Note: As always, I own nothing but my own plot. I just like to play in the BBC/Sherlock universe.
Sherlock woke, disoriented. He blinked at the ceiling a moment, taking stock, wondering why he felt light-headed.
A voice came from the other side of the room. "You know, if you ate more often, this sort of thing wouldn't happen. I can't let you out of my sight for a minute, can I?"
He froze at the familiar voice. No. It wasn't possible.
He sat up too quickly, dislodging the wet cloth on his forehead and bringing on another wave of dizziness. "John," he said in disbelief, fingers clutching the sofa cushion beneath him. "How…?"
Because, it was John, sitting in the lumpy armchair in the corner and smiling at him with that combination of affection and disappointment that was uniquely John's. He stared at him, flogging his unusually sluggish brain. There had been a knock on the door, and nobody knocked on his door. Nobody knew he was there. The door had opened, and when he saw John's face… "I fainted?"
A familiar warm smile. "Yes, you idiot. When's the last time you ate anything? Spending too much time chasing enemies to grab a sandwich?"
Sherlock shook his head. "That's not the point. What are you doing here? How did you find me?"
"It is the point," John said, a faint strain in his voice. "It's not bad enough that you make me think you're dead? You have to court malnutrition, too? How many times have I told you that you need to eat?"
"No, John, I mean it." Sherlock staggered to his feet. "How did you find me?"
John was on his feet, too, ready to catch him again if necessary. "You're not the only one with friends, you know."
They were only steps away from each other, for the first time in a year. "You're really here?"
John reached out and gripped his arm, his hand warm and solid, steadying. John's hand. "Of course I'm here. Sherlock Holmes wouldn't be hallucinating, would he? At least," he glanced around the room, "Not if he's clean."
"I am. Can't let my guard down." Even Sherlock could hear the strain in his voice as he spoke.
"Sit down," said John, pushing him back toward the couch and sitting next to him. "When's the last time you slept properly? Or ate a meal?"
"I don't remember," Sherlock said, leaning back and letting his head stop spinning. He was sitting next to John, his John, his best friend. He couldn't help himself, but reached out his hand and smiled when John took it in his. It was oddly reassuring.
He glanced at his friend, noting the new lines in John's face, and the hint of tension around the eyes, tempered by relief. "You obviously haven't been eating, either," Sherlock said. "You've lost at least a stone."
"Pot calling the kettle, Sherlock. I've been in mourning; it doesn't come with a hearty appetite."
"I, I'm sorry, John," Sherlock began, but John stopped him, fingers tightening on his hand. "It doesn't matter. Right now, it doesn't matter at all. I'm just so glad you're alive."
They sat in silence for a few more minutes, and Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he had felt so content. Just having John near him made him feel safe, like a part of him he hadn't realized was missing had returned. He had known how much he missed his friend, but hadn't realized until this minute how impossible life was without his solid, steady presence.
"So, did Mycroft give me away?" he asked finally.
"No, I told you. You're not the only one with friends." John turned on the sofa to look at him. "Mind you, I didn't think to look right away. I … your jump … it was very convincing. I couldn't think of anything, really, after that for a while."
"What changed?"
"One of my old buddies sent me a photo. Of you. In Berlin, I think. He expressed surprise and congratulated me on being so convincing as the grieving flatmate." John pulled his hand away and moved back to lean against the arm of the sofa, looking directly at Sherlock now. "I couldn't believe it, at first. Why would you do that? Why wouldn't you tell me?"
"I couldn't." Sherlock practically whispered the words. "It was for your own safety."
"Safety." John snorted. "Ironic, that, when my gun was looking very attractive there for a while, Sherlock."
Sherlock sat up straight. "No, you wouldn't." He couldn't keep the horror from his voice.
John ran his hand over his face. "Well, obviously I didn't, but thinking I'd never see you again? Let's just say it's a good thing Moran contacted me when he did."
Sherlock's face burned as he felt the blood drain and the room swum in front of his eyes again. "Moran? Sebastian Moran? He's the one who brought you here?"
"Not here, exactly, no, but he's been helping me look. Very discreetly, I promise. Just a few old mates from the army who had some contacts I could trust."
"But, John …" The urgency in his voice cut through John's satisfied expression. "Sebastian Moran was Moriarty's second in command."
Now John looked horrified. "What? No. No, he couldn't be. I knew him in Afghanistan. I saved his life…"
Sherlock was on his feet, staring around the room and trying to think before moving toward the drapes at the window. "That may be, but it doesn't change the fact that he had a sniper rifle on you that day, with orders to shoot if I didn't jump. I believe he was the sniper at the pool, too, John. He might be a 'buddy,' but Sebastian Moran is NOT your friend. It was his job to kill you if I didn't die, and if he knows that I didn't …" The thought made his blood freeze in his veins. "Does he know you're here?"
He reached for the drapes, edging them back from the side, just as a bullet shot through the glass.
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