't think my arm would cooperate. I'd also like to yell a bit more, but my throat is dry enough that I can barely talk in general. If you want 'more', you're not going to get it right now. Now out." he said, and I nodded quickly before leaving, pausing and taking a deep breath once I was in the hallway.

He hadn't said I couldn't come back. I let a small, weak smile spread across my face as relief washed through me. I could come back. So with the slightest bit of renewed hope, I set out to find Greg and let him know that Sherlock was up.

Alright, guys. SO, to explain a couple things, Mycroft resurrected John without him knowing he was going to, obviously. Like, Mycroft knew what was going on and all that crap, so he had people on scene ready to get John away and to their thing as quick as possible, which is how he's alive still. And, while I tried to make the whole thing as accurate as possible, I'm no medical expert, so if there's any errors I'm sorry! I did as best as I could :/.

I'm not very proud of this chapter, but I hope you guys enjoyed it at least!

cunning bird~