The easiest solution, it had been decided, was to allow Sarah in on the plan. She could fabricate records, ensure that Sherlock saw John as opposed to the handful of other doctors in the practice, and would be on hand to assist John, should the mask slip, as it very much were. Sherlock hadn't been thrilled with the idea at first but, despite Sarah's slight mishap when talking to John about Mr. Scott, he was now glad that she had been involved.

Going along with her indiscretion, Sherlock had opted for a charming fake moustache and a greying wig, along with a flat cap. He had donned a rather shoddy looking coat and practiced walking with a slight stoop, which Sarah proclaimed "perfect". Still not convinced that this get-up was going to fool John, he had, at the allotted time, shuffled into the waiting room, and there he sat, staring at the clock as the big hand reached the six, wondering what on earth would happen in the proceeding five minutes.

But why wouldn't it fool John, he pondered. It wasn't as if John was on the lookout for him. John thought he was dead. The sudden realisation of that fact struck him like a ten-ton weight. He had never thought about it for very much time before, not allowing himself the pleasure of ever thinking about John in any way for any length of time, lest he get distracted by the many tasks he had at hand. Even if Sherlock wandered in there, complete with disguise but doing little to hide his tone of voice or his speech, John wasn't going to be seriously wondering whether it could be Sherlock, was he? John had felt his pulse, or lack thereof. John had seen him being taken away. John "knew" that Sherlock was dead and buried two years ago.

Glancing up at the clock, he saw he wouldn't have long to wait as the hand hit the six and, in the same breath, an alert flashed on the screen above. WILLIAM SCOTT, PLEASE GO TO ROOM 5.

Sherlock was suddenly filled with an overwhelming urge to flee from the building, away from London and back into hiding. This wasn't fair on John. If he left, and never returned, John would be none the wiser. He would never have to know that Sherlock wasn't dead.

Except for Sarah, of course. Sarah would keep to her word, and tell him.

Whilst briefly conjuring up a colourful variety of ways in which he could, if he was so inclined, ensure that Sarah never spoke to anybody ever again, Sherlock rose from his chair and, keeping in character, moved slowly in the direction of John Watson's room. After taking a few steps along the corridor, he hesitated at door number five, staring it down. Behind that door was John, the only person who'd ever meant anything to him. Was he about to destroy that man's faith in him completely?

"Come in."

Sherlock physically jumped at the sudden sound of John's voice, cutting through his reverie like a knife through butter. His hand gripped the cool door knob. It was show time.

The first thing that struck Sherlock, before he'd barely made it into the room, was how much Doctor John Watson had aged. It radiated off his very being, from every pore, to the point that it hurt Sherlock more than he could stand to look at him. John was looking up at him, taking in this new patient, one eyebrow raised (he's thinking back to what Sarah said, wondering how she could have thought I was anything other than old) before glancing at his computer screen.

"Mr... Scott, yes? Hello, I'm Doctor Watson. I don't normally see new patients, but I heard you asked for me specifically?"

Panic. What to say in response? How is my voice supposed to sound again?

"Hello Doctor," Sherlock muttered, offering a hand and then immediately panicking. John would recognise his hand. He absolutely would.

But John did not react to Sherlock's hand, other than briefly shaking it before motioning to him to take a seat. Sherlock remembered just in time to include his stoop as he made his way towards the chair, and then turned to face John as the doctor sat down, leaning back slightly in his own chair and turning his attention to his patient.

Eyes are sunken, he's not slept properly in a long time. Gaunt, thinner than before - not eating. Signs of not coping as well as he normally does, fingernails bitten, shirt ironed carelessly - no real care whether he looks smart or not. Hair is greying, probably due to getting older. Shoes are...

"How can I help you today then, Mr Scott?" John asked, pleasantly enough, but Sherlock sensed the wariness in his voice. Sarah had warned him that John was expecting a Sherlock nut. He was hoping that the "older man" disguise might put John off that concern, but it appeared not.

"I... your manager alerted me... told me that it was commonplace for new patients to have vitals checked," Sherlock rasped out, adopting a huskier tone.

Slight twitch to eyes, he's latched onto some recognition but it's subconscious at best...

John nodded, clearly expecting this, and swivelled back towards his computer screen, bringing up a new window. "Height?" he asked.

Not showing any real signs of friendliness, uncomfortable with new patient... very unlike the old John, he seems nervous, on edge.

"One metre eighty-four."

"Weight?"

Sherlock shifted slightly. "I'm... not sure."

"We'll check that in a minute. Now, I'll need to quickly check your blood pressure..." John pushed himself off the chair and went to retrieve a cuff. Sherlock gazed at the back of his head, wondering whether this had been his best idea. Sarah had been adamant that he needed to reveal himself in as gentle a way as possible - she had a doctor on standby, thanks to the help of Mycroft, to take over should John feel the need to return home after such a revelation. Sherlock had absolutely no idea how he was going to go about it.

"Right," said John, returning to Sherlock and putting on a stethoscope. "Could you roll up your sleeve please, Mr Scott?"

Without thinking, Sherlock pulled up the baggy sleeve of his coat, revealing his rather tanned arms. He closed his eyes, trying to determine the best course of action. How to tell his friend, who was quite clearly grieving in the most extreme way, still, that he was not actually dead.

After a few seconds, he realised that nothing was happening - no sound being made, no cuff being wrapped around his arm. He opened his eyes and saw that John was staring, immobile, at his arm that he had just proffered. He glanced down, and felt his heart skidding to a halt.

It had been a case, just before Sherlock had "died". There had been a fight - a harsh, physical fight, and the abductor of the little girl that Sherlock had somehow managed to find was angry. He'd been beaten, eventually, by John, but not before he'd produced a knife from somewhere on his person, and carved a deep gash lengthways down Sherlock's arm. It had bled for a very long time, had needed stitches - stitches that John had sewn, of course - and had left a scar. A scar that John was now staring at, with abject horror in his eyes.

Sherlock sat up a bit. "Err-"

"Who are you?" John asked, eyes flashing as he turned to Sherlock with sudden venom. "I'd guessed you were some insane fan, but when I saw you hobble in here, I'd thought there was no way an old man like you would even know who I was. But you're so deranged that you even copied his scar?"

Sherlock bit his lip. "Look, I can explain..."

John hadn't even noticed Sherlock's voice changing. He was on a roll now.

"What do you want from me, hmm? Do you want to ask me loads of questions about my life with Sherlock Holmes? Do you want to laugh as I fall apart in tears, telling you how much I miss him every single day of my life? Do you want to mock me as I tell you how I've seriously considered ending it all, that I can't comprehend how I'm failing to get through my life without him? Do you want to silently take note as I spill out everything to you, a faceless stranger with an obsession with my best friend?"

John stepped back then, moved towards his books, trying to hide the anguish on his face. But Sherlock saw. And Sherlock decided, there and then, that anything was better than what John was thinking at that moment. Even the truth.

"I'm not a stranger, John," he said quietly, watching as John's shoulders slumped, still turned away from him. "I don't want to do any of those things. I just want to come home."

John turned slowly as Sherlock carefully removed the flat cap, wig and moustache. He stared as Sherlock stood, forgoing the stoop, standing up tall and watching John warily.

"I'm dreaming," John muttered, casting his eyes downwards and pushing one hand to his forehead. "I'm fucking dreaming."

"I can assure you, you're definitely not dreaming," Sherlock said quietly, wondering if he should maybe sit down again, now his presence was affirmed.

"This has happened so many times," John replied, his voice sounding broken and hollow. "Why on earth should I believe that you're real now?"

Sherlock had always presumed that the general consensus was correct; he was a freak, he was emotionless, and he didn't have the ability to care about anyone. But in that moment, when John admitted that he'd dreamt up Sherlock returning, he knew that wasn't true, as he felt himself cursing the day he'd left John Watson to suffer the way he clearly had for the past two years.

"I can call Sarah in," he said, still quietly, still carefully. "She'll confirm my existence."

John shook his head, before raising it to look back at Sherlock. Then slowly, carefully, as if worried he'd scare him away, he reached out and laid his palm against Sherlock's arm, his eyes widening as he made contact.

"I've... I've never been able to touch you before," he explained, as Sherlock glanced down at his hand. "It's really you?"

"It's really me," Sherlock agreed, not sure whether to chance a smile. This reaction was nothing like he'd expected, and now, seeing the relief and joy radiating from John's face, he knew that his chances of getting punched in the face were lessening by the second. That wasn't to say the time wouldn't come, but the fact that John was happy to see him, that joy was his first obvious emotion... that had to be a good thing, surely?

John removed his hand then, and suddenly looked almost bashful. "I... Sherlock, I can't get my head round this..."

"I don't expect you to," he assured him quickly. "I've been told by a few people that I need to allow you time to get used to it. I think Mycroft thought I'd be returning with two black eyes and a broken nose."

John smiled slightly. "I... I'm sorry if my reaction seems a little subdued," he said. "I'm still not entirely sure that this isn't a dream."

Sherlock nodded, finding himself understanding exactly what John meant. "Sarah has organised cover for you if you want to come back to Baker Street with me just now. I was thinking you'd... have questions."

John nodded, a little dazedly. "I guess I will do," John said. "My brain really isn't working at present. It's not every day your best friend comes back from the dead."

Best friend. John had already called him that, albeit when he thought he was talking to someone else. The words warmed him in a way that Sherlock hadn't felt in many years, and he felt himself grinning, a little manically.

"I guess there is also still a chance that the rage will come and I'll give you those black eyes your brother was banking on."

"I promise you, I had excellent reason for everything I did," Sherlock said quickly. "And I'll explain everything back at Baker Street." He suddenly felt a real hurry to get John out of the surgery, and into Mycroft's car, which would hopefully be waiting outside for them, before John had second thoughts.

"Yeah, I'm sure. But two years, Sherlock." John gazed up at him. "That's a bloody long time. I missed you, a hell of a lot."

Sherlock went to respond, but something about John's stance, the way he was looking at him, caught his eye. Frantically, he retreated into his John Files within his Mind Palace. The Different Ways John Watson Has Looked At Me. Rage appeared lots, in different forms. Admiration was there, as well as something resembling fondness, exasperation and panic. But this look, this current one, was new.

John had already moved on by the time Sherlock returned, having filed the expression to be examined later. He was reaching for his coat, and turned back to Sherlock, smiling slightly.

"Shall we?"