Sherlock had awaited this moment. Ever since he knew he had to jump. To save John. His John. Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade as well, but mainly, John. He knew John might be angry, but Sherlock didn't care. His fall may not have cracked his skull open, but it did allow the emotional floodgates that were usually sealed shut good and tight to burst open. This was all so new to Sherlock. Feelings and emotions. Sherlock was not a fan.
"John, I am home" Sherlock said, barely louder than a whisper. John simply stood there with his mouth slightly open, as if he had been about to say something, but the comment never made it out.
"I understand you may be suffering from shock, but could you please say something, or make some kind of noise, please John?" Sherlock had waited for the day he would get to be back with John.
"How?" John whispered just loud enough for Sherlock to hear. There was a bit of despair in the older man's eyes, almost as if...
"You think I would've jumped without a plan? My dear Watson, your doubt pains me." Sherlock weakly chuckled. That despair in John's eyes upset Sherlock. It must mean that John thought...
"I must be dreaming...my dreams are always so real..." John muttered. Then he pinched his own arm and winced a little at the resulting pain.
Oh God, John thought, my visions aren't just dreams now.
"John?" Sherlock asked, hurt that John would question whether or not he was real. He had jumped off a building for this man. He had stayed low key until he was sure that all of Moriarty's henchmen were...indisposed, so that they wouldn't bother John and himself anymore. In that time, Sherlock's mind had spit out millions of different ways this meeting could have gone, but none of them had included the possibility of John not even believing he was real.
Sherlock to a step forwards towards John. He dropped the small duffel bag he was holding, and reached towards John, as if to prove that he was real and tangible.
John recoiled from this movement. He couldn't handle this. Sherlock had been dead for three years. Three long years that had taken a heavy toll on John. John had done his best to put up a strong front, and had managed to keep the minimal crying confined to the flat. John had watched Sherlock fall, had heard the sickening crunch when the detective had hit the pavement. John could see the look of rejection on Sherlock's face, an emotion that would have been invisible to anyone but John. John had known Sherlock so well.
Of course my subconscious would drag this up on the anniversary of the event. John thought.
"John? Please John..." Sherlock quietly pleaded.
"You can't possibly be real...you just can't..."John whispered, mostly to himself. John took a hesitant step forward and stretched out his arm so that he could touch Sherlock's face. But his hand stopped just short.
"I can't, I just can't..." John said as he turned and hurried off to his room.
Once in his room, John curled up under his duvet He was really losing it now. He was hallucinating about his dead flatmate. Sherlock couldn't be alive. He had jumped from the roof of Saint Barts and had died along with all of John's dreams. Sherlock had been his only real friend. Lestrade did okay, and his old army and college buddies sometimes called, but they couldn't compare with Sherlock. No one could. John had grown to care for Sherlock. He was utterly amazed at all of Sherlock's layers and the complexity of his had been struggling two years now to move on past the death of his best mate. But nothing had worked. Every night the bloody dream happened, and when John woke, the dream always stayed fresh in his mind. He had managed to keep up with the necessary bills by helping Lestrade on cases that normally both Sherlock and himself would consult on, but other than that John didn't do much outside of the flat.
There was so much that John wished he could tell the real Sherlock. He had settled with telling them to Sherlock's grave. It had listened better than Sherlock would've. John had poured his heart into that speech. It had been beautiful. Perfect. But Sherlock could never hear it. Those words fell upon dead ears.
A tear rolled down John's face as he reminded himself of this fact. He was so caught up in this that John did not notice the door to his room open.