It can't be Sherlock, John thought. This is just... Just some prick, playing a trick on me.
Everything was spinning. John could barely make out the room he was in, let alone the man in front of him. However, John still managed a well aimed punch in the man's cheek, which was answered with a cry of pain.
John slumped on his side, feeling confused, tired, and nauseous. Perhaps he was still dreaming, or perhaps he'd drunk so much that he was imagining things; either way, all John wanted to do was go back to the place in his mind where it was just he and Sherlock.
"What the hell is going on?" he mumbled. The man in front of him was shaking him gently, talking in a voice with the same sound and speed as Sherlock's. Could it be? No, of course not, Sherlock was dead.
The man was still talking in a voice that seemed desperate for John to listen. He shook John more vigorously, shouting his name, until he eventually groaned back "What?"
John sat up, trying to focus his attention on the man before him while simultaneously trying to keep himself from being sick. His eyes strained in the darkness to make out the features of Sherl – the man. It just couldn't be him, it couldn't...
Piercing grey eyes were boring into John's, thick eyebrows knitted together, perfectly formed lips moving at a speed most would deem impossible for lips to move.
"...And I'm incredibly sorry, which, as you're aware, isn't something I say very often. John? John? John, are you listening to me?"
"Sherlock?" John whispered, still hardly daring to believe it was really him.
The world tipped to the side and John slipped back into unconsciousness.
When John woke up again, he found himself in his bed with a glass of water on the table beside him. He couldn't remember going to bed, or getting a glass of water, or any of the events from the night before. Yet, he had a nagging feeling that something significant had happened.
It was light outside and his alarm stated that it was 8am. His head was pounding, so he took a sip of water while vowing to himself never to drink again.
The door opened, startling John and causing him to drop his water all over the covers as –
"Good morning, John," Sherlock Holmes's head popped around the door. John saw a small bruise had formed on his cheek and suddenly everything came flooding back.
"John, it's okay, I'm alive." Sherlock whispered as John looked at him, enraged eyes flooded with tears.
"You're alive," John stated, numb with shock.
"You're hung-over," Sherlock replied quietly, a small but nervous smile playing on his mouth.
Anger flooded John at his words. It had been a year; a year full of loneliness and believing Sherlock was dead, and all Sherlock could say to John was "You're hung-over."
"No shit, Sherlock!" John shouted, getting out of bed with his fists balled up. Immediately, he collapsed back down.
Sherlock rushed towards him with his arms outstretched, only to make contact with John's fist for the second time in 24 hours. No, John was not letting him get away with this. He had been completely heartbroken by Sherlock's apparent death, and now all he wanted was for Sherlock to feel the pain he had for all those months.
"John, I'm sorry," Sherlock whispered as he nursed jaw.
...
"John, please."
...
"John."
"What the fuck, Sherlock?" John screamed. His head throbbed at the sound of his own voice but he didn't care. He was pissed off, and Sherlock needed to know. "You died. You jumped off a hospital roof, or at least I thought you did. I held your dead body in my – ...You left me for a year, Sherlock Holmes. I've been so alone. Why did you do that, Sherlock? Why didn't you just text, show yourself, anything? Why –" John cut himself off with a sob and buried his face in his hands.
"I know I've hurt you..." Sherlock began in a slow and shaking voice. You bloody well have, John thought, unable to talk. "I am sorry. I had to. It hurt me too, John, believe me. That's why I've been coming to your flat every –."
"YOU WHAT?" John glared up at Sherlock.
"I don't see what's wrong with it, quite frankly."
"Do you really have no -?"
"John, please. Allow me to explain myself."
John looked up at the man who seemed to never feel any emotion other than boredom to see tears falling down his face. More than anything else that had happened in the last 24 hours, this shocked John the most.
"Okay," he resigned, laying back down in bed and shutting his eyes.
"Thank you," Sherlock whispered. "You see..."