A/n: Hello again! Let's see if I can eek out one last chapter before the weekend ends...

Disclaimer: Not mine by any stretch of the imagination.

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My Absence, Hardly Worth Noting

Chapter 2

After Sherlock checked out of the hospital, John hailed a taxi (despite it lasting all of three minutes in traffic) and took the detective home to the flat. To John's relief, Mrs. Hudson was out, probably having lunch with her new boyfriend. John quickly shuffled Sherlock inside, hoping to hide him as soon as humanly possible. Until he figured out what was going on here, he needn't a bruised and battered Sherlock romping around town, revealing that, yes, he was alive.

Upon entering the flat, Sherlock surveyed the area. The living room was covered in about two months worth of dust, but the objects that Sherlock had carelessly left laying around before his death remained roughly in the same place he recalled leaving them. Familiarity washing over him, the detective felt a little weak in the knees. He was home. As John strode off into the kitchen (most likely to make tea), Sherlock plopped on the couch, sitting on it properly, legs quivering. His right-hand fingers tapped on his knees impatiently. This was the place he dreamed of returning to, but now that he was actually here, it was all too overwhelming. Uncomfortable even. Though is possessions were strewn around the room, the space was no longer his; it was John's. There was no shred of him living in the room, his belongings as dead as he was.

Clutching the square Union Jack pillow against his chest, he hunkered down onto it nervously. Everything was far too quiet, there was no pressing danger, no need to constantly be on the move. Though he could hear John in the kitchen, the general, ringing silence was slowly driving him mad. Taking the remote into his hand, he flipped on the telly and turned it to the most banal of programming to end the silence. Sherlock had never been so grateful to a makeover show in his life.

John entered the room, handed Sherlock a cup of tea in his usual mug, and asked, "Why are you watching that drivel? I thought you hated crappy telly."

"Too quiet," Sherlock grumbled, taking the cup into his hand. The mug itself felt so natural, John's gesture affable, and the flat so docile. Too perfect.

"Fine, fine, background noise," John agreed, sipping at his tea. His eyes fell to Sherlock, who was obviously slightly distressed. Back arched, his sling and right elbow hung to the pillow still, and his right hand cradled the mug on his knee. This is awkward... Finally finding a topic, John continued, "You might want to take a shower after you finish your tea...Just make sure to dry your stitches and cover the cast...There's a wad of plastic bags in the kitchen."

Without another word, Sherlock abruptly stood up, letting the pillow fall to the floor. After setting the mug down, the man headed straight for the kitchen. Returning with a bag, Sherlock practically bolted for his room.

Flipping the light switch, he took a mental inventory of the room, dusty and forgotten. Pulling his closet door open, Sherlock grabbed one of his button-up shirts, a pair of trousers, and some undergarments from some of his drawers. He slung them over his shoulder, and pressed forward to the bathroom.

John merely sat and watched the flurry of motion before him. Once Sherlock slammed the bathroom door closed and the water started running, John slumped and sighed. Staring at Sherlock's tea cup, he still felt as if he had once again made two cups by accident and just left it on the coffee table. After all his praying for a miracle, John finally received his: Sherlock was alive and he was here with him. But was this quiet, uncertain shell his actually Sherlock? What on Earth could have happened to make him this way? Did Mycroft know? Did anyone know? With his features, how did he manage to live here in London without being recognized? Was he even in London at all? Finishing his tea, he took his out cup and rinsed it in the sink.

The shower was quick, and Sherlock walked back into the living room in socked feet. Having not bothered to dry them, his curls were plastered against his forehead and neck, contrasting with his pink, after-shower tone. His clothes clung to his still-damp frame, making John grumble, "Sherlock it's freezing. You're going to get sick...You clearly didn't dry your stitches well either..." The detective shrugged and slid onto the couch, pulling his long legs underneath him. Throwing a knitted blanket at his friend, John persisted, "Are you going to continue this no talking thing?"

"I suppose not, if you find something to talk about," Sherlock replied after extracting the blanket from his face and adjusting it over his lap to appease the doctor.

John rolled his eyes. There was plenty to talk about. "Fine, does anyone know? Mycroft? Lestrade? Molly?"

"Not a soul save you," Sherlock replied promptly, figuring this information was imperative to John's understanding.

Slightly glad that he was the first to know, John soon realized that their meeting was just a mere fluke. If he hadn't been called in by Owens, he might have never seen Sherlock in the first place. "So, this was just a mere coincidence? You never intended to come back?"

Sherlock nodded and said, "Just a coincidence. I never intended to return here." I wanted to come back, but I never intended to.

Studying his friend's face, he felt that he saw traces of loneliness, but they soon disappeared. "Did you want to come back?" John continued, catching on his use of wording. This was a game. He wouldn't answer any more than what he asked.

"No," Sherlock lied through his teeth, the word seething out of his mouth. Well, I wanted to come back, but hurting John wasn't an option.

He's lying, John noted, wondering just how much more he'd be lied to in this strange process. "So, if I were to tell you to be on your merry way right now. Would you leave?" the doctor asked, hoping that the question would be enough to unravel his lies before they further persisted.

Sherlock gulped and his eyes widened. He hadn't expected John to be this forward in his questioning. Knowing he had to prove something, Sherlock rose and slipped on his shoes, preparing for the door. However, John grabbed the lanky detective and pushed him back onto the couch. "I thought you just told me to piss off," Sherlock protested, kicking his shoes off once more, while John sunk back into his own chair.

"Idiot," John sighed, annoyed at his friend's attempt to prove a point. When Sherlock grimaced, he knew that it was time to continue, "I'll happily let you go do whatever you please when you've explained yourself. You at least owe me that."

Once Sherlock digested just what John had said, he snapped, "So what? You're going to keep me here? Against my will? What will you do? Tie me to the bed? Oh, I can see the headlines now! 'Sherlock Holmes Found Alive, Tied to Doctor John Watson's Bed'! Faked death for shameless sexual escapades? Oh, how the people will talk!" Adding a flare of melodrama, the detective stewed silently over Watson's second comment. I owe him my explanation? I died, I disappeared, and fought for him...And yet I owe him more?

"If I have to, I will. And besides, people do little else," John commented calmly, using the detective's own words against him.

Sherlock looked at the stone-faced stout man and tried resisted all impulses to have a hearty laugh. Finally a small chuckle emerged from his throat and he continued laughing until John, too, joined him. Three years, and it's like no time has passed at all, Sherlock thought as pain shot through his sore stab wound. "John!" he cried, laughing during the whole phrase, "Don't make me do something that hurts!" Letting out another choked giggle, the detective took a few breaths to calm himself while John stopped entirely, his eyes full of concern for the younger. "It's fine," Sherlock said, gleaming, the muscles in his face starting to go sore from use.

John returned the smile, amused by the man's locks, curling upon drying. How could three years hardly make anything different? How could they both just continue on laughing like nothing of grave importance actually happened? Still curious about his friend's absence, John cut back to business and continued, "So, if no one knows, just how did you manage to survive?"

The detective grinned; he had actually prepared for this one. "You buried me with my wallet," he stated simply as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. All it took now was for John to take the bait.

"And why does that matter in the slightest?" John asked, blinking hard in confusion.

"Because the morons who determined me dead were incompetent," Sherlock began explaining, oh how he loved drama. "I was buried anyway, and when I woke up, I was stuck. Instead of accepting my fate or scratching my nails out, I pulled out my license and used it to pick the pins on the side of the coffin. Opening it a bit, a pulled some of the dirt inside, and eventually made my way to the top." If he asks about the dirt, I'll just say I took some from a grave that had just been dug...Sherlock thought, focusing on the small details.

Brows furrowing, John pressed, "And you didn't come back to the flat, flailing and screaming at the top of your lungs, threatening to sue for malpractice why?" He couldn't think of anything the detective could say that wouldn't augment his own irritation, especially if it was some hackneyed, unbelievable return that Sherlock had somehow acquired amnesia.

Sherlock took a deep breath. He had set this up for this blow, now wasn't the time to back down. "I felt it was a good place to end part of my life. A fresh start. With all the space I could ever hope for." He fought a frown, his body desperately wanting to betray him. I'm lying, I'm lying...Oh God, John, I don't want you to hate me. But...you need to, please just do. Kick me out, send me flying. It's for your own good.

"So you mean to tell me that you just up and let us think you were dead for three years? That you selfishly went on with the rest of your life while the rest of us mourned over you? You know, Sherlock, I thought I'd give you the benefit of the doubt. Just go, get the fuck out. Don't come back. Have all the space you fucking need!" John's face grew angrier with each and every word. "I knew you were selfish from the day I met you, but this...this is just unbelievable. You really died, Sherlock. Go. Just go." Elbows on his knees, John plopped his face into his hands, back slumping. He wanted Sherlock back, but how could he allow himself to be stepped over once again by this selfish ingrate?

Sherlock rose, not looking at his the only man he ever considered his friend, and shuffled back into his shoes. Taking up his coat, he grabbed his violin and slung it over his shoulder. It would have to be his only friend now. Sherlock didn't have friends; he only had one, and now that slot was filled. He had lost his one and only human friend.

Dejected, he shifted to the door, having one last look at John's sinking form and the flat before exiting. Closing the door behind him, Sherlock felt as tears fell down his face, salt stinging at his open cuts. This really is for the better...

Slowly, Sherlock made his way down the stairs, anxiety building with every step. This was the final time he'd ever step foot in Baker Street, in the place that he loved, much less see the person that forced him to ingrain the sentimental value into it. No more Baker Street. No more John.

Once he made it onto the street, Sherlock blinked, taking the view of London in around him. Wiping his eyes to protect them from the bitter cold, he turned to make his way down the street. After taking a step forward, he saw Mrs. Hudson, dressed in a nice plum purple sweater (a date, clearly) and hardly looked a day older.

It took a moment for the woman to register his face, but her eyes widened at the sight before her. Weakly smiling, Sherlock glanced at his beloved landlady and commented with a cracking voice, "Looks like you found a good one..." before taking long strides down the street, cold air biting at his wet eyes.

A/n: Hope you enjoyed! Please review! A story without reviews makes me sad ; _ ; so please make me happy. I have a lot more planned, so please let me know what you think. Reviews just might make me write faster (or well, post faster). 'Till next time!