The sun crept into John's room, outside the rain had stopped and left a crisp day. Opening one eye, John groaned and rolled over. The rest of his face crushing into the scarf he had be holding all night. He was convinced he had been dreaming again. Like all those other nights. He'd see Sherlock and everything would be fine but he then he would wake up and be brought back to the reality of it all. Sherlock was dead. Sherlock was dead and he needed to accept that. No faked death. No annoying violin late last night.
As he swung his legs out of bed and forced himself up, the distant smell of lavender drifted into his nostrils. There was only one way in which lavender would be in the flat. Darting up, he pulled on his dressing gown and rushed to the door. Entering the living room, he saw the slim, tall figure sitting up right in the usual chair. He wasn't dreaming. He never smelt lavender in his dreams. It all flooded back to him. Last night was real. It was all real. Sherlock Holmes was alive. "Don't stand there with your mouth hung open, John. It doesn't suit you."
"S-Sorry Sherlock." John stammered. The sheer joy of having Sherlock back made his heart stutter. It was ridiculous, but Sherlock made John happy without even trying. John laughed softly, surprised at his own joy.
"Good. Now sit, please." Sherlock said calmly. His eyes watched John's face flicker between joy and confusion. "I have to explain something."
"Like... where the hell you disappeared to." John said, his eyes clouding over with something like - could it be? - pain. Sherlock sat opposite John and leaned forwards, resting his elbows on his knees. If either one wanted, they could lean forwards and touch the other, but they remained slightly distant.
"I know that my actions upset you-"
"Upset me? You let me think you were dead!" John gasped, he shook his head and leaned back into the chair. "It hurt, you know."
"I'm sorry."
"You're Sherlock Holmes, you're not sorry." John said sadly, knowing that he was right. "You just know that to say sorry is the social convention."
"No, John, I really am... I'm sorry."
Closing his eyes, John tried to think over the right words to say. He had planned it for days. Every word, every sentence. He thought he knew everything to say. Like an action plan for going in to war. He needed to say something. He could hear Sherlock breathing. The stare cutting his skin. Racking his brain, he blurted out the first thing that came to his head. "I bet you didn't even pick up any milk."
"John, this isn't the time for jokes." Why milk? Why the hell had John said milk? This was serious. He wanted actions. Just that this was all too much. One day ago Sherlock Holmes was dead and now he was scolding John in the living room.
"I know, I know."
"Look, John, I think I owe you an explanation. A proper one. It's the... least I can do. Especially because of what is happening later." Sherlock couldn't repress the guilt in his voice.
"What's happening later, Sherlock?" John said, sitting up. Raising an eyebrow with wonder.
"My mother is coming." Due to the whispered natured of this, John had to listen carefully. He hadn't met Mrs Holmes yet and this probably wasn't the way he had intended.
"Right, firstly, I'm going to get dressed. Secondly, you're going to tell me everything."
As John got off the chair, after Sherlock had gotten up himself, he walked into the direction of his room. "Oh, John? I did get milk."
After he had gotten dressed, John opened to the fridge and smiled to himself. Yes, Sherlock had got the milk. He poured the milk into the bowl and listened to the snap, crackle and pop of his rice crispies. He laughed to himself as Sherlock shot him a dirty look.
"I had weeks to get use to these, Sherlock. I won't change." John joked, his voice caught a little but he hid it with a spoon of his rice crispies.
"Okay, now you're fed," Sherlock began. "I-"
"Who says I'm fed?" John asked, sitting on the edge of one of the armchairs. "I'm still eating, thank you."
"Can't you hurry up, John?" Sherlock fretted.
"If you're so worried about me meeting your mother, I'll leave." John said, offering the best option he could see for Sherlock.
"No, John!" Sherlock quickly blurted out. Rather too quickly for his liking. "It's just that I need you to know the story before anybody else arrives. It's important, John."
John nodded with a mouth full of rice crispies. He was trying to remain calm but he didn't think he was doing very well. You can't go around moping around for weeks and then just pretend everything is fine. It doesn't work like that. Quickly finishing his bowl, after noticing Sherlock would refuse to move until he did, John sat back down on the sofa. Ready to hear Sherlock's tale.
Sherlock stood up and walked to the window, scanning the streets. Good, he still had time. He turned to John.
"Right John. This is extremely important. I don't want you to miss a word, take notes if you must but listen!" He sat down, his voice quickly became hush and intense. "We both knew that Moriaty was a danger, a danger we couldn't afford to have around. Especially after the night at the pool." He paused and looked John in the eye, "He was coming for me. Me and everyone close to me. I knew it was a matter of time before things caught up with us. As is the way the world works. But, after the American/Mrs Hudson business I could let anyone else get involved. I took cases on alone before you, and I did it again. I couldn't let you get hurt on account of my actions to which only I am fully responsible for." He paused and licked his lips before standing up and beginning to pace. "The night you assumed I died - bad idea, you didn't analyse my body, you assumed it was me- was the night I killed him. I knew though that his loyal henchmen, lackeys, thugs would be after me and you. So, I faked my death. A regrettably necessary action, John." He turned quickly to face John, "I stayed on the homeless network for a while, had wifi from various phones I acquired and made a few new contacts. But, it was only last night that I was able to return home. And I'm sorry, but I could have had it no other way. It would have endangered you and me both."
John watched Sherlock collapse into his chair. Strange that, even when Sherlock was gone, it was still his chair.
"You're right." John said after a while. "We didn't find a need to analyse your body. Considering we saw you fall, St Barts too you in, I identified you and Molly did your autopsy. The police investigation team didn't think they needed to analyse your body."
Sherlock nodded. He'd seen the investigative team ; lazy, useless and annoying. No wonder more men like Lestrade were getting to the top, everyone else on the police force was a complete idiot. The whole country was working on presuming it was him. How naive.
"But you were wrong about one thing," John continued, "you could've told me what you were planning. What you were thinking about doing. I wouldn't have told, or acted, that I knew anything different."
"John," Sherlock said sharply, "you and I know that the actor acts best when he doesn't know he's acting. That's why you didn't know."
John nodded and chewed his bottom lip, he was lost deep in thought and there was little point in rousing him until Mrs Holmes got to the flat.
He wanted to yell at Sherlock. It was all perfectly logical, yes. It was all thought out, yes. Sherlock was right, yes, but over them weeks something inside of John had cracked. He hadn't put his finger on it until now but he realised that losing Sherlock was like losing himself. He had been lost without him. The nightmares had gotten worse, now involving the mangled body of Sherlock. "How long until your mother arrives?"
"Not long. Judging by the situation, child and distance, I'd say we have 10 minutes." John didn't even want to know why he knew those time measurements already. Though he could already gather why. John continued to stare into space, very much like Sherlock would, contemplating every thought rushing through his head. This was different now. Different emotions than before he had believed Sherlock dead and he wanted to figure out how to compose himself but he had the... pleasure of another Holmes relative invading his home.
John imagined Mrs Holmes as a stern woman. From the small ramblings of Sherlock he expected she had been absent a lot during his younger years. He couldn't imagine what she looked like, though he thought she would resemble Sherlock a lot. Some reason he couldn't picture a female Mycroft. It would be too hilarious. John could tell Sherlock was worried. He never mentioned his mother and he had just gotten back from the dead yesterday anyway. He thought it best to sit there is silence, watching Sherlock panic in his own little way.
Dreading the eventual knocking; Sherlock began to pace. His eyes darting quickly backwards and forwards. He couldn't help but worry that John would say something that Mummy would find stupid. His mother was so critical. Always judging everybody she met. It was horrid. Even as a child he didn't do anything right. Mycroft was the golden boy. Sherlock didn't even know why his mother bothered to even come down to London. He doubted she had been devastated or heart broken. In order to be heart broken you first must require a heart. Something Sherlock knew his mother did not possess.
Sherlock was thankful John was remaining silent. The last thing he needed was John complaining again. He knew, however, that as soon as his mother left and he had calmed down that John would start again. He sort of wanted it though. The continuous complaints of John had been absent from his life for awhile and he missed them. They gave him something to fuel. He liked annoying John. So very much.
"John," Sherlock began. Still pacing around the room at an unsteady pace. "When my mother arrives could you, erm, be careful of what you say? You've tolerated my company for many, many months now."
"Sherlock, where are you going with this?"
"Well, Mother isn't exactly the nicest person around."
"With a son so kind hearted as you?" John scoffed. "Wouldn't have guessed."
"She's worse than me, John." Sherlock sighed, collapsing into his usual black chair.
"What?"
"She's worse than me." Sherlock hung his head. This was out of his depth. Not being able to divorce his emotions and all because of his ruddy mother.
"I heard that... But how?" John said, his brow furrowing. He was genuinely confused by the words that Sherlock had just said, not that that was unusual. He watched Sherlock's face, the twitching of his mouth as he spoke.
"It was her who taught Mycroft and I about the uselessness of all emotions." He said. He wasn't calm, not like the usual Sherlock was, that scared John.
"Maybe you should calm down." John heard himself saying, there was no concious thought about saying this. Sherlock's head shot up and, from below his eyebrows, he glowered at John.
"I am calm." Sherlock raised his hand to show the sturdiness of it. This, however, was pointless. A minor shaking action could be detected, causing Sherlock to bring his arms down with force. Staring into space, he did his best to ignore John. Sherlock missed the sound of a Mercedes E-Class Coupé pulling up outside. He didn't even hear the car door slam. The doorbell of 221 brought him to reality. "Three rings."
"Second long each."
"She's here."