Chapter 9

"Y-You… You're alive?" was all John could splutter, unable to think straight as he slowly walked towards the figure standing by the right window, looking past the raven that cawed outside.

"You're absurd to have thought me dead at all, John," Sherlock murmured. Hearing his voice again was so different, and real compared to the distant voice his mind had been creating. He was a few steps away now, arm's length even. Even at this distance, his eyes weren't registering Sherlock's appearance. They were too busy colliding with the emotions whirling around inside him and forcing him to look around as his next move was decided. "I can understand if this may come as a shock to you, since you didn't seem to work out my survival but-"

Cut off with a fist slamming into the side of his face, sending him to the ground, John not expecting such force. His body thumped against the ground, and then a loud groan towards the floor as Sherlock tried to get back, even sit himself up.

Too slow for the oncoming anger.

John grabbed the collar of Sherlock's jacket and pulled him upwards, just enough so that the man was on his knees.

"This is from me," he grumbled, sending another punch down, one hand on the collar at all times to stop Sherlock falling back. There was a grunt from the old friend. "This is for Lestrade." Another hit, only his slammed his fist round the other side of Sherlock's face. "This is for Molly and Mrs Hudson." Another punch, causing his fists to grow weaker from the impact. "This is for your godforsaken brother." Another slam, blood from both men on John's knuckles. "And this is for all the people who died in your name!" The words came out loud and furious as he let go of Sherlock's collar so that the final punch in John's raging fit sent him to the ground. His face remained hidden under the shadow of the flat, only parts of his body lit from the golden streaks of the streetlight pouring through the windows like thin sheets of gold. John stood there, his mind still fuzzy and hazy with anger, unsure what to do about his friend now…

Friend.

Yet the rage blocked out the word and just as Sherlock looked up to him, he aimed another sore punch with his bloodied knuckles. But something snapped within Sherlock.

His fist met a palm that he barely pushed back, his weak fist leaning against it the more Sherlock stood, regaining his height by standing on his own two feet. John tried to hit him with his other fist, but it also met a palm, barely any force in his fist, resulting in a frustrated knocking of his fist against the palm again like a child in a tired tantrum. John was now the one barely standing, rage depleting, his weight being lent against Sherlock through his hands. Was this right? The world began crumbling, not at John's draining strength, but what he saw when Sherlock's face was level with his and the light from both the kitchen and the street hit him.

Friends.

Why did he react like he did? Why!? John's brain finally began registering his surroundings and with this, revealing Sherlock's appearance… And condition.

The same tattered clothes from the night of the chase, but on closer inspection, John didn't need a powerful mind like Sherlock's to make these deductions. The dark clothes cloths were just holding together, months of rough living, travelling, climbing and no doubt running. Mismatched patches of darker colours, mainly dark greys and green were stitched on the clothes were they must have be torn. The black combat trousers looked weather-worn and had mud caking the ends, the crust turning to dust when hit against something. The same dark blue shoes on his feet, the soles worn down, possible holes which would let water pour through. John couldn't figure out why, but the black hooded jacket, with its dark zip, small pockets and own montage of stitched patches, didn't look right. He wanted to say it was made of cotton, the material thin and not good for trying to keep warm in the cold streets, but everything about it was a shade darker than normal, the creases smoother and the light bending on it a different way.

Nonetheless, it still held the stains of a crimson horror, which mostly shone from Sherlock's hands. The black fingerless gloves, a mixture of cotton and stretchy material from bike rider's gloves, possibly more all stitched together, shone on different sections from the light, the red stains revealed. The varying shades of blood and the maroon dirt clinging to the underside of his fingernails simply suggested regular fights. He didn't know whether the blood splattered across almost every piece of fabric Sherlock wore was his or the attackers. A scent of blood, sweat and vile surroundings drifted from his cloths, whereas bad food and lack of hygiene reeked on his breath as he breathed quickly and quietly from the recent battering.

Then there was the state of Sherlock himself. John knew he was thin, underweight more than he'd ever known him, the clothes long and small in size, still not clinging to his body that well. The loss of colour and shape in his face was horrifying. Now there was colour, but it was like paint on a large white canvas. The paint was the blood lightly streaming from Sherlock's nose, the blood that had already clotted on his pale bottom lip and the signs of a faint black-eye rising on his left eye.

"Sherlock… I'm… I am so sorry…" he muttered, but Sherlock shook his head as both of them lowered their hands. He thought he may have saw Sherlock smile but the shadows, mess of hair and thin stubble hid his expression well.

"Consider it as punishment for what's happened." John wanted to smile, but he couldn't shake the wish of wanting to go back and change the past, to stop himself from hitting his friend. In the loss of time, when he looked up to apologise, no-one was there. There was a moment of panic that maybe he'd had an extremely severe hallucination, but he caught sight of the black one-strap backpack on the sofa. He felt an undying urge to peer at its contents, to see what Sherlock had kept by his side to survive, but he was disturbed by the tapping of a teaspoon. John looked round to see Sherlock walking past with a steaming mug, tea or coffee within it. A similarly hot mug was on the coffee table closest to John's armchair, to which he went over to pick up after sitting down. Taking the weight of his legs helped with everything around him, the air suddenly thick to breath, emotion, truth, just enough to bare. His friend made for the black armchair that would always be his, but halted and instead proceeded to stand by the window, the idea of enjoying a comfort of 221B not appealing to him. Sherlock observed the street below from the left window, hidden in the shadows just by the glass, like he was waiting for something. John simply observed his best friend, still adjusting to the reality of it all, and being reminded of the extreme hallucination dream about death, friendship and voices from where Sherlock was standing.

"So is this it? You're back?" John finally asked after a few sips of tea, surprised that it was exactly how he took it, surprised Sherlock had remembered something so small, even pointless. As far as he could tell, Sherlock was near the end of drinking his hot beverage. John could only assume that it was his first hot drink in ages, with little change in his pocket or bag and not a common thing to find lying in the street.

"Not exactly. I'm afraid I have one more task to complete," Sherlock answered bluntly. John didn't say anything, because that's when he saw it. He didn't tremble, or grip his mug tightly, Sherlock just stood still, breathing quietly and hiding in the shadows. He would have suspected Sherlock was in a thinking faze. If not for a faraway fear in his eyes, a fear not like one at Dewer's Hollow, or when he was about to take his Fall. This was Sherlock Holmes in a state of unspoken apprehension, but with enough sense within him to take a calm approach to it, to stay calm.

"What do you have to do?" he asked. Sherlock, now almost enveloped in darkness, sighed. The sigh sent the few wisps of steam of his drink, visible in the golden light of the window, off course in a pretty spiral.

"I can't tell you." There was a pause. "It's my last task before my work's done, before it's both safe for me to return, and necessary. I'll be back in a day or two, but I promise I'll come back…"

"I hear an 'if' coming."

"If I make it out alive." The doctor gulped at the sentence. It should have seemed predictable, Sherlock putting his life endanger, diving headfirst into a place as dangerous as an inferno. This was so different, because Sherlock never told John, never gave messages like this. Few things made sense and he wanted to just freeze time and think.

"What was it like?" Sherlock looked round in confusion, half his face lit by the streetlight. John found it unnerving. "Living out in the streets of London, was it hard?" He knew it was a stupid question the moment he spoke it, but how else could he say it. A hundred other ways flickered through his brain, but it was too late to say something else. Sherlock glanced to his left, John not sure whether it was the backpack, the raven outside, or both.

"As you can see, I got by. I thought I knew London well and how to get through life, but it's a different world from this perspective. London's a much more open place, and a more violent one… Though that came as less of a surprise." John couldn't help but laugh; it seemed Sherlock took the battlefield with him, no matter how he was living. "There were the sentimental people happy to give change to strangers. There were the people who didn't agree with my appearance, or activities as you saw a few weeks ago and-"

"It was you who started the graffiti!?" John exclaimed with a joking tone in his voice, not at all wanting to sound angry. Sherlock grinned.

"I had my reasons. I had to advertise my still existing services somehow." The atmosphere became a little more light-hearted, with small smiles on both the present men's faces.

"And you were very subtle about it," John muttered in return, looking down at the empty mug. He could ask more, but the questions seemed too much for now, too serious, or harsh. How did you survive the Fall? Why didn't you come back? How did you disappear on the night of the chase? What have you been doing all these years? Why did you stay away? Why? Sensing John's questioning thoughts from the drop in the smile, his did too and a silence descended.

Sherlock made to leave, placing his mug on the corner of the desk, picking up his backpack and heading for door as John watched from his seat. Sherlock was in the doorframe when John finally answered the first question.

"I did miss you." He could almost see Sherlock smiling if he didn't leave so quickly. John went to the window and watched Sherlock cross the street, leaving through an alley, almost melting into the shadows. Reality finally gave a powerful kick and John had to sit down again, the grip on his mug making his hands go numb and the rush in his mind making his head spin.

Sherlock was alive!