Back from the Dead (Sherlock)

Sherlock watched as John slowly backed away from him, his legs practically giving way as he banged against the coffee table, then he emerged fully from the doorway of his bedroom and followed John slowly into the living room area. His mind was whirring, stuggling to think of more words to say...to think of /something/...something to say...

For a while they just sort of...looked at each other. Sherlock searched his mind for something appropriate, quickly discarding several sarcastic possibilities. John was clearly in shock...in fact he looked quite ill...

It seemed as though an eternity had passed although in reality Sherlock knew it was only a matter of seconds but finally he found the words he knew he had to say to John and he just hoped....hoped so much...that they would make everything just go back to normal...go back to how things were...he'd said the words before but never meant them...now he did, now he really felt he did...

"I'm...sorry."

The doctor's mind was screeching and stuttering, trying to process a reality that was hardly real.

"You're aliv-" his voice failed him, and he had to take in a deep shaky breath.

There was a bitter taste in his mouth.

He had to be going crazy, Sherlock would have never faked his death for three years, he would have never done something like that to him.

He had seen him fall!

"No..." he shook his head at the apology, his heart beating painfully in his throat, he buried his head in his hands.

Sherlock took a step towards his friend, instinctively reaching out his hand. He placed it gently on John's shoulder.

"It's...it's...OK." My God, he was so BAD at this. He cursed himself.

He started again at the touch, his body reacting without his consent, he grabbed the other's wrist and squeezed it incredulous.
Sherlock was alive.
He was here.
He was real.

"I saw you... fall..." he whimpered, his other hand reaching out for the detective's shoulder, and then his face, his fingertips grazing the pale skin of his jaw in a shaky attempt to steady his thoughts.
They pulled away as burned.

"No... I..." his eyes moved on the other's face. "I begged you to come back..."

Sherlock saw the pain, the confusion and the hurt all etched on his friend's face and it made him ache inside. He'd never meant to hurt John...he had to make him realise. John was gripping hard on his wrist...it hurt slightly but he ignored it.

"I did it for you John...Moriarty..." he trailed off...his mind a mess. Pull yourself together for God's sake. Explain. Properly. He took a deep breath then began to rattle off an explanation.

"Moriarty left me with no choice. He had three assasins one of which had his gun trained on you. I knew his end game was my suicide so I had time to arrange it and I knew he must have had some kind of leverage to force me into it I just didn't know what. Remember at the hospital you had the phone call about Mrs Hudson? I arranged it John I needed you out of the way whilst I sorted things out with Molly. I needed you to believe I was dead. If you knew I was alive your emotions would betray you and put you in danger again. I..."

He stopped. John wasn't looking so good. He took hold of his friend's shoulder...

"Umm...there's more. Do you want me to continue...or...?"

John really didn't look very good, his brain could hardly process the flood of information.
How could he believe this was reality?
The possibility he had woken up in an alternate reality seemed more likely.

"I said..." his voice was still shaking. "I said, friends... protect people..."

He had been so sure he still had to teach Sherlock so much.
And then Sherlock had gone and sacrificed everything to save him.

"Sherlock," he grabbed him, his arm wrapping around the detective's shoulders, pulling him closer for a hug. "God yes, tell me... tell me everything."



((Gotta head to bed~~ can't wait to continue~~))

(( Cool, that'll give me time to figure out which Reichenbach theory I'm gonna use to explain it all ! ))

(It doesn't have to be specific, John just wants to hear Sherlock's voice, so that he can convince himself he's real... Poor John probably doesn't understand much at the moment XD)

Sherlock felt the warmth of his friend's bodyheat as they embraced and he realised this was the first time they'd ever hugged. He wasn't too worried about the unplanned physical contact. It just felt too good to back with John again.

"I wanted to tell you..." he mumbled into his friend's shoulder. "So many times I wanted to come back...I've been all over Europe John, helping various police forces catch Moriarty's assasins, trying to break up his criminal web. I didn't want to come back until it was over, until I knew we could be safe from him forever. But something happened...a situation arose that's forced me to come back..."

Sherlock pulled back slightly from the hug and looked into John's eyes.

"Listen...I'm sorry you had to be the last to know. I had to tell Molly because I needed her help to look like I was dead...and Mycroft, he helped me get out of the country, gave me a new identity whilst I was away. I told him to look out for you. I never meant to hurt you John, I'm sorry."

Sherlock's vision was blurred and he knew that soon he wouldn't be able to fight back the tears from dampening his cheek, but he didn't care anymore...he just needed John to understand...to tell him it was all alright, that he wasn't mad at him...that he was glad he was back...

John didn't want to pull away, he wanted to keep his arms wrapped around Sherlock's frame until he was sure he was really here.
It was not proper though, he knew that, and he pulled away, his hands staying on the other's elbows though.
He needed the balance.

"I just... can't believe it..." he whispered, more to himself than anything else, he ducked his head low, willing himself not to cry.

He took in a shaky breath and together with it the other's familiar scent.

It hurt.

"God Sherlock," he whimpered, shaking still. "You made me go through hell. And I thought I had been there already."

He didn't dare look up, he knew he'd do or say things he'd regret.

"I know, I know you didn't..." he muttered, squeezing his arms, he needed the contact as a reminded that this was real.

"I just... you're back... it's a miracle... to me..." His voice shook again and he had to stop talking, swallowing hard, he didn't want to cry.

Seeing John this way made Sherlock ache somewhere deep inside. He'd never cared for someone so much before as the way he cared for John. He was only just starting to understand what his "death" and done to his only friend...

He silently pulled him back in for another hug, allowing the tears to fall softly down his cheek and onto John's shoulder, but unable to put his emotions into words.

"Forgive me." he mumbled.

Feeling Sherlock's arms wrap around him made his heart skip a beat, it was a feeling he couldn't remember, because really, they had never been this close.

His brain still had troubles with the whole situation, the pain, the relief.

He laughed bitterly at the detective's mumbled words.
"Forgive you? For what? Giving up you job and life to save me?" He whimpered.

He clung to the other's coat, he felt his warmth and it was finally starting to calm him down.

"I won't lie, I missed you, these three years almost killed me... I wish they never happened... But I trust you had no choice. I trust you. Always."

As much as it hurt.

Sherlock felt a wave of relief sweep over him. The tight knot in his stomach felt a little looser, but much to his annoyance the tears were still flowing freely. He wiped his damp cheek with the back of his right hand, still holding onto John with the other, then he pulled gently away from the embrace...suddenly feeling a little awkward and embarrassed.

He wanted to say so much more, do so much more, anything to make his friend feel better...but his old defence mechanism kicked in, the one he'd devised years ago to stop himself ever getting hurt, the one that enabled him to switch off his feelings like you might switch off a tap and for a moment at least, the old Sherlock was back.

"I'm making tea," he said casually, as if none of this had ever happened. "Do you want one?" He made a move towards the kitchen, pausing slightly in the doorway to gauge John's reaction.

John nodded as Sherlock pulled away, he knew he couldn't just cling to him forever, even though now it was all he wanted.
The feeling was peculiar, he had never needed someone else this much.

"Yes, yes, that would be lovely," he muttered, his steps moving him towards thw kitchen, watching him.

He started a bit noticing Sherlock's damp cheeks, had he cried? It contrasted with the other's tone and countenance, but he was sure he had felt him shake when they were close.

He swallowed hard, just looking at him.
"I have never thought I'd see you here again... In my kitchen... In /our/ kitchen..." He confessed.

Sherlock grinned at John as he busied himself making the tea, starting to feel better about it all already.

"I've really missed it John. Missed our life together. I even missed you," he teased playfully, wishing he could tell him just how much he really did miss the doctor.

Sherlock brought a cup of tea over to John, who was still standing in the doorway of the kitchen, and handed it to him with a smile.

"I won't let anything like this happen again. I promise. Moriarty's dead now. He can't hurt us anymore."

John couldn't help but smile shakily at the words. "You must have been very bored if you even missed me," he teased back, it was easy to fall back into what they used to be.
He felt different though, something just wasn't right.
Something was missing, as if a big part of his heart had died and it was too late to save it.

His hands were still shaking when he took the cup of tea, he turned towards the counter, using it as support, his damn nerves.

He remembered something then, he frowned at his tea.

"You... you tried to convince me Richard Brook was real when you said goodbye... why?" he asked, shaking his head. "You really thought I could think so little of you?"

Sherlock smiled. "No...I knew I could never convince you. Not fully. I had to say certain things...I wasn't entirely convinced I was alone. Moriarty bugged our flat remember. I had to take the extra precaution. Even with Moriarty dead, if his men had been listening in somehow, and I'd tried to pass on some sort of message to you...or not say what they wanted to hear, not been entirely convincing...well...it might have put you in more danger. I don't know if that theory was correct or not. I guess I'll never know."

Sherlock took a sip of his tea then brushed gently past John and into the living room. He took a seat in his favourite chair, and pulled his knees up to his chest, then smiled over at John.

"Come and sit down for God's sake...you look like you're about to faint."

As John made his way over Sherlock's eyes glanced into the corridor and caught sight of his bedroom door slightly ajar. It made him remember something he'd meant to ask John.

"You put all my things in my room then put a lock on the door. That's...odd."

It was just as surreal to see Sherlock sit in his usual chair in the living room, John just couldn't wrap his hear around it.
"I think I might just do that," he tried to joke with a soft laugh, indeed he felt weak, but he couldn't help but want to stay awake forever just to see Sherlock here.
He couldn't afford fainting now.

He walked into the room, tea a bit shaky in his hands and he looked at his usual chair for a moment.

Then he decided for something else and went towards Sherlock.

He needed to be close to him.

He innocently sat on the arm of the chair where Sherlock was sitting, and looked at him as he finally sipped his tea.

"Ah, finally... needed this..." he said, enjoying the feeling of warmth in his stomach.

"Oh, that," he shrugged slowly. "I wanted to keep them around, but Lestrade forced me to put them away... I refused to throw them away... and I didn't want Mycroft to come and take them... therefore the locked room."
He had tried to keep Sherlock's memories close to him, as close as possible, but he couldn't say that out loud.

Sherlock was pleased by the explanation and touched that John understood him so well.

"Thanks," he said softly. "You know how much those items mean to me. I bet you even missed my violin playing."

He poked John in the ribs playfully. He could already feel a warm glow creeping round his heart. It felt so good to be home. At that moment he felt like he could just stay there forever, just him and John...smiling, laughing, having fun like the old days. For now he just wanted to forget about the criminal underworld and whatever danger lay ahead, and just enjoy being back with his friend.

John was still perched on the arm of the chair. Sherlock rested his head thoughtfully on John's side.

"New aftershave," he noted idly as the scent of it reached his nose. "Wearing it for anyone special? How is the love life these days?"

John smiled at the poking, ducking his head: "I did, who would have thought? I missed everything I used to complain about," he said, and he wished he could say more, he wished he could say just how much he had missed Sherlock, how his heart had ached and pined for him.
He looked at him though, as he rested his head on his side, and he didn't have the courage to be truly honest and say the words.

"What?" he asked and then realized what Sherlock was talking about. "Ah, yes, well, they stopped producing the old one. Necessary change," at least now he shaved, he reminded himself, he had spent a few months avoiding just that.

The subject of love life made him tense a bit, but then he remembered how it used to be, how it was supposed to be.
They were friends, they talked about these things.
"I almost got married," he said with a shrug.

But then I realized I had to leave this place if I went through with it...

Sherlock was shocked. He couldn't help but laugh.

"You! Married?" then he muttered. "I'm glad you didn't."

Marriage would take John away from him...he'd probably want to move in with his wife then Sherlock would lose him for good. He was secretly glad John had a terrible love life. He didn't want to have to share him with anyone.

The smile he turned towards Sherlock was sad, but he tried to reply anyway. "Are you?" he muttered lightly, but he didn't really expect a reply, Sherlock was always quite inconspicuous when it came to feelings.

"I guess I am just not fit for marriage, or love," he added then, schooling his features to neutrality. "I am getting old though. Family is nice when you are old."

"Family's overrated. You only have to look at Mycroft to see that." Sherlock grinned, then he stood up to take his finished cup of tea back to the kitchen.

"I thought it was friends that were important John," he shouted from the kitchen. "That's what you taught me remember."

Sherlock could feel a sense of frustration building up inside him. He wanted to let John know how important he was...how much he meant to him...but he just couldn't convey himself properly. He returned to the armchair, frowning and plonked himself down...then looked up at his friend, making eye contact for a brief moment before looking away again nervously.

"John I...friends...friends are important. You're...important."

Sherlock felt embarrassed and stood up again. He went over to the mantlepiece and pretended to be looking at the books. He hoped John didn't think he was being strange. He just didn't want him to look so sad anymore. He hated him looking sad. He desperately wanted things to be just like they were before...but he knew in his heart it would probably take some time for old wounds to fully heal...

Sherlock could feel John's eyes boring into the back of his head. He wondered what he was thinking.

John frowned at the mention of Mycroft's name. "He is still better than Harry, at least he is sober at times. And he cares," he had learned that over the years.
"Mycroft missed you too," he admitted with a soft smile.
Sherlock always took for granted people didn't like him, but some actually did. A lot.

The rest of the words brought back a lot of memories and he stared at Sherlock for a long moment before he could manage a reply.

"Am I?" he croaked, and looked away, his heart beating fast in his chest. He swallowed hard, trying to calm himself down.

"Did you come back for me, Sherlock?" he heard himself asking, finally realizing that he still didn't know the most important bit of information. Why did Sherlock come back?

Sherlock turned his back on the book shelf and faced his friend once more.

"Of course I came back for you," he stated matter of factly. "You don't suppose I have any other friends do you?"

He took a few steps towards John and stopped in front of him, absent mindedly touching his friend's arm, then looked up into his eyes, quite serious now. He'd almost forgotten the real reason he was here. He'd been so caught up in their reunion. At recalling it he glanced over to the window and headed over, taking a peek out of the closed curtains before turning back to John.

"One of Moriarty's assasins knows I'm alive, and Mycroft informed me he'd been spotted back here in London. I'm pretty certain if I hadn't returned he would have made an attempt on your life just to try and get at me. As it happens I was followed on the way here so now he'll probably just try to kill both of us."

Sherlock studied his companion's face, reading his reaction to the information.

"Welcome back to the war John." he smirked.