My take on what happens when Sherlock returns to Baker Street. Reviews highly appreciated, and enjoy the story!
Back From The Dead
"Speedy's, Baker Street, please," he said as he got on to the cab.
"Ah, Speedy's. Nice place isn't it?" chatted the cabby as he drove off towards their destination.
"Oh yes," the passenger chuckled behind the hat covering his face.
"I've been dying to go back there".
-:-
He cracked open the door of the taxi before it had even fully stopped.
"Ya should've told me yew were in a hurry," the cabby chuckled as his passenger paid the fee.
"I could've driven faster".
The passenger snorted a laugh.
"I'm fine," he said as he pulled his hat deeper over his head.
"Thank you," he continued as he slammed the car door shut.
The taxi drove away as he pulled his jacket collar closer to his neck and made his way to Speedy's.
Keeping his eyes on the window he got in to the café, but as he saw the cab turn the corner he stopped and waited a second before turning on his heels and heading out the door. He headed towards the next door on his right. A quick glance around and he opened the door very quietly to let himself in.
-:-
John Watson lifted his gaze from his book as he heard a faint knock from the door. Curious, he set the book down to the armrest of his chair and got up with a bit of a struggle. His leg had started acting up again.
John straightened, sighed and went to answer the door, wondering who could be behind it; rarely did anyone visit him, and those who did were familiar enough not to knock.
John put on a slightly warmer face before opening the door, but that was in vain; what greeted him behind the door made his face twist to an expression of utter surprise and disbelief.
"Good afternoon," said the man behind the door and grinned before removing the hat that had covered his face.
"Sherlock...? It can't be..." was all John could mutter as he stared at the man.
"Yes, John. I'm back," Sherlock said.
"Back from the dead!" he announced as he strolled past John inside to the flat, then turning on his heels.
"Doesn't that sound marvellous?" the detective smirked.
John turned around to face him. He looked at the detective up and down in silence, his lips cracked slightly open.
"So…" Sherlock could only begin his sentence before a sharp punch suddenly collided with his face, sending him stumbling backwards.
Sherlock held his jaw as he gathered himself and looked at John who stood there, breathing heavily and staring back at Sherlock.
"John..." the detective panted, feeling blood running down his face and into the palm of his hand.
"What the bloody hell are you doing?!" John yelled, cutting him off.
"Do you think you can disappear like that for three years and then just waltz in here like nothing had ever happened?! I thought you were dead!"
"But John I'm not... I'm not dead," Sherlock said quietly as he straightened himself, still holding his face.
"I don't care! I don't bloody care, Sherlock! You have no right to let me believe that you're dead and then just 'come back to life' when I've finally accepted that you're gone!"
"But... I'm not gone," Sherlock marked, keeping his quiet tone. "Shouldn't you… be happy?"
"Happy?" John yelled. "Happy?! Had you come back two years ago I would've been happy. Had you come back a year ago, I might have been happy. But three years, Sherlock, is too damn long," John's voice cracked as he fought back tears.
"I had finally accepted that you weren't coming back. I had finally gathered my life; I found myself a new flat, I found myself a regular job... I had all of my life finally sorted, Sherlock," he continued quietly.
"..But now we can go back to how things were," Sherlock tried to smile slightly as he took a step closer to John.
"..Back to…" John repeated quietly, "No, Sherlock, we can't go back to how things were. And you know why? It's been three years! What the hell did you think when you pretended to be dead for three whole years and then thought you could just march straight back to me and everything would be just like it was?" he raised his voice.
"I actually thought you were dead. Did you, at any point of this twisted act of yours, think of the people who care about you, think of me? I mean did it ever even occur to you that I actually cared?" John went quiet again, and stared at Sherlock.
"I…" the detective stuttered. "I came back as soon as I could, I…"
"Get out".
"..What?"
"Get out," John repeated. "Get out of this flat, get out of my sight. Now".
Sherlock stared at John, his lips cracked open like he was about to say something, but no sound came out. Slowly the detective gathered himself, straightened his posture and started walking towards the door. Just before he stepped out, Sherlock stopped to glance back at John, but quickly he turned his gaze away and walked out the door.
John closed the door behind the detective and took a deep breath. He went to the living room, sat down and buried his face to his hands as a tear rolled down his cheek.