Chapter 2

John let the front door to 221B slam closed with a loud 'boom' that was so powerful that it caused the walls to reverberate throughout the building for a good five seconds. John didn't react to the noise behind him. He just stood alone in the dark hallway until the walls became still again, then he slowly moved towards the stairs leading up to the door of his flat that he knew would be empty.

When he reached the stairs, he heard a strained whisper: "John." It was Ms. Hudson. She was standing half way in the hall and half way in her door just out of John's peripheral vision. With tears streaming down her face she was shaking with the effort to control her sobs. She had just received a phone call a few minutes before John had gotten home. She had felt as much as heard the door close when John had arrived.

John didn't bother to turn around or reply to her. He didn't even stop walking in acknowledgement of hearing her call. He just began to climb the stairs at an agonizingly slow pace. He didn't want to see Ms. Hudson so upset and he didn't want her to see him in such a state. It was best for everyone involved that John was alone right now.

Ms. Hudson's door clicked shut as he continued to climb. It was 6:00 in the afternoon, yet Ms. Hudson went to bed for the evening. That night she cried herself to sleep.

John gradually stepped towards his door and slowly reached for the handle. He had been trying to prolong the inevitable because he knew that as soon as he stepped into the flat that the last three hours of his life would become real. After a long pause he took an uneven breath and walked into his vacant sitting room. It was dark, except for the light coming in through the windows, and completely silent; John had never felt more alone. He reluctantly walked into to the kitchen and forced himself to make tea. He was trying to distract himself for a little while longer. While the kettle was boiling, John reached into the cabinet for a cup and out of instinct grabbed two and sugar. The realization hit him like a train and John replaced the second cup and sugar as quickly as he could, forcing the cabinet door closed angrily. A few minutes later the kettle went off and John poured himself tea before returning to the living room with uneasy feet to sit in his designated chair.

John never touched his tea, he just let it turn cold on the small table as he stared at the empty chair that sat in front of him, and he let his thoughts consume him. John's face was blank, stone cold and hard, completely emotionless. There were never any tears, they were pointless and would solve nothing, 'That's not what Sherlock would want'. John had looked like this since it happened, since the fall. John looked like he died inside and he had. His best friend had taken his life in front of him and there was nothing he could have done to prevent it. He hardly spoke to the police and the one cop who was dumb enough to try and force him to answer questions almost got his head ripped off, quite literally. John looked like he had died inside and truly he had. He looked dead, all except for his eyes. His eyes were filled with a wide range of emotions: hatred, rage, frustration…but also confusion and pain. He lost the man who saved him, in more ways than one, more than the man himself knew or now ever would know, and John didn't know why. Why had Sherlock jumped? Why had Sherlock lied to him? Because John knew he had. Why had this happened? What had caused it? Why, why, why? These questions and so many others like them ran through John's restless mind. After an hour or more of questions he would never receive answers to John's mind shifted back to the conversation he had with Sherlock on the roof and replayed it countless times in his head. He was trying to memorize it in the hopes to find answers that were hidden in Sherlock's words. He then sat like this for another hour completely lost to the world, hiding in his own thoughts.

At around eight there was a sharp knock at the door. The last thing John wanted was to see anyone or have to talk to anyone else, at least for today, so he left it unanswered. Two minutes later there was another knock. This time it was more forgiving, requesting John's presence. John reluctantly let himself be pulled from his dark thoughts and stomped his way to the door. He rage was renewed and he was prepared to yell at the persistent intruder ('or push them down the stairs, but let's see how it goes,' John thought to himself only slightly amused).

John opened the door and was greeted by a dark barren hallway. The door leading outside to the street was just being closed with a quiet click. John looked down and saw a clear plastic bag sitting on the shadow covered floor holding a large black object. John picked up the bag and took it inside setting it on the table in the small kitchen. He knew what it was the moment he held the bag in his hands. In the light of his apartment he could see the object and there was a note resting on top of the bundled package.

It took a while. I had to pull quit a few strings, but I was able to get them back. I thought you would like to keep them.

~Lestrade

John carefully removed the meticulously folded coat from the bag and unfolded it letting it hang in his hands. The sudden movement of John shaking out the coat caused Sherlock's scarf to fall to the floor. Seeing the fabric fall and holding the dark colored coat in his hands, John was hit with a new wave of emotion. With his eyes on the dark blue material lying at his feet his stomach dropped to the first floor of the building. Now there were tears in his eyes, but still he refused to let them fall. John picked up the dropped scarf and walked back into the sitting room. He carefully folded the coat in half at the collar and let it lie across Sherlock's chair, leaving it to hang off the back. John carefully set the scarf on top of it and turned to walk to his bedroom for the night.

But as soon as John turned his back on the chair the silence of his apartment was suddenly disrupted by a strange humming sound. It was familiar; he had heard it on the rare occasion but had never questioned it till now. It was faint and sounded like it was coming from the street out front of his apartment building. John walked over to the window and looked down into the street below. By the time John reached the window the noise had stopped and sitting in the middle of the street was an old blue police box. Because there was no explanation as to how or why the box was sitting in the street John was sure he was seeing things, so he ignored it and turned again to walk to his room.

But before he even left the sitting room he was stopped for a second time. Now by the sound of the front door being opened and closed and two pairs of footsteps climbing the stairs at a quick pace. John turned, a little confused, but was ready for either Lestrade coming back with some sort of an emergence or an attack from Moriarty's men planning to finish the job of their now decaying boss. John wasn't left wondering what the intrusion was for long, because not a moment later the door to the flat was flung open.

And in walked Sherlock Holmes.

Behind him was a man, brown floppy hair and the same height as Sherlock that John didn't recognize, but John took no notice to him. For now he was too busy gawking at Sherlock, standing in his sitting room, alive and breathing.

"John."

Sherlock and John locked eyes as John walked to stand in front of Sherlock with only a foot of flooring left between them.

"John?"

John tensed and, drawing his arm up and back, decked Sherlock square in the face.

"Is that how people say hello these days?" The Doctor asked from behind Sherlock, a mixture of concern and confusion written on his young face.

John grabbed Sherlock's wrist and checked for a pulse. Even, steady, though slightly elevated from the jog up the stairs and sudden intrusion of his personal space in the form of a fist. Sherlock was alive and well. Sherlock was back and he was completely, utterly fine. Just as John had last seen him.

"Hello John," Sherlock said after he straightened up from the blow he had received. He had his right hand covering his left cheek just below his eye, but luckily there was no blood and would only be minimal bruising John immediately assessed, 'Shame.'

"Sherlock, what the hell?" John all but screamed in his face.

"Well, the short answer is: not dead," Sherlock replied a little too easily with just the slightest rise of the right corner of his mouth.

John stood motionlessly in front of the two men trying to keep calm. "I saw you jump, you were lying on the ground dead."

"Oh, no that was a fake," The Doctor intercepted.

"And who the hell are you," John turned, looking around Sherlock at the man standing behind him who was now speaking for some reason.

"I'm The Doctor, hello," The Doctor replied, walking to stand beside Sherlock and giving a small friendly wave.

"Doctor who?"

"Just The Doctor," was his answer.

"What do you have to say for yourself?" John shouted with all the force he could draw from his lungs and the pent up emotions that had been circulating his body with nowhere to go for the last five hours, turning to Sherlock again, not bothering with getting an actual answer from the stranger just yet. John had just spent the last several hours of his life after Sherlock's 'fall' having to deal with people asking him questions, worrying over him, and grieving. Now, here Sherlock stood, strolling back into their flat as if nothing had happened. No, that is not ok, and John was going to get answers.

"John I can explain everything, but it will take time and it would really be…" Sherlock began, but was interrupted.

"Go on then, I've got all night," John ground out, fixing Sherlock with a stern look and waiting for an explanation.

Sherlock knew that look all too well. John's parental look which was almost always meant for Sherlock exclusively, it was rarely seen directed towards anyone else. Sherlock knew what that look meant, 'No one is leaving this room till my questions are answered'. "Alright," Sherlock gave in a little too easily, walking past John to sit in his chair. "What is this?" Sherlock was staring down at the clothes that John had placed in his seat.

"Lestrade brought 'em by. He thought I'd want to keep them," John replied a little shyly.

Sherlock proceeded to remove the items from the chair none to carefully and toss them across the room having them land scattered on the floor. John watched as he did so with a horrified expression.

"What? It was fake," Sherlock reminded him, not seeing anything even remotely wrong with what he had just done.

John sat in his chair across from Sherlock with a tired sigh. He rubbed a hand across his face and through his short blond hair; he was beginning to get a headache. 'Honestly, what was I expecting from this mad man in front of me. I should have known. No one can kill Sherlock Holmes, not even the man himself,' John thought to himself angrily, not yet allowing himself to be pleased that Sherlock was back home completely unharmed.

"Doctor, pull up a chair, we may be here a little while longer," Sherlock said as he wrapped his real coat tighter around his body and relaxed back into his chair, crossing his legs to get comfortable. The Doctor pulled up a chair next to the two men and waited for the discussion to unfold before him. He was ready to help answer any questions for John that he could. He only wanted to help after all.

"John, you must understand, there was nothing more I could do. I had to jump, it was the only way to insure that Moriarty's men wouldn't carry out their final orders," Sherlock began to explain calmly.

"But you said you didn't jump. That the body was a fake," John inquired.

"No, he did jump. I was just able to come by and catch him before he hit the ground and leave a very convincing dummy in his place," The Doctor cut in, thinking himself clever for having done so. "The police will never know the difference."

"How do you mean catch him? I thought there wasn't already a plan for this."

"No there was no plan beforehand, but I was able to receive his message and come by and save him," The Doctor responded.

That hurt. It shouldn't have, but it did. The way this stranger had put it sounded offhanded to John, as if the action was meaningless or a common day occurrence to the man. As if Sherlock's life hadn't been hanging in the balance of such a statement. "You saved him." It wasn't a question so much as a statement of fact.

"Yes," The Doctor answered, his voice sounding chipper, smiling where he sat.

"Uh huh. And how exactly did you manage that," John asked.

"Well I used the TARDIS," The Doctor stated as if that answer explained everything.

"Sorry, what's a TARDIS," John asked giving Sherlock a sideways glance.

"Yes, well, see, I may not have told John anything about you or the TARDIS," Sherlock interjected.

"Well where does he think you went last summer," The Doctor asked a little put out that he knew a lot about John and John knew nothing about him. "Or any time when you're with me?"

"I do believe he thinks I'm here while he is at work. Like last summer, you brought me back in an hour's time here."

"Where did you go," John asked curiously.

"Oh we weren't gone long I just took him to a distant galaxy for a few…days," The Doctor had paused a little awkwardly, realizing it might have been a little longer than he had originally planned their trip to be. 'At least we returned in good time,' The Doctor thought to himself proudly.

"A few days, you said you were back after an hour," John repeated looking puzzled at the mention of a galaxy and the inconsistency in their stories.

"Yes, well, that's where it gets a little complicated," was the only response Sherlock gave. Then with a knowing smile he added, "Shall we go then?"

"Go where," John asked annoyed. He was completely lost, had received little to no answers for his questions, or at least any that made sense, and his headache was making a permanent home just above his eyes. It had been a long, tiring, depressing day all around for him and he simply wanted a few answers so he would be able to sleep.

"Come along John," Sherlock called as he stood and walked straight out of the flat, The Doctor following on his heels like a bouncing puppy. Sherlock didn't need to wait and see if John would follow or not. No matter how much he yelled, whined, or complained John would follow him out that door, whether it was a completely conscious decision or not. John would follow him to the ends of the universe and back, just as Sherlock would do the same for him.

Little did any of the men know that they would eventually get the chance to do just that.