A/n: Hello, I'm gecko! It's been quite a long time since I've been taken hostage by this thing called fanfiction. No matter how I try and I try to tear myself away, it just keeps coming back in amplifying fits and bouts. Anyhwhoodle, I hope you enjoy this (more than the awful summary). Rated M for swearing and later graphic images.

Disclaimer: Not mine by any stretch of the imagination.

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My Absence, Hardly Worth Noting

Chapter 1

Lighting up on his nightstand, John's phone rang, filling the once-quiet room with an irritating, repetitive tone. Still unable to shake his old army habits, John bolted upright and snatched the offending object. "Hello," he answered grumpily, half-annoyed that he had only been able to catch three hours of sleep before being roused once more by his superior none-the-less.

"John!" Doctor Owens shouted amongst the busy, flurried sound behind him. "I'm sorry…But we'll need you to come in tonight, too. The amount of people here, I swear, full moon makes 'em crazy…"

Sighing, John agreed and promptly hung up. It's not like his sleep was being particularly disturbed, another hour or so and he would surely wake up to another nightmare, feeling worse-off than just lamely accepting the punishment of unrelenting fatigue.

John arose and shifted into his trousers, using his bed as a balance for his uncertain legs. Grabbing his slightly-wrinkled button-up shirt, he shoved his arms in the sleeves and began buttoning as he forced his feet into his work shoes. The doctor grabbed his jumper for good measure and walked down the stairs to the common room in the dark. He knew his way around; in fact, he almost preferred it this way. As much as he wanted to forget Sherlock and move on with his life, he couldn't bear the thought of leaving 221B, much less removing Sherlock's possessions from the very place he had left them (with exception of any and all experiments, thus sanitizing his kitchen once and for all). Sherlock's strange eccentricities still marred the room: his violin still lay in its case, untouched for nearly three years now; the skull, John mused, was now his equivalent to Sherlock, the brilliant, dazzling young man, who has probably long been reduced a mere skeleton; even the man's notes remained untouched, and John wondered if the day he moved them, Sherlock would come bounding through the door with a histrionic flare, throwing his arms up while demanding to know just what he was doing. Chuckling at his own naivete, he still felt a desire to move them ever-so-slightly to crush what little hope he had remaining. Sherlock Holmes wasn't the type to up and die, and to this day, John still had problems believing it despite monthly trips to the cemetery.

At last, the doctor reached the door and pushed it open, locking it carefully behind him. He stepped down the stairs with familiarity, hardly noticing them on his way down anymore. Both shoulder and leg felt fine, and if they didn't, Watson wasn't one to notice; he wasn't one to particularly care. There was no reason to. He was just some doctor, working his arse off to pay both portions of the rent (paying for both himself and the dead man he spent sleepless nights over), with no wife, no girlfriend, no children, not even a cat. He was left in the dust, caught (but neither willing nor ready to leave from) the shadow of his enigmatic friend. Even Mrs. Hudson had moved on to a new beau, with whom she spent most of her time. Lestrade hardly called, Mycroft's interference was minimal if existing, and that was all there was to it.

The air was brisk, and John could see his breath as he exhaled. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he walked to the ICU and greeted the receptionist before making his way to one of the staff rooms. Watson grabbed his set of scrubs and quickly changed into them before stepping back out to look for Doctor Owens to receive his list of patients to check upon.

Within no time at all, the two met and Dr. Watson received a list of some of the newly-admitted patients along with their medical records. Stifling a yawn, he set out to work. The ICU always seemed flustered to him: families asking questions, some crying; the many sounds and alarms of patients' machines; and the never-ending stream of patients, who didn't want to be there, who couldn't sleep, who wanted more drugs, complaining. It was work none-the-less, John shrugged. In a way, this hospital reminded him of his time in Afghanistan, but with far less severe injuries and previous patient familiarity.

Before entering his fifth room, Watson checked the patient file. "Ashdown, Jacob" the doctor muttered, examining the extensive medical record. Malnutrition, a deep abdominal stab wound (which was patched up with surgery), bruising, smaller lacerations, as well as several cracked ribs, a broken left forearm, and a hefty concussion upon admittance four days ago.

Pain in the ass, John read from a yellow sticky note in Owens' handwriting on the back page. Chuckling, the doctor entered the room, prepared for anything. If he could live with and handle Sherlock, he thought, he could manage absolutely anything else that could possibly be thrown at him.

Putting on a fresh set of gloves, John took a cursory glance at the bleeping machines and turned to the patient. The man's face was haggard, worn and thin, with healing small cuts and harsh purple bruises, but vaguely familiar. Upon closer examination, John froze, dropping the clipboard on the floor. "Sh-Sherlock?" he stammered, forgetting about the clipboard's existence.

The man's eyes fluttered open to the wood's clacking and to the call of a name that was supposedly not his own, revealing their intense, striking gray. Focusing in on John, the man shot into sheer surprise, and the two stared at each other with eyes wide as saucers. "John," the low baritone replied curtly, confirming the other's assertion.

Hand shaking, John couldn't believe his eyes. Sherlock was here, alive, and sitting in a hospital bed in his hospital. Completely floored, John was unsure of what to do next. Did he want to laugh? Cry? Hug him? Beat the living shit out of him for keeping him and everyone else in the dark? Well, yes, but looking at the younger man's state purged the desire.

Before he found the solution, John heard Sherlock shift into a sitting position and felt a hand grasp onto his arm, each bony joint digging in as if clinging on for dear life. "John," Sherlock's voice moaned, "I'm sorry."

Looking into the younger man's eyes, John saw that they were pleading, desperate for forgiveness. "For what?" John snapped, "For jumping off a building and dying in front of my eyes? For allowing me to think that you've been dead for how many years now? For giving me nightmares? For leaving me alone in flat that I couldn't possibly leave despite the constant reminder of all of your crap laying around? For making me wish it was somehow all different? For making me believe in you while everyone else tore you down? For showing up here out of no where, looking like you were beat to hell? Without me? You went and did whatever the fuck you did without me? For all the shit you've put me through? Tell me if I guess it!" Tears welling up, John growled, "Damn it, Sherlock!"

Staring blankly at John's face and trembling body, Sherlock's own expression soured. Awkwardly pressing through the pain in his midsection and arm, Sherlock wrapped his good right arm around John's girth and squeezed, burying the side of his face into the doctor's chest and inhaling deeply, secretly trying to hold back tears himself. He couldn't tell John why he was gone in the first place; he knew it would hurt him. Hell, it would hurt himself. This would be his only affection toward the stouter man, all he would allow himself. It will be better off if John hates me...but for now, I-I need this, Sherlock reiterated to himself.

John encircled the younger man in his own arms and rested his head on top of Sherlock's greasy, matted locks. Snorting back the wave of mucus that came with his few tears, John croaked, "Why, Sherlock?"

His lungs shuttering, Sherlock took a sharp breath and remained silent. He couldn't bring himself to lie, to hurt John once more though it was for the better. Not now, not yet. Even if it meant he had to be forever alone, occasionally bruised and battered by the enemy, John would be able to move on, unlike himself. John was resilient, John was likable, John had more to live for. John had hope.

Pain finally overstepping Sherlock's tolerance, the man whimpered slightly, and John immediately recoiled. The detective could almost see the pained expression in his only friend's face, hurt from his appearance, ashamed that he allowed his emotions get the better of him and hurt a patient. Sighing, John carefully pushed the younger back down to a reclining position and asked, "So, Mr. Ashdown, what on Earth happened?"

Sherlock stared. This was more information he chose not to disclose.

"Sherlock," John started, his tone far calmer than before. "When they discharge you, and that should be soon...Today even...Where are you going?"

For a mere moment, Sherlock's neutral expression waved into a frown, desperately wanting to cry out "HOME!", but he knew that would be further complicate the situation. John found Sherlock by some strange twist of fate, and now that he knew he was alive, John wasn't going to merely let him go on his merry way, back to whatever the hell had injured him. No, if John hadn't changed in the last three years, he would drag him back to the flat kicking and screaming.

"Fine, if you're not going to talk, you clearly have no objections to coming back to the flat, where we can figure this out..." John continued, carefully watching Sherlock's face for a reaction, but saw nothing more than a slight nod. "Here is not the place...and I'm your doctor...Uh, do you hurt anywhere?" he resorted to quite possibly the most-annoying (not to mention inane), frequently asked question for doctors.

Sherlock shot his only friend a look of can-you-be-any-dumber? and retorted, "What do you think? You read the file."

Huffing, John retaliated, "Just let me look at your stomach. From what I've read, it's looking good...Well, for what it is." Sherlock rolled his eyes and shifted himself up again. Taking the hint, John lifted the simple gown up to where he saw a white gauze bandage with three sides taped. To reduce any pain or further annoyance, John ripped it off quickly and examined the stitched puncture wound. No strange swelling, infections, healing had started. "Well, reports are still good in your favor." Returning to the back counter, John extracted a new package of square gauze and medical tape and returned back to Sherlock's side.

As John ripped the packaging, he examined Sherlock's chest as a whole. Though still toned, the man was covered in a series of scars (ranging from white to reddish hues, some reflecting cigarette burns) between his ribs and hips alone. Setting the wrappings aside, he pressed the gauze to Sherlock's stitches and covered the edges in tape. "So," John began, sliding the gown back down, feeling some of the scars against the thin material. "What did you do to yourself?"

Silence.

John's brow furrowed. "For God's sake, Sherlock! I'm mad at you, yes! I want to know what the fuck you thought you were pulling! You left. You died. You killed yourself. And I'm angry. I'd hit you if you showed up any other way. You seriously are an idiot, a brilliant idiot who sometimes just doesn't get it! But does that mean that I'm going to send you back off on your way when I find out, after three whole years, that you're actually somehow alive? You're going sit here and I'm going to have the nurse start discharging you, and you're coming home with me!"

Sherlock nodded dumbly, afraid he would spontaneously do something irrational like display his emphatic happiness or relief. Before leaving, John grabbed the forgotten clipboard and shot the man a tight, teary smile. After the doctor left the room, Sherlock could still hear the clicking of John's shoes and the muffled conversation between John and the irksome, bubbly nurse.

Grinning to himself, Sherlock took a deep breath, leaned back, and closed his eyes. Three years of fighting, spying, evidence-collecting, and death only to be washed away by two corners of a single mouth turning upward. He wasn't forgiven, nor should he be, but he was received. An angry John is better than no John. And to think, less than two hours ago, he was bored. He marveled, How easy a solution...

A/n: I hope you enjoyed this first installment, and if you did please review, subscribe, 'n stuff. I have school and a pile of work to do this last stretch before Halloween, but I do tend to write in my free time or when I can't sleep. 'Till next time!