John helped Sherlock over to the couch and gently sent him down. Sherlock refused to let go of John and was softly calling his name as John tried to help him remove his coat. He allowed one hand to be occupied with Sherlock's, just to put him at ease.

"Easy, Sherlock, calm down."

"Why were they asking me all of those questions? What were they talking about?"

John finally managed to slip the coat off of him and place it on the coat rack along with his. He wanted to go and make tea but he doesn't think Sherlock is in the mood to really drink anything at the moment. John took a seat with him on the couch and placed one hand on his back and rubbed soothing circles on it and let Sherlock's long fingers intertwine with the free hand. John didn't even know where to start. There was so much to say, how can explain the whole thing with Moriarty? It was also him not wanting to relive it, even if he is only retelling what went down. It was bad enough that he had to dream about his "suicide" over and over again, but to have to explain why he can't remember anything but that is also difficult. John didn't want to keep anymore information from him, but this would have to wait another day,

"Don't worry about them, Sherlock. They're just a bunch of wankers who don't have anything better to do than harass people."

"That woman, the one who told them about me, why did she call me 'freak?'"

John swallowed the lump in his throat. He should have seen this coming. That word was bound to come up sooner or later, if not from her, then from somebody on the telly, or the internet, or even in the street. John couldn't stand it. He hated whenever that word was directed towards Sherlock, he knew that the word bothered him more than he let on. He's seen the detective crumble on the couch after a case or another verbal war with Sally and Anderson and sulk for hours. He's been called a freak for his whole life and John could only imagine how it made him feel. Sherlock isn't a bad person, he can be nice and sociable when he wants to, it's just that nobody has ever given him the chance because they immediately write him off as a person to be ignored and treated with disdain. Sure Sherlock wasn't completely innocent either, but he rarely was the one to start a fight. John's even been guilty of dismissing him at times, as well as the rest of his friends and he's never said anything to them about it because people have been doing it to him for so long. Looking at him now, John realized, he was all Sherlock had at the moment. His brother practically stole him from the hospital and then dropped him here like an abandoned child and then pranced off to do his top-secret missions and be the British government, with only the occasional phone-calls that only lasted a few minutes because he's so busy being Mycroft Holmes that he can't even take the time to check on his little brother. He had no other friends, Greg was wrapped up in the case, and...well, that was it. The only person that was left was...John, always John.

Well, of course he would be, that's his Sherlock, he would always be there for him. He hasn't forgotten about Sherlock's question, so with a sigh and a squeeze of the hand, he answered.

"She said that because..."

'No lying this time.'

"Because...she doesn't like you."

Sherlock's eyes widened and it hurt John to tell him that.

"Why doesn't she like me?"

"Well it's not just her, it's...everybody..."

John almost wished he could take that back. The look in Sherlock's eyes told John that he would have to get a box of tissues ready. He immediately moved closer, Sherlock wasn't crying, but his eyes were glossy and he could see the little pool of tears in his eyes. John never wants to see Sherlock this vulnerable anymore. Sherlock would be disgusted with himself for showing this much emotion, but with everything he's been through, this is well-deserved.

"Nobody likes me? How long has this been going on?"

"I remember you telling me that's it's been like this since you were in primary school."

Sherlock's eyes danced away from John's.

"So none of you like me?"

John shook his head and held Sherlock's hand even tighter.

"Hey, what have I been telling you before? From the moment you woke up, I've been telling you that we're friends, right? Best friends even."

Sherlock nodded like a child who was mourning the loss of his favorite toy and John couldn't help but smile. John realized that he wasn't getting through to Sherlock and that he would have to say what he always felt, he knows that he had the chance before, but Sherlock "died" and John kicked himself over and over again for not telling him just how much he means to the once broker ex-solider, and this seems like as good a time as any. John forced Sherlock to look at him, and really look, not just meet his eyes, he wanted eye contact, he wanted to see every color in his eyes and he wanted Sherlock to hear him, because he wasn't going to repeat himself.

"Listen to me, Sherlock, okay? I love you. Yes, that's right, I said it. I love you, you're the best friend I've ever had and I don't know where I would be without you."

Well, he could have a guess, six feet under because he put a bullet in his head, but Sherlock didn't need to know that.

"You gave me purpose and hope when I had none. I was so alone, Sherlock, I had no one to talk to, no none to go through my problems with me. I had no one to laugh with or hang with. All I had was my gun, my cane, my shitty apartment, and my empty blog. Never in my life would I ever imagine that I would meet somebody like you, Sherlock. I got everything I wanted and more when we met in the morgue. You got rid of my limp, you showed me how much fun it was to run around London chasing after a cab, you gave me a new home and a reason to live and I am forever in your debt."

John's smile grew as he saw Sherlock's mouth start to open from the surprising confession.

"So don't ever worry about people like Sally, or anybody not liking you, because I like you, Lestrade likes you, Mrs. Hudson loves you like you were her own son, Molly likes you, and Mycroft...he's a funny one when it comes to affection, but he does love you, Sherlock."

Sherlock couldn't find a word to say and John was happy. Did it help Sherlock remember? Probably. Did it answer all of Sherlock's questions? Not all, but most of them. It was baby steps.

"Now, I'm going to make some tea, do you want a cup?"

Sherlock gave a silent yes as he was still letting the words sink in. John didn't know why but he placed a kiss on Sherlock's forehead before heading to the kitchen. It felt right. John loved Sherlock like a friend, right? It's perfectly okay, it was just a friendly kiss. Now he found himself thinking about it, but it only took one look at Sherlock to make John forget about it.

~~~~~~~~~
"I'm telling you, the freak's back!"

Anderson scowled.

"What do you mean 'back'? You mean like sprouting out of his corpse like the undead? Rubbish."

Sally crossed her arms and rolled her eyes.

"I'm telling the truth, Philip, I saw him, and he's all over the papers, and the news stations! Where have you been all this time?"

Anderson mussed around before answering.

"I was sick, remember? I had to take a week off for bed rest."

"And you watched no television at all?"

He shook his head.

"I was sleeping all day, minus the medicine and food and bathroom breaks. Plus the wife sat in front of it all day watching her soaps and whatnot."

Sally made a sympathetic grunt. They were on a crime scene with Lestrade, the killer attacked again. This time it's two deaths, the killer is getting bold. Or possibly sending a warning.

"Alright, that's enough chit-chat, get back to work Anderson, Donovan."

They both glanced at each other, but complied to the order and went about the scene, leaving Lestrade by himself. He walked around, searching for any clues he may have missed the first time, going around all of the trees of the building, looking at the pavement, making sure he does his job properly. He walked inside of the building and headed to the first floor, where they were found. Two bodies this time. The smell was pungent and awful, Lestrade had to cover his nose and mouth with his sleeve so he wouldn't vomit and contaminate the crime scene. Just like the other victims, he carved a smile into their face and then signed his name. They were stabbed repeatedly, the blood soaking through their clothes. They were two men, their identities would be confirmed later. As he started circling the corpses, he stepped in something, a puddle of something, actually. It was too far away from the bodies, but he knew that it came from them. It was their blood. He slowly trailed where the blood was coming from when his eyes stopped on the wall. His eyes widened and his mouth dropped open and he whipped out his phone in record time and punched in John's number.

"Hello?"

"John, bring Sherlock with you right now!"

"Greg? W-what's going on?"

Greg took the phone away from his ear and then gave the wall a once-over. This was bad.