Inspired by a drabble called "221B Drabbles" (which was written by ForeverShippingJohnlock). This is a pre-slash fic. I hope you like it :)

Not in my Head

Sherlock's hand hovered above the door handle. He had picked the lock minutes ago and by all means, he should already be inside the flat. Certainly not on the outside, standing there like a buffoon. Like a normal, boring person, who the Detective always scoffs at. But Sherlock couldn't move a muscle. It's not as though he were scared or anything. Sherlock doesn't frighten easily and what he was doing wasn't in the slightest bit dangerous. He was not scared. He was…was…apprehensive. Yes. Sherlock Holmes was only a tiny bit apprehensive. After all, it had been three years. Three very long and treacherous years.

How will he react? How will John react?

Before he could stop to ponder on what he was about to do, Sherlock quickly turned the knob and walked over the threshold. So far, everything looked the same. Same stairs, same carpeting, same rugs. It even smelled the same– Mrs. Hudson's marvelous homemade biscuits.

Good 'ol Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock thought with a smile.

Slowly, he walked up the stairs, making sure to skip the seventh step. Nasty creak that one has. Of course, there's the possibility that Mrs. Hudson had it fixed during the his three-year long absence, but Sherlock preferred not to risk getting caught too soon. It would ruin things. John must know first. Well, John must be the one Sherlock tells first. (He has no doubt that somehow Mycroft figured it out. Perhaps he didn't, but that wasn't really Sherlock's problem now is it?) As the seventh step approached, Sherlock lightly jumped over it, careful not to make any noise. He didn't.

Soon, the great un-dead detective was standing in front of the door. The door separating him and his friend. Again, the feeling of unease returned. It came upon him so suddenly, that Sherlock felt –for the briefest moment– a sensation of pure fear and panic. Anything could have happened when he was away. Did he not do his research meticulously enough? Does John have another flat mate? Maybe he's not even at this address anymore. Has John moved out and forgotten about the Consulting Detective? Does he live the life of the dull and boring now? But as quickly as it came upon him, Sherlock dismissed it, banishing it to the confines of his 'delete bin' inside his mind. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock cleared his mind of any and all useless emotions (meaning all emotions no matter what the feelings were). He began to mentally prepare himself for a drastic –or maybe even minor– change of his flat. Opening the door, making sure to take extra precautions, Sherlock looked around for the major changes to his beloved flat.

But there wasn't.

Everything looked normal. It was as if Sherlock had only been gone a week.

The room looked exactly the same. Well, not 'exactly.' The magnificent mind of Sherlock Holmes hardly ever missed a detail. He noticed every single feature, both new and old, of his flat.

First, the most obvious one, no experiment. Of course no experiments. John doesn't do experiments; testing his latest hypothesis was Sherlock's thing. Second, everything was orderly, more so than usual. Not a speck of dust could be seen with Sherlock's very sharp eyes. The books were stacked neatly in piles and placed –just as neatly– in various areas of the room. Out of the way, but easily accessible. Each and every one of the books had a well-worn cover. John had read then. Read a lot. A gun –John's gun– was lying haphazardly on the kitchen table. Recently fired. Shooting range? Case? Did John take any cases after Sherlock "died"? Dog bed in the corner. Dog toys placed scattered along the floor; the only anomaly in the otherwise tidy flat. So John got a dog. No, a puppy. Judging by the hairs… Bulldog. But where is- Ah, there the dog is. Sleeping in… in Sherlock's chair. Sherlock would need to discuss that with John. That dog cannot sit in Sherlock's chair. (Sherlock also noted that the dog didn't wake up or bark upon the break-in. Must get his hearing tested.) The television is on. Muted. Either John forgot about it or- No, there's someone sleeping in John's designated chair. Judging by his hair and build, it's most definitely the ex-army doctor. John Hamish Watson. Even if he were blind –God forbid– Sherlock would know John anywhere. It's not just his body or voice (though both of those aspects have been cataloged), it's John's simple yet powerful presence that Sherlock can identify in an instant. Sherlock could pinpoint his friend even in a room full of John-doppelgängers. So that being said, Sherlock knew that the doctor had been drinking. And by the smell, a lot.

All this Sherlock gathered in a matter of seconds.

As he approached John's chair, he noticed his violin had been carefully placed on the fireplace mantle. It looked like a display. It is a display. A burst of delight engulfed Sherlock. John did that for him. He took care of Sherlock's things, for him. Sherlock's lips twitched into a small smile.

"'Bout time you got here; I was beginning ta think you weren't ganna show," someone slurred.

Sherlock swirled around. John was watching him though slitted eyelids. A half-empty bottle of alcohol hung loosely in John's right hand. Another bottle was lying on the floor empty.

"John?" Sherlock questioned. He was confused. John should've been yelling or crying. Sherlock predicted John's reactions based on how well he knew his flat mate. Apparently, he forgot to factor in alcohol. In all honestly, Sherlock didn't even think he needed to. John being completely wasted was something Sherlock knew the doctor wouldn't do. Sherlock's death must've really hit John hard.

"Nope, I'm the Easter Bunny," John hiccupped and gave a very alcohol-induced smile. "Happy Christmas."

"It's not Christmas," was all Sherlock could think to say.

"It's not? Damn. I like Christmas. Damn you and your bloody deductions."

Sherlock blinked. "John… John, are you alright?"

"Never better."

"That bottle in your hands seems to disagree."

John cocked his head, eyebrows furrowed. "You've never mentioned the bottle before."

"Excuse me?" Sherlock was at a loss. He expected to be punched. He expected tears. He didn't expect…this strange conversation.

"You always say 'me too' whenever I say 'never better.' Always." John narrowed his eyes, in a drunken attempt to understand what the difference was. After a few seconds, he gave up. However, and idea was forming in Sherlock's mind –four to be precise– so he kept perusing the issue.

"What else do I say?"

A giggle burst though John's wetted lips. "Oh, you know Sherly."

'Sherly' frowned. "Enlighten me."

"Oh all right," John huffed, but there was the twinkle of amusement in his eyes. "You always comment on people's clothing and hair and such. You'd ask me how I could be so stupid to miss something so simple. Ask for your phone…" John trailed off and for a moment, he looked –really looked– at Sherlock, but that moment was gone rapidly. "Why, just the other day," John continued in his drunken slur, "When we were at the market, that women– you remember her right? Well she was wearing this ridiculous hat and you had said…"

John continued rambling on, but Sherlock stopped listening. Just the other day. Three years ago is not 'just the other day.' And Sherlock knows he and John have never met a woman in that specific scenario. Sherlock can recall every conversation he and John had ever had with perfect clarity. Everything regarding John is important; nothing was ever deleted from Sherlock's Mind Palace if it had something to do with his flat mate. No matter how small, Sherlock always remembers. Always.

(Of course that doesn't mean Sherlock always remembers immediately. Sometimes it takes a while to trudge up the memory, but that doesn't mean it's been deleted for good; it's just in a file safe somewhere up in Sherlock's head.)

"John," Sherlock said abruptly, cutting off the drunk-doctor in midsentence. "John, I'm real. I'm actually here."

In response, John threw his head back and laughed. "You know," John says when his laughter died down, "Those doctors said that one day I'll be having you tell me that." John chuckled again. "But I'm smarter than I sometimes give myself credit for. You're not real Sherlock. You're just in here," John tapped the side of his head with the mouth of the bottle. After tapping his head a few times, John drew his hand back to look at the bottle in bewilderment. But then he shrugged and took another swig.

"Oh no you don't," Sherlock muttered as he snatched the bottle away from John's weakened clutches. "No more alcohol for you."

"Wha-! Nah- Sherlock, give it back!" John whined. "Don't be mean! Stop being mean!"

He attempted to stand up, but with his balance askew, John only succeeded in tripping over his drunken feet. Had it not been for Sherlock's quick reactions, the doctor would have fallen flat on his face and possible broken his nose as he collided with the coffee table. However, Sherlock interceded and John ended up crashing into the Consulting Detective's chest. Sherlock managed to steady both himself and his friend before they could fall painfully –more so to Sherlock than John– to the floor.

"Let's get you to bed, John," Sherlock said impatiently. If John threw up on his shoes…

John's reply could be considered a drunken okay-grunt. Sherlock began making his way toward his old room– it was obvious John had been using it.

"What's that, John?" Sherlock asks to John incoherent mumble.

"Gladstone," John murmured. "Watch out for him. Likes ta jump an' cuddle an' sleep…" John trailed off, his head lolling into the nook of Sherlock's neck; his knees gave out.

"Brilliant time to pass out, John," Sherlock mumbled as he shook his head in a mixture of bitterness and amusement. He picked up John's frame –much lighter than usual; lost weight– and carried the unconscious man the rest of the way. Sherlock carefully set the doctor down on the bed and pulled the duvet to his shoulders. As he began to retreat, Sherlock didn't fail to notice the way John reached for him; as if he wanted the detective to never leave his side again. That brought a smile to Sherlock's lips. Tomorrow, when John was more lucid –albeit with a killer hangover as well– the two friends would have a nice, long chat. One where, Sherlock reasoned, John would take his frustration out on him. He hopes the ex-army doctor will miss his nose. (Irene's words came unwillingly to the front Sherlock's mind: "Someone obviously loves you; pretty face like that and I'd miss your nose too," but Sherlock quickly terminated the thought before it could spread.)

For now, Sherlock will simply wait.

A rustle to his left caused Sherlock to realize he had walked out of his old –John's new– room. Glancing to his left, he noticed the previously sleeping puppy was now wide awake. But instead of barking or growling or anything else normal dogs do, this one simply watched Sherlock in wonder. Slowly, Sherlock made his way to his old –and soon-to-be his again– chair. The puppy, which Sherlock supposed he should be calling Gladstone, took one look at Sherlock and began licking his hand happily.

Perhaps Sherlock will make a new friend this night.

Xx~oOo~xX

John woke up with a killer headache.

A killer headache and a very strange dream.

Sherlock was in it. That itself wasn't unusual, but John had dreamed that Sherlock took him to bed, which is impossible since Sherlock was dea- gone and even if Sherlock had returned, John is fairly certain than ghosts can't carry a person.

Opening his eyes, John was surprised to find himself in Sherlock's room (he never called it 'his own room'). The last thing he can remember was drinking out in the living room and dreaming that Sherlock was there. But as stated before, ghosts cannot pick up a solid human being. John must've gone to bed without realizing he had. Or sleepwalked to bed. That's a possibility too.

The smell of tea suddenly hit John's nose.

Oh alright I'll get up, John thought tartly. Whenever he smelled tea, that meant his Sherlock-illusion (he knows not to call him a hallucination, even though that's what his Sherlock-illusion really is) has returned. John yawns and stretches underneath the warm, comfortable duvet before he forced himself out of bed; forced himself to spend yet another day without his friend.

He saunters into the kitchen and sees Sherlock sitting at the table, two cups of tea placed in front of him.

"Welcome back," John yawned. "Here to reprimand me of my drinking choices last night or something?"

Now that he thought about it (which was a mistake to begin with since thinking really hurt at the moment), John decided that tea wasn't strong enough this particular morning and what he really needed was coffee. He began rummaging around the pantry, looking for the ground coffee and trying to be as quiet as he could.

"It really wasn't one of your best ideas," his Sherlock-illusion stated.

A loud noise, which sounded suspiciously like a teacup being bagged against the table, made John jump and hold his ears. When the ringing stopped, John glanced over to his Sherlock-illusion, but he didn't appear to have moved a muscle. Grudgingly, John went back to finding the ground coffee. He worked in blissful silence. Blissful, until the coffee machine was powered on. After only a few minutes, he groaned in irritation. Maybe he should've just taken the tea.

"John," his Sherlock-illusion says, speaking for the first time in perhaps ten minutes. "John, I'm real. I'm alive."

John rubs his temple. Why does that sentence sound familiar? "Sure you are, Sherlock. Sure…"

Suddenly, two very solid hands grip John's shoulders. He looks up to see his Sherlock-illusion towering over him.

"John."

For two solid minutes, John looked into Sherlock's eyes, wondering what it was that felt so different. If only he didn't have this stupidly throbbing hangover; he could figure it out much easier (and less painfully). Then, quite suddenly, everything clicked into place.

"BLOODY HELL!" John shouted, stumbling away from his not-Sherlock-illusion. He kept backing up until he reached his chair, which was facing the other way. John then proceeded to tumble head-over-heels, landing in a bit of a daze on the floor opposite where he had originally been standing. Sherlock contemplated rushing over to check on his doctor, but he already knew no physical damage had been done. Sure enough, John's head popped out, his face drained of color.

"But- You- You're- How can- You're-" John stuttered.

"I'm not dead," Sherlock supplied.

"You're not dead!" John agreed in astonishment. There was a moment of stillness as John observed his not-dead best friend. "…Maybe… Maybe you're still dreaming…" John muttered to himself, his eyes still wide and staring at Sherlock. "Yeah, that's it. You're just dreaming."

"I can assure you, John that you are not dreaming."

"Hallucinating then."

"You're not-"

"Don't finish that!" John shouted pointing a finger at Sherlock and starting to (shakily) get to his feet. "Don't you dare finish that sentence." John rubbed his temples again, breathing deeply.

Stupid hangover, he cursed to himself. Why does it have to hurt so badly?

"Well you went through about one and a half bottles of alcohol. A nasty hangover really is the only option."

John glared at the man. He hadn't meant to say that out loud and for some reason, Sherlock commenting on it made John really angry. "Shut up, Sherlock. Just. Shut. Up. You have no right to come in here after three, I repeat, three freaking years and tell me…tell me…" John trailed off, momentarily forgetting what he was about to say. Damn this headache. "…Maybe you're just the headache," he muttered.

A hand was placed on the army doctor's shoulder. With a quick, fluid motion, John grabbed the hand and flipped the body that went with it. Using his weight as leverage, John sat on the partially-stunned man, effectively pining him down. Sherlock's expression caused a smug smile to present itself on John's face. Sherlock hadn't been expecting John to do that, meaning John had surprised the great Consulting Detective. (From Sherlock's face, John guessed that Sherlock had only expected to be punched, which doesn't sound like a bad idea to the army doctor.) John allowed himself a moment or two to feel the triumphant burst of pride before he hardened his expression.

"Why?" John snarled. "Why did you do it? Leave? Tricking everybody? Tricking me?"

Sherlock's voice came out slightly strangled. (Well, there was a knee pressing into his side.) "You're life. In Danger."

"Danger? What do you mean?"

"Be civil. John," Sherlock said difficultly. "Let me. Up."

John hesitated for only a second if only to appreciate the gracefully elusive detective restrained by someone as mundane and simple-minded as John.

"Alright," John finally agreed. He didn't offer Sherlock a hand though; the doctor didn't think the detective deserved that privilege at the moment.

Sherlock eyed the non-existent helping hand as he got himself up. The two men stood face-to-face, just watching each other. Finally, Sherlock motioned to the couch.

"Shall we?"

John started to nod, but stopped himself. "Wait…"

"Hmm?" Sherlock turned to face the doctor, only to have a fist collide with cheekbone. Missed your nose, Sherlock's brain supplied.

"Okay, I'm ready now."

Sherlock grunted as he –once again– got up off the floor. "Better now?" He asked.

"Much," John confirmed as he sat down on the couch. After a moment's pause, Sherlock followed.

"It might be best if we start from the beginning," Sherlock stated. John nodded and moved his hand in a 'go-on' gesticulation. "Well…"

The two friends sat there for hours. Sherlock mostly talked, while John mostly listened. Had it not been for the topic of their discussion, it could have been any normal day. Together they laughed and together they frowned; together they sat in silence, and together they cried. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson spent the entire day on that couch, rekindling their friendship. (And igniting a new one– Gladstone was an impeccable puppy.)

It was nearly midnight when Sherlock found himself starting to fall asleep; John was already fast asleep, his head resting on Sherlock's shoulder. He had told John everything. From when he planned his "death" to how he obliterated Moriaty's followers. John, in turn, talked about his life. How he had almost lost it (the two of them shed tears there) to Lestrade saving John from going down a very bad path and forcing him to take on cases; the friends both shared carefree laughter at some of the more absurd cases. Tomorrow, Sherlock would announce it to the world: "I'm not dead!" But tonight… Tonight was just for him and John. Sherlock supposed he should leave John be. Let him sleep by himself (as he always says, John's not gay). But Sherlock didn't want to leave. He didn't want to wake up and not have John be the first thing he saw. It was selfish, he knew, but Sherlock didn't care. In the morning, the two would pretend it never happened, but both knew the other loved it; waking up and knowing that everything was going to be okay again. So Sherlock settled in, getting as comfortable as possible on the couch, and with John by his side, folded almost perfectly into the shape of Sherlock's body, Sherlock didn't have any trouble falling asleep.

A soft smile alighted the faces of both men.