My ship went down in a sea of sound

When I woke up alone, I had everything

John sighed. 6 months. It was a long time really. Enough time for him to at least try to forget. The highs and lows of his post-war life. Some of them were extreme opposites, like the difference between extreme heat and cold. Both painful to the touch, but one burnt before the ice froze over. The other simply burned.

'I will burn the heart out of you'

And that's exactly what Moriarty had succeeded in doing. John Watson was no longer a man. He was barely half a man, inconsolable. He seemed almost fine for a while, whilst he was staying with his sister. But his health quickly deteriorated. Frequent visits to his favourite therapist did nothing, except perhaps allow him to vent some of his weaker emotions. The blog remained untouched; he couldn't bring himself to look at it. All the memories stung in his head; John refused to think it was his heart. That assumption was completely illogical. The vital organ simply wasn't capable to show that emotion anymore. He'd tried getting together with Sarah, but dinner was quiet, awkward. He'd felt hollow, the lump in his throat refusing to budge. Despite everything, John still asked Sarah back to his apartment. He knew she would say no, but he wanted to sound like he still had some interest in other people. The only person he talked to nowadays was Mrs Hudson, and that was only a few fleeting mutters. She seemed distraught too, although John didn't pay much attention to the emotions of others any more.

When John had got back to the apartment he resisted the urge to break down into tears outside the front door as usual. 221B Baker Street would always be HIS home. Mrs Hudson appeared and embraced the younger man, pulling him from the public eye and into the building. It wasn't the first time John had appeared on the doorstep, fighting with his emotions. It took months to even get him to look at the flat. Now he was back to living here; not happily, but it was the only home he had left. Mrs Hudson had somehow managed to lead him upstairs, and get him onto the sofa. John had sipped at the tea she'd made him, despite his hands trembling and most of the hot liquid ending up on his jeans and the floor. He never stopped shaking anymore. His life lacked any interest to him. Empty of even the most trivial things. John was a husk, a worn-out shell.

He choked out an incomprehensible apology before abandoning the nearly empty mug and the kindly woman, disappearing up the stairs and into his bedroom. John stood rigid in the centre of the room, glancing around in dismay. This was no longer the room where he slept. It was the room where he wallowed in misery, locking himself away from humanity. He listened for the distinguishable scuffle of Mrs Hudson leaving the apartment, which came not long after he'd vacated her presence. It was accompanied by a distressed sob of denial.

"No…"

If John still had anything left in his heart, he would've sent it out to her. But it was as empty as his room. He'd stripped it of all the memories, and hid them away in the one place that would always bring them back. He stepped out the room and crept down the stairs, approaching a second door. Having had a particularly bad day, John was feeling particularly masochistic at this point of time. He fumbled with the handle, before staggering into the room and collapsing onto the bed. He couldn't even look around the room. Even thinking about it made him drown in fear and sorrow. Squeezing his eyes shut, John crawled up the mattress and flopped down, spread eagled and face down. He groped around and latched onto a pillow, hugging it to his chest and face, inhaling the weak scent that still lingered on it. This was the only comfort he felt anymore. John felt his heart swell for a moment, before sputtering and blacking out again. Tears spilled over his cheeks, and his grip tightening upon the pillow. He wouldn't sleep. Not until he collapsed with exhaustion. The dark bags underneath his eyes showed that. No one would ever see him like this though; at his weakest. Every time he tried to sleep, the images of that day came back to haunt him. His voice, so helpless. The crack of the end of his life. The murmurs of the various passersby as the body was carried away. John buried his head further into the pillow, attempting to stem the flow of pain. It didn't help. Everything in his life pointed to that one moment.

6 months since the suicide of Sherlock Holmes.

A handful of moments, I wished I could change

And a tongue like a nightmare that cut like a blade

It was dangerous. Sherlock knew he shouldn't be this close to the flat, but he wanted to see him. And God knows how bored he was hiding, like a rat. He knew that John was probably happy that he had his life back, without the constant worry and panic that ensued whenever Sherlock was around. He might even have a new flatmate. It was his insatiable curiosity that had got the better of him, forcing him to drag his body to this desolate area of London. He wasn't even meant to be anywhere near the city. He was meant to be hiding out in Coventry. The irony of it all. He had figured out what was going to happen the second Moriarty had called him to that rooftop. Well, apart from the fact that he was faking his death to save his one and only friend. And the crazed psychopath was in fact going to shoot himself to secure Sherlock's death. He smirked. That plan hadn't worked well at all. Clearly.

Sherlock inhaled sharply as he saw a taxi pull up in front of the flat. It was nearly a minute before John stepped out, and towards the flat. He was confused. Why wasn't John going straight in? A pang of emotion shot through him, but Sherlock shook it off almost immediately. After all the fuss he'd made about his 'death' he didn't ever want to show that weakness again. He glanced back at his ex-companion and the feeling returned, sharper than before. John was slightly hunched, sobs quite clearly racking his chest. Sherlock winced and had to fight the urge to walk over to the grieving man. He wondered what had happened. Perhaps another person had turned him down. Maybe he'd visited his sister. Sherlock squinted, but from his distance he couldn't deduce anything about John's whereabouts. Mrs Hudson then promptly ushered John into the building, half dragging the man, still crying. If he allowed Mrs Hudson to see him cry, that ruled out a bad date. Even if it was with someone he cared about a lot. Sherlock scoffed. All these human emotions didn't help in any way. He didn't need them, so he didn't use them. It was good to prevent him from getting attached. The longing to run up to the house and confront John about his however, was surging through Sherlock. It took all his restraint to turn and walk away, into the grungy streets of London, and back to isolation in Coventry.

In a city of fools, I was careful and cool

But they tore me apart like a hurricane

"I'm sorry Mr-"

"Doctor."

"Doctor Watson, but we simply cannot-"

"Why? There's nothing wrong with me. I'm fully qualified. Not to mention the more than adequate training. So what is it?" John seethed at the woman in front of him. It had been a year now, and Molly had convinced him to apply for one of the vacancies at St Bartholomew's Hospital. Unfortunately, the interview wasn't going amazingly. The woman sighed.
"I'm sorry, but even with Miss Hooper's recommendation and the fact you trained here, you're still visiting a Therapist with clinical depression-"

"I only go as a precaution." John clenched his fists. Recently, his moods had become volatile and the doctor in front of him was doing nothing to help. She sighed and flicked through his file.

"I know Doctor Watson, but we can't employ-" John had had enough. He bolted to his feet, glaring at the woman, trembling with anger and exhaustion.

"Fuck you all. I never wanted the goddamn job anyway." Snarling, he stalked towards the door, kicking over a chair for good measure. The doctor shrieked quietly in shock or terror. John didn't care. Not even that his foot throbbed uncomfortably after his act of aggression. It helped release some of his pent up emotions at least. He was still fuming though, sure he would turn on the poor soul who happened across him.

"John!" He paused and gritted his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. "How did the interview go?" Molly asked politely, completely oblivious to the anger rolling off of him in waves. John grunted and continued walking, not even sparing a glance at her. Molly jogged to catch up with him and began walking beside him. John picked up the pace as Molly started nattering beside him, in the hope she'd leave him alone. Apparently not.
"Molly, shut the fuck up!" He turned and glared at her, stopping her mid-sentence. She gawped at him, her mouth hung open. No-one ever heard John swear.

"I was just…" She continued timidly. John growled and pushed her against the wall forcefully, snapping at her.

"Watch my lips. I. Don't. Give. A. Fuck. Don't talk to me anymore. You don't have to follow me around now that HE's not here. Now stop pining and get the hell out of my sight" He pulled away and Molly slid down the wall slightly, whimpering. "Oh, just realised I'm not the same as I used to be? Show's how fucking observant you are" John added sarcastically. Molly narrowed her eyes and stood level to him.

"Funnily enough Watson I'm not the one who cant even say Sherlock's na-"

"DON'T SAY THAT NAME TO ME!" John screaming, lashing out with his hand, catching Molly around the face. She yelped and stared at the man in horror, a bright red hand shape blazing onto her cheek.

"You…" Tears pricked her eyes. "You bastard. He never would…" Molly sniffed dramatically before disappearing out of John's sight. He was breathing heavily, feeling no remorse at all for hurting Molly. Once, John would've never even considered harming a woman. But now…

"Christ." John braced himself against the wall, sliding down it and cupping his face in his hands. He'd never meant to hurt anyone. It'd gone too far. He couldn't control himself. How long would it be before he hurt someone else? Sarah? Mrs Hudson? He groaned and staggered to his feet. He had to find Molly.

A handful of moments, I wished I could change

But I was carried away

Sherlock was desperate to go back. He hated to admit it, but he missed John like hell. Instead, he was cooped up in a small village in the middle of nowhere. No-one talked to him after the first month; they just stopped trying. It was no secret how anti-social Sherlock was, with his frequent violin playing at early hours of the morning. He'd taken up smoking again, to alleviate some of the boredom. After all, breathing was boring. Sherlock leaned against the window frame, pursing his lips around one of the many cigarettes he'd smoke today. He exhaled the smoke into the cold night air, his gaze turning to the bright moon.

"But it's the solar system!" John gasped in exasperation. Sherlock groaned and pressed his face to his palms.

"Oh! How? What does that matter? So we go around the sun. If we went around the moon or round and round the garden like a teddy bear it wouldn't make any difference. All that matters to me is the work. Without that my brain rots. Put that in your blog. Or better still, stop inflicting your opinions on the world" After his thorough explanation Sherlock flicked his book shut in a childish manner, before turning over and facing the back of the sofa. John didn't understand. No-one did. He didn't have time for all those tedious facts. His mentality was far too advanced for that.

Sherlock flicked the remains of the cigarette out of the open window, before closing it sharply. It rattled dangerously in its frame due to its recent overuse, compared to the permanently shut state it was used to being in. He stalked back over to his bed and snatched up his phone, checking it for messages. Just the one.

Please. Come back.

Sherlock fell backwards onto his bed, already tapping back a reply.

It hasn't been long enough. You can't tell anyone.

As soon as it was sent, Sherlock stood and began roaming the room again. He hated being here. It was so quiet. So boring. He couldn't bring anything with him, so his room was bare of his usual manic clutter. His phone beeped at him.

John should know. He deserves to.

Sherlock rubbed his face in distress. He wanted John to know he was still alive, but he couldn't tell him.

No.

He had to wait a full minute for the next message.

You didn't see what he did today,

Confused, Sherlock stared at the phone in surprise. What had John been doing? Curiosity told him to push further, but he felt like he didn't want to know at the same time. Another message before he could reply.

He needs you.

Give me a therapy, I'm a walking travesty

But I'm smiling at everything

"Why did you call me in?" John narrowed his eyes at the woman sat in front of him.
"Miss Hooper told me…" She stopped, when she saw the glare that flicked through John's gaze. He dropped his eyes, looking at his hands.

"I…" John shook his head.

"I know it must be… hard for you. But John, listen, it will get better" John rolled his eyes. "It may be hard to believe, but our sessions aren't for nothing." John was tired of this. He was fed up of everything, of people feeling sorry for him, of people… in general to be honest.

"You know what; I think I turned a corner the other day you." He forced a smile at the therapist. What was her name again? He couldn't remember anymore. She looked surprised. "When I… lashed out at Molly, I realised… I can't keep on like this" He chuckled quietly to himself. The words coming out of his mouth didn't belong to him. They belonged to the old John Watson, the man before… HIM. The woman nodded.

"That's good John" She smiled reassuringly and John had to fight back a shudder. People showing him affection made him cringe. Unless it was Mrs Hudson. She understood the most. Not entirely, but close enough.

"I think I need to get over the state of denial I'm still in" She nodded again, jotting down on her pad. John paused, waiting for her to speak.

"Anything else?" John sighed and shook his head.

"No. I think I just need to be alone right now." John stood and made his way to the door, a slight limp creeping into his stride.

"John, your limp is back." She pointed out matter-of-factly. He groaned. He knew it would.

"Well, just shows how my life's betting back to normal I suppose" He laughed breathlessly, leaving the room without another word.

Therapy, you were never a friend to me

And you can keep all your misery

He hadn't spoken for days. Sherlock's violin lay battered on the floor, from his temper tantrum that had occurred the other day. He was beyond bored. Sherlock needed something to do; he wanted a case, ANYTHING to stop him from being bored. He hadn't eaten yet this week. His stomach growled angrily at him. Sherlock shushed it with more cigarettes. After all, it wasn't London anymore. He didn't need to think.

But Sherlock wanted to think. He needed it. Thinking was a bigger drug to him than anything he'd ever taken. And he was deprived. Sherlock needed to think to survive. Instead he smoked his thoughts away, watching them billow into the sky. It wasn't like any of them mattered. For now.

My lungs gave out as I faced the crowd

I think that keeping this up could be dangerous

John hung his head. He knew he would look pathetic to anyone walking past, but he didn't care. Not anymore. He knelt beside the grave of his ex-best friend, shaking his head in dismay.

"I… I asked you to stop being dead" John whispered, his eyes set on the bundle of flowers that Mrs Hudson had given him to bring to the cemetery. He couldn't bring himself to look at the engraved stone.

"You didn't listen to me… I… I really thought you weren't dead." He sniffed, blocking away his emotions behind his eyes. "I know you weren't a fake. There's no way you could ever…" John closed his eyes and turned his head away, sighing. "You're a bastard. I hope you know that." John sprung to his feet, kicking the flowers onto the grave, scattering the petals about the ground. "You should never have left. I hate you for leaving" He snarled in a tone even Moriarty would be proud of, before stalking off along the pathway, his hands fisted in his pockets and ignoring the prominent limp in his stride.

I'm flesh and bone, I'm a rolling stone

And the experts say I'm delirious

Sherlock smiled, plucking the tip of the needle, small droplets dripping down the side of the clean steel. It had taken him a while, and many alias's to get his hands on this; his freedom. He clicked his neck and groaned, rolling up the sleeve on his left arm until his forearm and elbow were completely exposed. He paused, watching the vein in his wrist pulse slightly. He tapped the syringe again, levelling it up to the crease of his elbow.

"Seriously? This guy? A junkie? Have you met him?" Sherlock glanced at John through the corner of his eye and walked to his side. This wasn't good timing for them to have this discussion.

"John…" Sherlock started to warn him. He continued anyway.

"I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all day and you wouldn't find anything you could call recreational." Sherlock groaned. This wasn't going well.

"John, you really ought to shut up now" He growled dangerously. John looked at him, oblivious.

"But come on…" John searched his face. At any other time Sherlock would've found it amusing that John didn't believe he had a rough past. He face fell slowly as he realised. "No…"

"What?" Sherlock challenged him, narrowing his eyes. John shook his head in disbelief. He had no idea. "Shut up!"

The metal plunged slowly into Sherlock's arm and he shuddered; with anticipation or pain, he wasn't sure. He emptied the liquid into his blood, chuckling with satisfaction. He flexed his fingers, pacing the room, waiting for the drug to kick in. His mind was pulsing, racing out of control. At last, Sherlock's boredom was cured. For now. The next thing he felt was complete elation, as he walked out of his safe house, into the pouring rain.

Still dressed in his dressing gown.

Therapy, you were never a friend to me

You can take back your misery

"You visited his grave?" The therapist, who had kindly reminded John her name was Ella, questioned him, confusion lining her face as she jotted down in her notebook. John resisted the urge to read her writing upside down again.

"Yes." He said bluntly, avoiding eye contact with the woman. He knew she would ask the reason he went. But in all fairness John didn't even know why he went. Perhaps in the hope that when he went there the grave wouldn't be there. That Sherlock wasn't dead. But the visit had just ingrained the thought deeper into his psych.

"How're you coping after it?" Her tone was soft, and John looked up at her. He nodded meekly, before hiding his face in his hands, his arms propped up against his knees. "Did you find what you were looking for?" Her question caught him off guard and John peered at her, confused.

"I… I'm sorry?" he stammered.

"Well you must've gone there for a reason" Ella accentuated her words with her pen, tapping the top of her pad. The noise irritated John. He gritted his teeth and shook his head. "What was the reason?" And there the question was. Hanging in the air. John sighed.

"I asked him…" He swallowed before continuing. "I asked him to not be… dead." The last word came out as barely a whisper. He squeezed his eyes shut, ignoring the audible intake of breath from Ella's direction.

"John…" Tears threatened to fall from behind his eyes, but John silently willed them away. "You need to stop thinking like this. Wishing won't bring him back-"
"How would you know?" He snapped, flicking his gaze to the therapist. "You have no idea what he was capable of." Ella shook her head.

"You've led yourself to believe he was more than human. You've turned delusional with gri-"

"No I haven't! Don't you DARE tell me what I think!" John was upright now, his chest heaving as he stared at the woman sat calmly in the chair opposite.

"John-"

"NO! You didn't know him! None of you knew him!" he screeched at her, pointing an accusatory finger. She opened her mouth to protest, but John continued ranting over her attempt to make him calm. "You haven't been helping me at all! All you want me to do is forget, believe that he's a fake!" Ella stared dumbstruck at John, who was now limping towards the door, fists clenched and shaking with rage. "I'm not fucking coming back" He snarled, slamming the door behind him in his wake, the resounding crack making him grit his teeth. John was going home; for the last time.

Arrogant boy

Love yourself so no one has to

When Sherlock next regained the ability to think somewhat clearly, he was confused. He was drenched from head to toe, a small puddle of water at his feet. His head ached from the after effects of the drug. He looked around and his breath caught. He knew where he was. The room was desolate, bare, but still recognisable as John's bedroom. Sherlock's head was pounding. He had no idea how he'd got here. Looking down at himself, he tried to deduce what had happened. Several coins were in his pocket, whereas Sherlock definitely remembered having a twenty note earlier. Or yesterday. He didn't know how long he'd been out of it. The dosage was enough to last a few hours, but Sherlock hadn't eaten in what seemed like weeks, so it could've lasted longer. The sun was setting outside the window, making it around 6pm. He'd been out about 12 hours then. He was surprised no-one was home. Sherlock was tempted to call for Mrs Hudson or John, but thought better of it. He knew had to get out of the flat. Creeping over to the door, he pressed an ear to it, making sure no-one was there. When he was certain the coast was clear, Sherlock exited the room and tiptoed down the stairs into the living room. It was exactly how he'd left it, except several take-away boxes were strewn across the room's counters and some of his books were missing. In fact, ALL of his books were missing. Curious, he wandered over to the shelf and examined it. Indeed, everything that belonged to him was nowhere to be seen. Soon he began wondering if he'd gotten a new flatmate; there was no way he'd be able to afford living here on his own, unless Mrs Hudson was feeling particularly generous. Sherlock examined more of the flat, not noticed anything that hinted to a new resident, before arriving at his bedroom door.

Thump. Thump.

Footsteps. Clambering up the stairs, irregular beats. It was John. Sherlock could tell his limp was back. He swiftly moved into his room, closing the door silently and ducking into his wardrobe; it seemed like the best hiding spot. He didn't even have time to glance around his room. All he could do now was pray John didn't come in here.

They're better off without you

(They're better off without you)

John was fed up of it all. Everyone judging him, trying to get them to admit that he didn't know Sherlock, that he knew he was a liar. He swallowed away the lump in his throat, trudging up the stairs to the flat, fist clenched tightly around the glass vial in his coat pocket.

"Would you fucking STOP!" John paused, glaring at his limp. "There's nothing wrong with you, so just stop being so god damn awkward!" He jabbed his toes into the step in front, hissing slightly at the new pain as he hobbled into the living room of the flat and collapsing on the sofa. John groaned. Not in here. Forcing himself to his feet, he steered himself towards Sherlock's bedroom. John knew he was dead, but he couldn't bring himself to think of the room as anything else. Shaking, he all but fell into the room, casting a glance around it before lowering himself to the bed and pulling the object from his pocket. He'd managed to replicate the same drug, used by the cab driver in his and Sherlock's first case. A smirk played upon his lips at the irony of it all. What had introduced him to this world would finally pull him out of it. His no longer shaking finger unscrewed the lid and tipped the tiny pale pill into his palm. John swallowed in anticipation, before raising his hand to his mouth.

Arrogant boy

'Cause a scene like you're supposed to

He'd never been so still in his life. Sherlock was barely breathing when John walked into the room. He couldn't see anything, and it was driving him crazy. Sherlock needed to see. He waited a few more seconds before he cracked the door open quietly, peering into the dimly lit room.

John.

Sherlock resisted the impulse to run out and embrace the man after so long. He knew it was a very un-Sherlockish thing to do, but he was almost giddy with the excitement of being near John. Perhaps it was still the drunks, playing with his mind. He watched the man on the bed, eyes darting around to see what had become of him. The short he was wearing was clean, however his skin and hair showed signs of dirt; perhaps 2 or 3 days since his last shower. He looked exhausted, dark bags under his sunken eyes. He also looked… skeletal. Sherlock remembered John being muscular and well built. Now he looked frail and weak. He frowned in the darkness. There was a bulge in John's coat pocket; too large to be a phone, but the wrong shape to be wallet. Sherlock couldn't think of what else the item could be, as John didn't generally carry anything else on his person. He wasn't left guessing for long however, as John extracted it and held it in front of him, his palm blocking the contents of, what Sherlock could now see as a bottle, from his view. He squinted, but it was impossible for him to see from his angle and limited range of sight. It wasn't until he opened the capsule and tipped the item onto his hand that Sherlock realised.

That pill.

Several things then happened simultaneously.

John lifted the poison to his lips as Sherlock burst from the wardrobe, causing him to jerk in shock, the drug slipping down his throat and lodging itself there, making John splutter and choke.

"John!" Sherlock sprang behind the man and wrapped his arms around him, pulsing his arms to force the pill out before it could cause any permanent damage. "Come on…" Sherlock groaned in relief as the offending object flew out of John's mouth, ricocheting off the wall and falling delicately onto the carpet below.

Both men sat there, panting, Sherlock's arms still draped across John's torso, for several minutes. It wasn't until Sherlock spoke that either of them moved.

"Are you alright?" He murmured, pulling back and eyeing John warily. Saying he was concerned was an understatement. The other man stayed perfectly still. If it wasn't for the rise and fall of his chest, Sherlock could've mistaken him for a statue.

"Y-you…"

They'll fall asleep without you

You're lucky if your memory remains.

John's voice sounded pathetic. Broken. Hoarse. Weak. She'd been right. He was delusional. He couldn't even kill himself without being stopped by a memory of a man. He closed his eyes and wished it all away. But he could still feel the arms around his chest, the knees pressed uncomfortably against the small of his back and the quiet breath, tickling his ear.
"Yes, who else would it be?" The apparition rumbled against his ear. John shuddered involuntarily, pulling away from the 'man' and standing to face him. He looked exactly the same, except for the fact that he was wearing sodden nightwear and was staring at him with something frighteningly close to worry. John closed his eyes again and sighed. He had two options. To let this insane fantasy play out in his mind and relish in it. Or to scream and shout until his memories left him alone. Weak-minded as he was, John went for the first option, succumbing to the tears that he had been avoiding for the last hour, keeling over and sinking to his knees. His head hung low as he mumbled out sentence after sentence, each word melting into the next.

"-" He felt the illusion's arms wrap around him again and he buried his face in the nearest warm surface he could find. It was damp, and the body next to him froze when he did, but John was beyond caring, as his childish rant had proved. He would let go of reality for even a few minutes with him again. Even if he didn't want him to leave. John tangled a finger in one of Sherlock's damp curls and whimpered.
"DontleaveagainpleaseimbeggingyouSherlockjuststay" he pulled his face away and wiped away the remnants of tears on his face before looking at the other man's face. It was contorted into a frown, the face Sherlock always had when he was thinking hard about something.

"I wont leave John." Sherlock locked eyes with him and his lower lip trembled.

"But. You. Will" John choked out, not daring to break contact with those grey eyes.

"Why will I?" Sherlock's eyes searched his face, but John merely shook his head.

"You're not real. This is just my subconscious trying to stop me from…

stop me…" He swallowed, eyeing the innocent remains of the pill on

the floor. He other man didn't follow his eye line, already well aware of

what he was looking at. Some of the poison had managed to find a way into John's system, but it was no-where near enough to kill him. Just enough to make his head hurt.

"I'm real John. I never died. I'm not a figment of your imagination."

John gave something close to a scoff.

"Yeah. You would say that." He kept his gaze fixed on the pill, vaguely aware of the man beside him rubbing his face in dismay.

"I am here John. See?" Sherlock grabbed the other mans hand and held it over his softly beating heart. John frowned and flicked between his hand and Sherlock's face.

"But…"

"You saw what I wanted you to see. I never died. It was the only way-"

"You bastard!" John yanked his hand from the man and jumped to his feet. "You… you…" He growled and snapped his fist into Sherlock's face, sending him sprawling backwards into the side of the bed with a low yelp.

"John… Listen…" His anger was growing again. It took all his self-restraint to not kick the man ferociously.

"You fucking coward! You couldn't have told me? ME, your supposedly best friend!" He started pacing the room dangerously, spouted off insults and accusations at the now standing Sherlock, who kept trying to interject at random intervals. Finally, When John had calmed down a considerable amount, Sherlock managed to get a word in edgeways.

"John, I can't explain it to you right now, whilst you're like this, but please… listen to me." John had stopped pacing now, staring at the dark man in disbelief.

"I don't fucking believe you're alive." John leaned back against the wall, rubbing his head with his hand. Sherlock approached him cautiously, pausing when the man glared at him and peeling off his dressing gown, revealing his usual tie-less suit.

"You know I wouldn't do something like this unless I had a real reason-" John started fuming again.

"You still could've told ME! I wouldn't have told anyone, do you have any ide-" John's words were halted as his mouth suddenly became occupied by the other mans moving gently yet firmly over his, one of Sherlock's arms braced against the wall beside him. Dumbstruck, he stayed completely still, watching the other man pull away and quirk his eyebrow at him mischievously.

"To be honest John I have several ideas, but I doubt they have any similarity to yours."

Therapy, you were never a friend to me

And you can choke on your misery

I listened to this song and it had to be done :D
It's an amazing song, so go listen to it! I'm sorry if this was a tad OOC but I tried to make it as canon as possible... The whole John's anger issues thing stemmed from when he yells at Mrs Hudson in the first episode and when he yells at Sherlock in HoB. (NO IT'S NOT, IT'S NOT OKAY! - Makes me giggle everytime x3 Oh John you silly mere)
I didn't say about how Sherlock faked his death because even though I'm 80% I've cracked it, I thought it'd be more fun to leave it.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it :)