CHAPTER TWO

Three months, one week, two days after. One human head and three mutilated fingers chilled in the fridge. The smorgasbord of chemistry equipment littered on the dining table. Violin: tuned, polished, and inviting. The skull still a looming presence on the mantelpiece, watching over the Baker Street boys with its hollow gaze. John made a quick note to check it for one of Mycroft's hidden cameras.

John wished that he had been a bit more articulate in his reaction to Sherlock's return. Ideally, he would have punched the man in the face and yelled that he never wanted to see him again. There were still days when he would mull over his previous actions and replay the scene in his mind, wondering what would have happened if he reacted in this way instead of that.

When Sherlock returned, John had hoped that the insanity would stop. He longed for nothing more than to be able to get back to his old life with Sherlock, solving cases, going on dates, and berating his flatmate. But it seemed as if his return had only magnified the oddities John had developed during his period of loss. He still had nightmares on a regular basis, the sight of his friend's bloody corpse still fresh in his mind and was a frequent visitor in his sleep. At times he noticed a few items missing from the position he'd left them in, and panic arose in him as he wondered if the flat had been infiltrated while he was gone.

More than anything, John wished that he had something better to say upon Sherlock's return. Hoped that some epiphany occurred to him that made him realise fully the weight of reality. But he was still subdued. Afraid. Get a load of that. Capt. John Watson, ex-army medic, afraid. Because in the two months that Sherlock had been back at 221B, John viewed him as a bubble. One with a glistening form that floated freely amidst beakers and music sheets. One that he feared to touch, as if the merest contact would cause him to disappear, never to be seen again for another three years.

"Perhaps I didn't make myself clear." Sherlock's voice bit at him through the atmosphere, broke the silence so sharply that he dropped the pen he'd been holding. "I prefer my ten percent hydrochloric acid solution to be placed by the window. Stop putting it back inside the drawers."

John turned to face him, his expression still of shock. There was Sherlock standing before him in all his glory, staring at him with questioning eyes. No, not questioning. Deducing.

"I—alright. Yeah. Sorry," John stammered. "I keep forgetting. What exactly do you need that for again?"

"I am doing an experiment on the effects of temperature variations on the effervescing rates of marble," he said in his signature speech-at-the-speed-of-thought manner. "Apparently, it is still too early for me to work on any cases. I had to do something to keep my mind from rotting away."

John shifted his weight and looked down. "Right. Just make sure not to shoot any walls this time."

Piercing eyes squinted at him. Sherlock looked like he wanted to say something, but he nodded silently and walked out of the room.

John released the breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. How long was he going to be this way? He wanted to get over his irrational actions, past the lingering nightmares and the uncomfortable silences that prevented him from going back to his previous easygoing relationship with the consulting detective. He wanted to comfort him after the dreadful case he'd been through. To wrap his arms around his lanky torso and murmur words of assurance into the detective's ears. The sight of him made John's heart clench with pain and drove him mad with desire. Desire to be close. To love and be loved. To connect. But he could not bring himself to even have a proper chat with the man, no matter how strong these urges might be.

Sherlock had mostly been quiet about these matters. Usually, he spent hours on end with his experiments while he waited for Mycroft to tie up the loose ends in clearing his name. He never told John what he did during his time away, John just assumed that he'd been all over the world dismantling Moriarty's web. He'd told John how he managed to fake his death, however, but John did not entirely listen.

The atmosphere inside the flat had gone so awry that Sherlock finally decided to do something about it. That night, when the two were sitting on the sofa, John eating spoonful after spoonful of his potato salad and Sherlock simply playing with his food, the latter finally spoke up. "You never asked me about what I did the past three years."

John hastily gulped down his food before he spoke up. "Err, yeah. You were taking out Moriarty's group. Saving the world like the hero you are." He rolled his eyes. "I think I got the basics."

"I'm not a hero."

"We are not having this argument again, Sherlock."

"Were you not worried about me?" The dark-haired man inquired. John placed his plate on the table, pondering on how he should respond. "Yes, I was," he answered. "I'm still worried."

"Oh."

John picked up their plates and walked in the direction of the kitchen to place them in the sink. He took a deep breath. Washed his hands. Dried them with a towel. Took his time to go back to the living room, hoping that Sherlock had already left.

Sherlock was standing by the window, staring intently at the lit fireplace. The flames brought a sort of vivid colour to his otherwise alabaster skin. The mop of thick curls stuck out with its tips falling back on the tops of his eyebrows. He was wearing his blue robe on top of his pyjamas, his hands shoved deep inside the pockets. When John entered the room, he appeared to be so taken in by the flickering flames that John wondered whether he'd noticed him come in at all.

"Why are you so quiet?" Sherlock asked, still not meeting his gaze. John didn't know how to answer, only stepped closer to the taller man until they were only a few feet apart.

"Talk," he said again. "Be mad at me. Yell profanities at me. Tell me how much you hate me. Please. I want to hear your voice."

He turned around, looked at John, an ineffable intensity in his grey pools. In them, John saw the universe, the stories that Sherlock wanted to convey. And that was when John realised, he hadn't been the only one who felt lonely the past three years. Sherlock had gone through many horrors and barely escaped with his life. He needed someone to listen, and John selfishly chose to amplify his own issues instead.

But he felt betrayed. He spent his happiest years with Sherlock, only to be left behind to go on more crazy adventures without him. He spent years thinking that he had been inferior to the mad genius, that he was never really needed by the man and yet he trailed after him like a lost puppy. This was the final proof that Sherlock had no use for him after all, and it made his insides clench in pain.

"Alright." John cleared his throat. "Did Mycroft know?"

"Yes. I contacted him shortly after I jumped. He's been a big help in concealing my identity."

"What, and I wasn't?" John's voice cracked. "You couldn't have taken just five minutes to tell me that you were alive?"

"You had to believe I was dead or they'd be after you in seconds. Besides, if I told you, you would have followed me and I cannot allow that."

"Why? Because I'm stupid and ordinary? Because I'll only be a burden to you and slow you down? I always knew you had no need of me. Did you pity me—?"

"Don't be an idiot." Sherlock gripped his shoulders, his face gone distraught. John froze, taken aback by the sudden surge of emotion in the taller man's eyes. The grip on his shoulders tightened almost painfully. "I realise that what I did caused you immense pain, but it kept you alive and for that, I have no regrets upon my actions."

"Sherlock, if you've seen me in the last three years, you would have hardly call me 'alive'."

"But I did see you."

"What?"

Sherlock looked hesitant, but he proceeded. "I—When you were talking to my tombstone in the cemetery, all those years ago… I was there."

"You were there?! Why didn't you show yourself—"

"John, listen! I was risking both our lives by being there but I had to do it. I had to see you."

John relaxed for momentarily. "Alright. Continue."

"You said I was the most human human being you've ever met. The last time you saw me, you called me a machine. What is it really, John? Why can't I figure you out?" Sherlock looked at him inquisitively, eyes squinting. It was the look he had on whenever he's trying to solve a challenging puzzle. John thought about what was happening, and his heart made a particular leap.

He was the puzzle.

Sherlock can't figure him out.

Sherlock laid prying eyes on him, trying to deduce the answers out of him, but to no avail.

And John liked it.

"You're human." John finally said. "The most brilliant human I've ever known." Sherlock's grip on his shoulders relaxed before letting go completely. John gave him a reassuring smile.

After his exhausting display of emotion, Sherlock went back to his usual stoic expression and blank eyes. "You're still quiet."

"What do you mean?"

"I've been observing you, since I got back. Whenever you look at me, you have this distinct look in your eyes. Something… It looks like fear." He steepled his hands under his chin, tapping the pads of his fingers rhythmically. "But what could you possibly be afraid—oh."

"Sherlock…"

"Me." Sherlock dropped his hands to his sides and leaned in. "You're afraid of me."

John willed himself not to be abashed at having been so transparent. He stood up straight and lifted his chin in the air. "What made you think that?"

"Touch me." Sherlock said, ignoring the question.

"I—what?"

"I said: Touch. Me." Sherlock stepped inside his personal space, gaze locked on him.

The fire in his eyes was back, and John felt he had no choice but to follow. His hands worked at their own accord, pressing palms flat on Sherlock's chest. He felt his beating heart beneath his fingertips, imagined the mass of tissue pulsing, pumping life into his veins and John went silent with awe.

"Can you feel that, John?" said Sherlock, breaking the silence. "I'm alive. I'm real. You don't have to hold yourself back."

John wanted to cry. All those years of dreaming up Sherlock's form, only to be disappointed when it didn't meet with his standards. The pain at having lost someone so dear to him. The relief that said person was standing in front of him right now, alive and well. It was all too much for him to bear.

His hands slid up Sherlock's chest, to his shoulders, up to the protruding bones of his pale neck. He brought his hands to the nape of his neck, fingers entangling with the tiny curls that rested there. Unable to get enough, he pushed Sherlock towards him, pressing their foreheads together. Breaths mingled. Eyes closed.

"You're alive," John repeated softly, as if it were a mantra. "You're alive. Thank god, you're alive."

"You gave me a reason to keep living."

"Were you scared?" He asked. John felt Sherlock nodding against him. "Thank you."

He released his grip on Sherlock and stepped back, immediately missing the heat emanating from the taller man. Exhausted, he told him that it was about time he went to sleep. He bade him goodnight and left the room.

That night, John went to sleep with a smile on his face, only to be tormented by the sight of Sherlock's lifeless form in his dreams moments later.