I finally got comments :D :D :D it made my week better - it wasnt a good one :P Hope you like this chapter. Let me know what you think 3

Chapter Four

Fresh Scars.

John couldn't recall how they left the cemetery, or how they managed to get back to Baker Street still supporting each other, he supposed they walked, arm in arm like a drunken pair of losers, silent, determined. He just remembered the sound of Sherlock's breathing next to him, it was laboured, probably from taking most of Johns wait, but there was something else in it, like relief possibly, or maybe he was steeling himself for another outburst of emotion from john. Whatever it was, it continued steadily, just the sound, breathing in and out. John loved that sound more than any twittering larks; it was the sound of his life starting again. When finally they arrived at 221B Sherlock removed his arm from under Johns, and removed Johns arm from around his shoulders. He steadied him with the neck of his jumper, not particularly pleasant but Sherlock had other things on his mind, he hadn't set foot in the flat for a long time, the world's only consulting detective, seemly resurrected from the dead, was nervous. John of course didn't recognise the signs, he barely recognised where they were, his mind was still reeling, almost certain it was all a dream or a hallucination. Either way he longed-for it to continue so thought that he should immerse himself still further, so as not to destroy the suspension of reality his mind had probably created. They slowly ambled up the steps, Sherlock removing a key from his pocket as they did so; he slid it into the lock and turned, but the door did not move, the key felt still and jammed in the lock and he span round and glared questioningly at john who also held in his hand a key, brighter and newer. 'Mary had the locks changed, she said that she didn't trust you not to go giving keys out to complete strangers'. Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he breathed venomously 'Mary… I'd forgotten about her.' John nodded and added with an attempt at a smile, 'Yes, I do that often.'
Something in the taller mans' eyes brightened, John assumed it was his long obsolete humour trying to return. John shuffled by Sherlock, not an easy task considering he wouldn't move aside, their bodies were close together again and John started to believe that a hallucination wouldn't be so solid or immovable. 'Only the real you would be so oblivious and weird' he said in a small mumble, but Sherlock heard him,

'What do you mean the real me?' from Sherlock's lips the phrase could have easily been mocking or at the very least sceptical but he sounded genuinely intrigued.

'Well, you've been dead for, what? Three years? It's hard not to think that this is some sort of vivid fantasy.'

Without so much as a pause Sherlock retorted, 'Do you often fantasise about me John?' this time there was a definite smirk to his voice, but for some reason John couldn't get angry, all his anger seemed to have melted away for now and Sherlock was looking at him in an odd way, it took all his attention away from getting annoyed. It was an awkward moment that could have lasted a while had the door not been abruptly opened in front of them. Mrs Hudson stood with a bin bag full of rubbish, and looked startled, but not half as startled as her eyes travelled from John's familiar face to the face of the stranger accompanying him. What shocked her most, causing her to screech and fall backwards, her fall broken by the binbag, was that the tall, pale, dark haired man she had first disregarded bore a striking resemblance to Sherlock Holmes, the deceased. Flat on her back with her slipper covered feet stuck up in the air, her wavering voice called out to the ceiling as the two men bent down to help her up; 'I bloody knew it!'

Mrs Hudson sat at her rickety kitchen table, clutching with both spindly hands a cup of tea, courtesy of John. She sipped it frugally and offered furtive and twitchy glances at the man who stood directly in front of her, John stood behind, slightly to her right and rested a hand on her fragile shoulder marvelling at how undamaged she appeared, physically anyway.

'I don't really know how to explain this Mrs Hudson except to say I was never really dead, I just needed to disappear for a while, for yours and Johns and Lestrade's sake-' Sherlock glared at John as he scoffed at the mention of the D.I.

'I must admit Sherlock,' Mrs Hudson began in a shaky voice, 'Jumping off a building always did seem a bit, well, mundane for you. So boring.' She flashed him a watery grin and for the first time in a long time Sherlock Holmes smiled too, it turned into one of his laughs, rarely heard save my John and it was infectious. All three of them laughed and laughed, tears of sorrow and joy and relief rolling down their faces, Sherlock crossed his arms in front of him and John clutched at his sides, it was the happiest moment that any of them had had for three years, and they never wanted it to end. Eventually, though, they began to run out of breath, ribs and stomachs aching, their eyes red from the free flow of tears they all collectively sighed. Sherlock was the first one to speak, 'I am truly sorry, I hated it, as much as I prided myself on being abstract loyalties and sentiment, the time I spent away from Baker Street was utterly deplorable, sometimes I had to physically lock myself up so as not to come bursting back into everyone's lives.'

'But I still don't understand how you did it Sherlock, I mean you're a clever boy but really, it seems impossible!' Mrs Hudson looked at Sherlock, desperate to discover his secret. He began to explain it to her but John wasn't really listening, he caught odd words, rubber ball, dead body, lowered heart rate, but right at that moment John was soaking up the blissful realisation that his friend was actually back, not just back but that he had never been gone, just as John had thought. Sherlock had been right really, when he had said that John shouldn't be as shocked as everyone else, all these years John had known his best friend couldn't be dead, no matter how many people told him he was in denial. He had known it in his very core because they were so connected that Sherlock's death would have felt like the severing of his heartstring, and, as hurt and cold and devastated as John had been in those three lonely years, he had still reached out in the dark and he had always, without fail, felt the undeniable presence of his best friends consciousness reaching back to him. They were tied together and only death could separate them, and just as John had always known; it hadn't.

Mrs Hudson had taken the news surprisingly well considering her age; then again John should have learned by now not to judge her, beneath her feeble bosom beat the heart of a soldier. He wasn't sure if he could say the same for Lestrade, Molly, Mycroft, the others affected by Sherlock's long absence. 'Mycroft's gonna kill you when he finds out, ironic really. If you're going to tell him, that is.' John gave Sherlock a look that said not telling him is not an option. Sherlock waved a hand dismissively and before John had chance to argue back he stated nonchalantly 'Oh, don't worry, Mycroft knows already.'

Johns smug look vanished faster than a light bulb blowing, 'What do you mean, how can he-'

'Don't be ridiculous, of course he knows, he'll have known as soon as I stepped onto British soil' Sherlock's lip curled with distaste.

'Wait so you don't know for definite that he knows, you're just assuming because it's Mycroft?' John wasn't giving up without a fight

'Of course I know for definite, It's not a difficult deduction.' Sherlock whipped out his phone, a newer model to that of its predecessor 'but also he sent me this text message' John squinted at the screen of the phone, which bore the words You Bastard. MH.

'He does like to be dramatic' the detective sighed. John smirked; Sherlock was clearly unaware that he had just echoed his brother's own description of him what seemed like a lifetime ago. 'Oh Jesus' thought John aloud, 'How are we going to tell Lestrade, and Molly?' Sherlock gave him another disinterested look as he took as seat at Mrs Hudson's table; she had been mopping tears of laughter from her eyes and absorbing the familiar atmosphere of her boys' domestics. 'Yes, I am rather weary of Lestrade, I don't think DI's carry guns but I'm sure he could get his hands on one easy enough. Molly's always known of course but-'

'MOLLY KNOWS?' Sherlock looked shocked as John shouted at him, 'HOW? How has she always known Sherlock?' Sherlock looked somewhat sheepishly to the ground. 'I have already mentioned I had inside help on my disappearing act. I thought you would assume it was to Molly that I was referring.' John was not appeased, 'Oh, you thought I would assume did you? You never gave her the time of day and yet you'd put that pressure on her, make her keep your secret, I bet she loved feeling so important and trusted while my life fell apart!' Sherlock's return had healed Johns emotional wound but it was still raw and it just been poked. Unfortunately Sherlock saw right through John, it wasn't for Molly's sake that he was angry. 'John I'd quite like to get reacquainted with the living room; Mrs Hudson if you'll please excuse us' he gave her a curt nod and she smiled up at them both.

Sherlock waited until the door to their once shared flat was shut and they were both in the centre of the living room, John felt there were heated words coming but forgot completely that Mary could be in the flat, or that she existed at all. 'Don't act so hurt John; you know if I could have told anyone it would have been you.'

'Oh really, only it seems that you did one hell of a job keeping me in the dark for so long, you probably forgot I existed , you were perfectly happy with your new life, wherever the hell you were. You're probably only back here because you're bored and you thought I would provide you with some entertainment.-'

'John you're being absurd-'

'Oh yes, that's right, because I don't entertain you do I Sherlock? I'm boring too, boring old John, with his job and his morals and his feelings, only good for doing odd jobs and treating like crap-'

'You're behaving like an adolescent.'

'You know what Sherlock? I have the right to behave however I want, you left me! You abandoned me. I was so alone Sherlock, so lonely. Do you know what it feels like to be an outcast, to feel completely separate, completely alone in the middle of a crowded room full of people who claim to be your friend? Do you?'

'John as you are aware, no one would ever class themselves as my friend-'

'Don't pull that bullshit on me, you've managed to worm your way into plenty of peoples lives'-'

'-However I do know how it feels to be an outcast, to feel different-'

'Stop trying to play the victim here Sherlock!'

'You are… upsetting me, John'

'What, you? The robotic man? The cold, unfeeling Sherlock who doesn't give a damn about anyone? You didn't fake your own death to save me, you did it so you could get away but you wouldn't have to feel bad with my death on your conscience. What? Worried you wouldn't be able to delete me as easily as any other useless thing in your life?

'ENOUGH!' It was a rare occasion that Sherlock Holmes shouted, but when he did, it demanded attention. John felt physically unable to continue. 'Do not think, do not John, think that for one second I was able to forget you, or that I would ever want to.'

It wasn't just what he'd said, it was the dark look that appeared on the detectives face, it was intense and John had to look away as a hot blush crept up his neck and threatened to expose itself on his face. Sherlock strode across the room in two steps and all of a sudden was too close, it was uncomfortable and for the longest time John wouldn't be able to figure out why. With his face inches away Sherlock mumbled, almost whispered, he hands held behind his back, 'The last three years have been awful for me too John, please don't insult me by thinking I don't care about you. I do.' He cleared his throat before continuing, 'Very much so.' Sherlock didn't open up very much, rarely spoke of sentiment or feeling, John still couldn't look him in the eye, he was looking down, ashamed of himself for trying to hurt his friend. 'I'm sorry Sherlock…' The detective took a step back and John breathed out, not even realising until then that he had been holding his breathe. 'It's ok John, I understand you are angry, I just wanted it to be clear that- well, you know now.' He coughed nervously and strode into the kitchen, removing his navy blue coat and tossing it over his shoulder onto the arm chair as he did so. John realised he still hadn't moved and was still staring at the floor. He mentally shook himself and sat on the sofa. Just as the kettle had boiled (Sherlock had shockingly offered to make tea) the door down stairs was opened and shut. Heeled footsteps made their way up and John cringed inwardly. Mary. This was going to be interesting. But not boring, definitely not boring. John expected that now Sherlock was back in his life, it would never be dull or boring again, and somewhere inside him, his soul cheered.

Sherlock was just bringing John his cup of tea when Mary finally bustled in laden with shopping, the reason she had taken such a painfully long time to ascend the stairs and enter the flat. John had guess at this reason but had not taken it upon himself to offer help; he thought it best that she was as annoyed at him as possible, so she wouldn't have such a shock at Sherlock's imminent rudeness. Her face was blank as she first set eyes on the scene, it was a cosy little domestic, nothing new there, but the dark haired man with a curious face was cause for confusion. Sherlock stood silent, John could see his eyes sweeping her up and down, deducing her, analysing her clothes, hair, and makeup. John felt pity for her, she never was a worthy replacement, he just hoped that Sherlock wouldn't point it out too harshly. The silence stretched on and on, no one spoke; eventually Mary gently placed the shopping on the ground, just where she stood. She was looking back and forth between John and this strange man, then, quite without prompt her mouth formed a perfect circle shape and her eyebrows slowly rose. 'Oh. It's you.' She was directing it at Sherlock, but then her eyes snapped back to John 'It's him isn't it? I can tell by the way…' She didn't finish her sentence, John never knew what she was going to say, he speculated and he didn't like the conclusion her mind had come too. 'I'm guessing you'll be moving back in then. I'll need a couple hours to get my stuff.' She approached Sherlock, who had remained surprisingly silent; she scanned him as he had done her, thoroughly. 'I don't know what makes you so special, but apparently you are. Take care of him, don't hurt him again. Please.' Sherlock's face was soft, his lips parted but he said nothing, he just looked deep into her eyes and nodded slowly. Mary turned her face away, walked where John was still sat and squeezed his good shoulder gently; her body directed away from him, her arm slightly behind her, she only rested it there for a few seconds before retreating to their shared bedroom. John could hear her crying as she gathered up her belongings.

'That went better than I expected.' John tried to force a bright tone and looked at Sherlock. He was stood with his hand up to his face, cradling his forehead between his thumb and forefinger, the other spidery fingers supporting it. He looked more tired than John had ever seen; he looked like he had aged ten years, not three, in that moment. 'Aren't you going to stop her leaving?' Sherlock asked removing his hand from his face and turning to John.

'Erm, I hadn't thought about it really, I think she'll be secretly pleased to go. I've been a bit of a nightmare to be honest.'

'That's not the point John. I think it would do her some good if you tried to stop her leaving. At least she will feel almost wanted.' Sherlock was displaying alarming signs of recognising human emotion and it startled John so much he agreed.

He gently pushed open the door to the bedroom, poked his head round. Mary was stood with her back to him, folding up her various items of clothing and, John realised with a pang of guilt, one of John's jumpers. He didn't begrudge her it. 'Mary?' She stopped packing and straightened up but didn't turn around straight away, 'You don't have to leave, there's another room upstairs remember?' he heard her sigh and she finally span round to face him;

'And who would be taking that one? Me or Sherlock?' her face was expressionless

'What? Sherlock of course, me and you are together, getting married, remember?' John felt like a puppet, someone else making his mouth form the words.

'John you said you didn't want to-'

'Look I was upset, I didn't mean it-'

'Yes you did. And its ok I would rather you be honest than lying like you are now.'

'I just didn't want you to feel like I don't appreciate you, you're amazing. You'll be alright on your own.' John wasn't sure if he'd overstepped a line, it sounded a bit patronising.

'I've always been on my own with you John. But now I can move on. Goodbye John, I might be back for more things but for now I just need to leave.' She zipped up her bulky suitcase and heaved it off the bed before half carrying half dragging it through to the living room. John followed her silently, almost bumping into her as she stopped abruptly. Sherlock, who had been crouched precariously on the sofa leapt up and began to move forwards, 'Do you need some help with that?' he was being strangely polite and it John wondered what other new habits Sherlock had picked up in his three year absence. Mary shook her head but placed her suitcase on the ground before speaking, 'I know what you do, you know everything about me from one look.' Then, she stood up on her tiptoes and kissed Sherlock on the cheek before whispering something in his ear, John didn't catch it but then he realised that was the point. Whatever she had said it was met with a slow nod which she seemed satisfied with; despite Sherlock's inclination to pick up her case, she took it in her left hand and walked out of the room without another glance. John felt almost annoyed, he had been massively cut out and these two had been strangers, only brought together by him, as a common interest.

'What did she say to you?' enquired John after they had resumed their former position, he in the armchair and Sherlock on the sofa, his long limbs drawn close around him.

'Mm? Oh, nothing, can't remember, deleted it. Irrelevant' Sherlock reached for the remote and turned on the TV. John rolled his eyes at his flatmate for being so strange, but then suddenly had a strange thought that Sherlock might actually be lying, covering for Mary. It was an odd notion but John trusted his judgement and did not question him further. He doubted it was anything important, possibly more advice to treat him well, he put it out of his mind; whatever it was, it was over with now. Or at least, that's what John thought…

ohhh cliffhanger...