The Aftermath

a Sherlock fanfiction

by Molly Robinson Smith

Dedicated to Livi, my friend who introduced me to Sherlock,

and was there to offer me a hug when I finished the Reichenbach Fall for the first time.

It began like any other dream really.

The first registered thought in John's brain was confusion, as his eyes took in a blurry picture of grey sky and sleek neighbouring skyscrapers, while his bare feet touched the cold, rough layer of concrete.

Then, his vision sharpened, and he saw Sherlock. He was wearing his trademark Belstaff coat, with the collar up. He extended his arms, like how a bird would spread its wings. And for a moment, it felt as though he was going to fly.

Everything went still for a second, so still John could hear even his own heartbeat. Then Sherlock's body moved. Everything happened so quickly afterwards. The last thing John saw was Sherlock's coat as it disappeared from his eyes, and he knew that he has fallen.

John ran to the ledge, his hand outstretched, trying to catch Sherlock, but it only grabbed thin air. He thought he yelled, but he couldn't hear anything. He leaned over a bit, just enough to see Sherlock lying on the pavement. Dead.

John wanted to throw up. There was easily two pints of blood on the street.

Behind him, the soft whispers of the wind seemed to build up until they combined to form a familiar deep voice. I don't have friends. I have just got one. The voice said. It used to make him smile, Sherlock saying that he was his only friend. Now, it only felt like an accusation, when Sherlock had fallen dead, while his best friend merely watched and did nothing.

Something pushed John, and his feet felt empty air instead of concrete. Sherlock's voice was getting louder, so loud that it was hurting his brain, but John couldn't move his hands to cover his ears. He only saw Sherlock's blue irises as he looked down, and they were getting larger, as though the blue was trying to drown him.

John was falling. And this time, there was no one there to catch him.

'Do you still have nightmares?' The psychiatrist asked.

'Yes.'

'How often?'

'Three times a week.' John looked up for the psychiatrist's reactions, but her face was neutral as she scribbled down something. When he couldn't deduce what she thought of his answer, he quickly looked down again.

'How's your blog?'

'Fine. Good,' there was a pause, and John knew what she was going to say. Their sessions were so predictable that he wondered why he bothered to come here and listen to the same things anymore.

'John, I know it is not easy but finding a new place to live will honestly help you. Leaving Baker Street can make it easier for you to cope and recover,' the psychiatrist spoke patiently, as though she hasn't repeated this more than ten times already.

'No,' his answer was simple.

'Why?' Her question was asked with a gentle voice, but it upset him in some way. A spasm of sadness made his body clenched tightly and he looked to the window. The sky was grey outside. It was always grey in England. 'The truth, John.'

So none of that I don't have money or I hate flat sharing bullshit, John quickly translated in his head.

'Because… I lost him and my memories are the only thing I have left of him. We made memories in Baker Street, and I don't want to lose that as well,' John closed his eyes, and looked down to avoid the psychiatrist's stare.

The room was quiet.

When people went through a trauma, it shook their lives. Sometimes the damage was so severe, that people thought it would affect others the same way it affected them. But as they staggered up from the ground where the impact hit them, they would be shocked to see that nothing has changed in other people's lives at all.

And this was what John felt the day after Sherlock died. When he woke up in his bed and looked out the window. The sun was shinning that day which was rare for England, and everything was… alright. Cars continued to rush past cars and people continued to bustle past people as usual. No one even stopped to observe what had happened in 221b, or paid tribute to the great detective that had died just yesterday.

John felt confused, then he felt angry, and as a cloud moved between his window and the shinning sun and the room dimmed, he felt isolated.

No one would understand what he was going through. Losing his best friend to some conspiracy plotted by one of the world's most notorious criminal, witnessing his death and yet couldn't do anything about it despite him being an army doctor and a friend, then having to wake up in the morning and see the world smiling and laughing as though nothing was wrong.

There would just be the pain, and himself as he suffered in silence.

Just like the old times.

The funeral was held a week after Sherlock's death. It was a quiet affair. There was only Mycroft, Lestrade, John, and Molly. The headstone was black, with Sherlock Holmes engraved in golden letters. John could see himself in the headstone's reflection. He looked like he has aged, with circles under his eyes, and tired, drooping shoulders.

Just like how Sherlock could notice everything about me, John thought, and I can see myself in his headstone. He stared at the headstone, the sleek outline, and the name of the detective in an understated font. It was as though I was looking at Sherlock. He thought, then grimaced and had tolook away.

The entire congregation was silent. Mrs. Hudson and Molly were dapping their eyes with tissue, and the three men were busy lifting their heads up to look brave when they weren't. He spent his life helping others, and this is what he got back. John thought bitterly. Accusations and lies, with only five people to mourn him, and three of them were partly responsible for his death.

'I am really, really sorry,' Molly cried as the ceremony finished, and the others began to walk out of the graveyard.

'It is OK. It wash't your fault,' that you had to do his autopsy, John thought but didn't say it out loud. Instead, he put a comforting hand on Molly's shoulder.

Molly just shook her head and cried some more. 'I am sorry.'

Two weeks after the funeral, John could finally bring himself to say a final goodbye.

He remembered that the sky was grey (as usual), and that he was accompanied by to the graveyard. All the hope that Sherlock has somehow survived died in the end, and this goodbye was the official closure to their eighteen months together.

'There are times I didn't even think you were human,' John confessed and thought about how Sherlock would kill him had he been alive, which made him smile for a moment. But just like how people couldn't giggle in a crime scene, he couldn't smile in front of a grave. So he held it in.

'You were the best man, the most human… human being I have ever known,' Sherlock would definitely kill him now. Too much sentiment, he would say. But people were all made of sentiment, even him. He just never let it show.

'And no one would ever convince me that you told me a lie,' not even Sherlock himself when he said it on the rooftop. John vowed. Always, always believe in Sherlock Holmes. The only consulting detective in the world, the resident of 221b with his annoying but strangely endearing habits, the man who rushed to his rescue when he was held by the Black Lotus at gun point.

'I was so alone, and I owe you so much,' if only Sherlock was here now, so he could listen and understand, that he has helped John in many ways, and that he was loved and missed by many. John one of them, and most of all.

'Don't be… dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this,' and he realised that maybe some of his hopes that Sherlock could come back hasn't died after all. As he walked back to the taxi, he thought of how he had finally said his proper goodbye.

If only Sherlock was there to hear it.

Three weeks after his visit to the Sherlock's grave, John finally decided to talk to about moving out.

'I can't afford to pay the full rent,' he confided, 'but I can't rob you off your money either.'

responded with great objection to his plan.

'Oh John! I don't care about the money. I will miss you so much. Now that Sherlock isn't here anymore, what would I do if you left as well?' She immediately broke down, and John, feeling guilty for making her cry, just gave her a tissue and didn't push the subject any further.

Knowing that the rent was most of 's income, John still didn't feel right staying in Baker Street. However, as he knew that didn't want him to go, he didn't raise the issue anymore.

A few days later, Mycroft has texted him. He will cover Sherlock's part of the rent. John cursed Mycroft for his interference (How the hell did he know anyway?), but didn't say anything. After all, he didn't want to leave Baker Street either.

Three months after that, John finally accepted Lestrade's invitation to a pub.

After two beers, Lestrade began to open up.

'I am sorry. I never knew arresting him would…' Lestrade paused, and sighed. 'I am sorry. You know that right?'

'If I hadn't, I wouldn't have been here,' John gulped down a few mouthfuls of beer. 'It is fine, everything is fine now.' Lestrade has always been John and Sherlock's friend, and John has already forgiven him the moment he knew Sherlock's death was hard on him too. It only took time for him to realise that.

'I am sorry,' Lestrade repeated and looked at his beer. John didn't offer more condolences after that. He understood perfectly how he felt. The guilt, the defeat, and the sadness, and the knowledge that you could have stopped something from happening could never disappear after a few words of sympathy.

After all, he was as responsible for Sherlock's death as the Scotland Yard inspector.

He was dreaming again. This time, he dreamt that he woke up on his bed during midnight, and saw the familiar silhouette standing beside him, his expensive navy blue coat swaying gently by the wind. The window was open.

'Sherlock?' John asked, couldn't believe his eyes.

'John,' Sherlock nodded, and his voice brought memories back. Memories as potent and real as the texture of the bed sheet John felt with his fingers.

'Why are you here?' John squinted his eyes to look at the detective. He looked the same as John remembered. Tall, slightly imposing with his long coat and not a hair out of place. He looked so different from how he looked on the pavement outside months ago.

'I do not blame you John,' Sherlock ignored his question. 'It is not your fault that I jumped. And Mycroft and Lestrade only did what they believed to be the best thing to do. I jumped by my own accord. It is not anyone's fault.'

'So you forgive me.'

'Technically, there is not anything to forgive,' John could imagine Sherlock rolling his eyes when he said that and he smiled, indulging in the moment. 'But if it comforts you, then yes, I forgive you. Fully,' his voice began to fade.

'No, Sherlock. Don't go,' John could almost felt himself griping his last strand of unconsciousness before he blinked and became wide awake. The window was ajar, but the room was empty.

He searched for the detective with his eyes, and sighed when he finally believed that he wasn't here. Not anymore.

'But… I can't forgive myself,' he said to no one in particular, and was greeted by silence.

It was Christmas at Baker Street again, and this time it was held in 's flat. John watched as Lestrade and Molly chatted happily. They would make a good couple.

had outdone herself again this year, with turkey and roast potatoes, and a giant chocolate cake for dessert. Everyone tried hard to keep the conversation going during dinner, attempting in vain to fill the void created by the absence of Sherlock's occasionally rude remarks and his silent presence as he brooded about the pointlessness of Christmas.

What was worse still was when John returned to his own flat, after everyone has left and has gone to sleep. He got himself a beer from the fridge, which looked so strangely empty without various body parts, and walked to Sherlock's favourite armchair, kicking off his shoes and socks along the way.

He opened his beer, and almost wanted to say 'Merry Christmas, Sherlock' as he lifted his beer up to thin air, but then thought better than to send his season's greetings to a dead man. Especially Sherlock Holmes, whose priorities never included Christmas anyway.

Time has never seemed so slow for John since Sherlock's death. A dull routine of waking up, going to work, coming back, eating dinner and going to bed has reduced his life to a repetitive merry-go-round. Because of that, time passed so slowly for John. Sometimes, it felt as though time didn't even pass for him at all.

But time did pass, even for John who didn't always realise it. And as time passed, he began to heal.

A year after Sherlock's death, he started to enjoy some aspects of his life again.

Two years passed, and he has got used to not seeing Sherlock in his flat when he came home.

Three years passed, and he finally got round to typing his blog again, for the first time since the day Sherlock died.

'And I won't feel sad about it. Not anymore. Because they were good times. We did good and we had fun. And that's what I am going to remember.'

John promised what was left of his readers a few photos taken during their cases for his next blog entry. And for the first time in years, he clicked 'Publish' and actively shown the world his life and how he felt being in it.

He has accepted that Sherlock wouldn't come back anymore, but he would never forget him. He would remember him as the world's most brilliant man, the insufferable flatmate, the one who claimed to be a sociopath, but nevertheless was still loved by those who really knew him. Not the fraud, the fake Moriarty claimed him to be.

Always, always believe in Sherlock Holmes.

After work on every Wednesday, John would go to Tesco to get groceries. Wednesday, because Sherlock has always been more irritable on that day for some reason, and John would like to stay far away from him for as long as possible. This had its costs though, it wasn't uncommon for John to return home with Tesco bags, and found a few new gun shots on the wall.

And he still did. Going to Tesco on Wednesdays. John felt that this routine gave him a connection to Sherlock and the life they used to share. As he walked down the aisles, he could almost imagine while he was shopping at a leisure pace, his flatmate was firing bullets into a wall.

Keeping this routine and preserving the illusion that Sherlock was still alive was not healthy, and could be seen as an act of weakness to some people. But John would like to consider it as a way to cope. In a way, it brought him closer to Sherlock.

He stopped at various places, taking out cereals, pasta, milk and cleaning utensils and put them in his cart. The queue at the cashier was so long (he would avoid the automated check out machine at all costs), that when he came out, it was already eight.

The air was cold as he stepped out. And, taking two bags in each hand, he turned to the right, and began to head home.

Like what he usually did, John went straight to the fridge after locking the door to put away the food. He opened it, and was greeted by a clear plastic bag that wasn't there before. He grabbed it, and had to look away in disgust when he saw at least a dozen fingers, smeared with blood, staring back at him.

John was by no means unobservant, but he had had a long day, and he really needed to put away his groceries (milk goes off pretty quickly in room temperature), so he just took the bag of fingers and threw it in the bin without realising its significance.

'But John! I need the fingers for my experiment!' A voice protested behind him as the owner of the voice came into the kitchen.

'I don't care! I thought we had an agreement. No body parts in the fridge unless you asked for my permission before hand,' John shouted back like it was the most natural thing on the world. He put the eggs away systematically, and began to look for the bottle of milk in the Tesco bags.

A silence, then…

'How can I ask for your permission if I were supposed to play dead for three years?'

Somewhere during his reply, John froze. Then, turning around slowly, as though his illusion would disappear if he moved his head too quickly, he saw the person he hadn't seen for three years, and never thought would see again.

'Hello, John,' Sherlock smiled, and filling the tiny kitchen with his tall statue and Belstaff coat, looked as though he hadn't aged a day.

John stared. He couldn't speak, but Sherlock did that for him, unaware that he wasn't actually listening.

'Now, I am sorry about the body parts. However, I would want to do something more dramatic than me just sitting on the chair as you came home. A hint of theatricality is the best medication for a mundane life.'

'You… You were alive! But I thought…' John stuttered with shock. Sherlock was back, and he had never feel so grateful and glad.

'Can't exactly blame you,' Sherlock cut in impatiently, like a child. He had so much to tell John - it couldn't wait. 'As this is what I wanted everyone to believe.'

'Sherlock,' John chuckled happily. He was probably getting a bit hysterical. 'How did you do that?'

As Sherlock explained, John listened in awe from the incredibility of it all. From the plotting, to the execution of the plan itself. It had been carried out perfectly, Sherlock told him, or else he wouldn't be standing here. And John inhaled sharply when he realised how close he was to actually losing Sherlock.

'Brilliant,' John replied immediately the moment Sherlock stopped talking, like he always did. But something was not quite right. Sherlock hadn't died, but he had never contacted John either. There was something enormous that he hadn't yet realised. He stopped for a second, then…

'You lied to me,' the truth hurt even more when he said it out loud. 'You lied to me!' And he could feel the words feeding his body with rage and feelings of betrayal. His senses were working in overdrive at the moment. He could see Sherlock's perplexed face, looking at his friend who had always been very contained with his emotions and felt every tiny stimuli his senses were exposed to, but he couldn't acknowledge any of these information. His brain, all of it, could only focus on one thing. He lied.

What happened next wasn't clear, even to John. He walked, with difficulty as though he was pushing against water instead of air, and raising his right fist, he punched Sherlock. He didn't hold back this time (unlike that time they were two streets away from Irene's residence), he put everything he could into it. The anger, the sense of betrayal, and the hurt and guilt he had carried in his heart for three years. He put everything into it.

At least he thought he did, but then why didn't he feel better?

Both parties were stunned to silence as Sherlock gently wiped the blood from the cut on the corner of his lips.

'I am alive now, and whether or not I have faked my death did not change that,' Sherlock began uncertainly, feeling the sharp sting of the wound and the metallic taste of blood as he spoke. 'I am not dead John. It is okay.'

'No, it's not! It's not okay,' John's mind spun a bit as he yelled out the words. The whole street could probably hear him. He hoped the neighbourhood wouldn't come to see what was happening, and find that Sherlock was alive before they were supposed to. But then again, why should he care?

'I was hurt, Sherlock, by your death. Do you know how painful it was when Molly told me that you didn't live? How painful it was to see your face and hair drenched with blood, and how difficult it was to try to forget that image because it hurt every time I remember?

'I felt guilty, Sherlock, because I thought I could have done something different to prevent it. Even Harry came to check on me. Yes, my alcoholic sister who have never been sober enough to take care of herself, let alone others. She called me once a week for the first year after your death. and asked me if I was alright every time. I always told her I was, except one time, then I broke down and she had to come, driving for an hour in the middle of the night, and stay with me.'

He stopped, took a deep breath, then two more. In the end, he gave up and let out a sob.

He saw Sherlock took a step forward then stopped, as though he wasn't sure if he should comfort him. He gave himself ten seconds, then composed himself, and faced Sherlock.

'Of course you don't understand. You have always been above sentiment. Always. It does make one wonder if you have ever cared about others and their feelings at all,' there. This was his second punch, and from the way Sherlock looked at him, eyes widened as though he couldn't believe what John had just said, he could see it hurt more than any physical wound he could inflict upon him in this world.

Looking at his friend spitting hateful words to him, Sherlock felt rejected. He didn't even have the chance to tell him that he had all his belongings downstairs, packed in an small black suitcase, ready to be taken back into 221b again. He left this world to keep it safe, and fought tooth and nail so that he could come back to it. Now he has, and the world has moved on without him.

'Is it because you have started a new life? One that is so interesting and refreshing from your old one that you can't be bothered to fit me back into it?' He wondered out loud. He didn't realise how bitter he sounded, but John did, and it renewed his anger, which had subsided for a moment to make way for grief, inside him.

'Get out,' John said with calmness that surprised even himself. However, with anger as potent as this, he knew it wouldn't be long before he exploded. Lifting up a shaking finger, he pointed to the door. 'Get out.'

The curtness in his tone stung Sherlock, and he didn't have to be told again. Like a child asked to stay in his room as a punishment, he moved slowly to the door. 'I thought you wanted me to come back,' he spoke, hurt evident in his voice.

'My best friend, the Sherlock Holmes that I know, is dead,' he repeated what he told his psychiatrist three years ago. Oddly enough, it felt truer this time he said it, when the man he was referring to had come back to life but he felt as though he didn't know him anymore.

This was what made Sherlock took the last step that crossed the threshold. Taking a deep breath, he opened his mouth. He had only said it twice, the other time being when he was on the rooftop, when he thought about the possibility of his plan failing and not being able to see John again.

'Goodbye, John.'

Mycroft did not frequent 221b, in fact John hardly saw Mycroft at all since Sherlock's death, so he was surprised when he saw a familiar black car pulled up from his window. What was more peculiar though, was how instead of fetching someone to 'kidnap' John, he chose to walk the seventeen steps, and came up to 221b himself.

'Any tea, Mycroft?' John sighed. The last thing he wanted was for another Holmes brother to visit him a week after.

'No. I just had some. With Sherlock,' with that, Mycroft looked pointedly at John, a look that John chose to ignore and instead sat on his armchair to make himself feel comfortable. Well, as comfortable as he could with the British Government itself standing in the sitting room which he hadn't vacuumed for two weeks. Not to mention the said government didn't sound too pleased with him.

'I know neither of us like to go through the pleasantries, John, so I will just skip to the point,' Mycroft touched the floor with the tip of his umbrella. 'I trust that Sherlock has met you last week?'

'Yes.'

'And it did not go very well?'

John had to smile, Mycroft was acting as though he didn't know what had happened. 'When does your spies ever fail you Mycroft?'

This time, it was Mycroft who sighed. He sat himself on the sofa. 'I understand that what Sherlock… What we had done is not correct…'

'We,' it was't even a question. 'You were in it too,' of course. How could he have thought otherwise?

'And Molly Hooper,' Mycroft felt uneasy for the first time in his life as he confessed his part, and others', in this conspiracy, and John had to bit his lips to prevent a bitter laugh from coming out. Of course the whole world knew beside him. The 'only friend' of a consulting detective, and he was kept in the dark for three years.

Funny, that.

'I know you have been very stressed emotionally recently, so I will try to make it quick,' Mycroft spoke quickly as he saw John mouthing 'get out' to him. 'Five minutes, John. If I can set aside five minutes from my life, then you can as well.'

With the demand, some of John's anger fell away, and he only felt exhaustion creeping onto him, like how his body would feel after running non-stop for 10 minutes before finally stopping. He leaned back onto his chair, closed his eyes, and waved his hand for Mycroft to continue.

'All I ask is for you to let Sherlock explain his motives. You knew the how, but you don't know the why, and what happened after that. If you still feel justified to send him away after listening, then it is the end, and he won't find you again.'

'Aren't you going to talk for him?' John's voice was slightly muffled by the hands he placed on his face. He felt so tired. So much has happened recently.

'He prefer to do his own talking.'

'Or ask me why I sent him away?'

'I understand why perfectly. Secret service, remember? They all spy on people for money.'

John removed his hands from his face, and could see Mycroft's smug smile. He groaned and rolled his eyes with irritation. Was there anything Mycroft doesn't know?

'This is Sherlock's new phone number. I got him a new one when he came back, to avoid suspicion. Call him, and let him talk,' Mycroft took out a piece of paper from his diary and placed it on the table. Then, he took his umbrella and began to make his leave.

'Why did he do it?' John asked just before Mycroft exited. 'He had upset many people, and there were many ways he could have contacted me without any problem,' he paused. 'You could have just told me that he was not dead. I see no point.'

'That's why you have to see it from his perspective. Let him talk. He didn't ask for much. He didn't dare to, after seeing your reaction to him last week,' John felt guilty all of a sudden.

'But between you and me, Sherlock is a genius, and the frailty of a genius is that he can be compromised in other areas. For Sherlock, it is the ability to show love. He may show his love to others in odd ways they don't understand, but he loves them all the same.'

Mycroft seemed to think of something, and he smiled fondly. 'He used to make me read him British Encyclopaedia every night, whether I was sleeping or revising. He was only three at that time,' John couldn't help but chuckled. It turned out Sherlock had acquired his trait of annoying people during inappropriate moments a long time ago.

'It wasn't until later that I realised it was a way of him showing that he enjoyed my company,' Mycroft shrugged and smiled to John, as though saying that's Sherlock for you.

'I will call him,' John promised. He didn't know why, he hadn't forgiven him, but he would. After what had happened, he owed them both a phone call, and a talk.

'And a soldier never goes back on his words,' Mycroft nodded, satisfied, before he walked down the steps. 'Thank you, John. That is the least I can do for Sherlock.'

This was the moment when John realised that Mycroft meddling with other people's business was his way to show that he cared.

John waited for three days, and on the fourth day, he was finally ready. He sat down, and pressed the number cautiously, as though he was poking the teeth of a crocodile that was going to bite him at any moment.

He heard the dial tone, then it was abruptly replaced by a familiar voice.

'John?'

John smiled despite himself, of course his number would show up on his mobile.

'Do you have time for a talk in 221b?'

'I will be there in ten minutes.' He hanged up quickly, and John knew that was to avoid people from tracing back the phone call.

They had already lived together for too long not to know each other's habits.

The tea was already prepared, and the sugars and milk had already been laid out neatly on the table, so John didn't have the excuse to escape when Sherlock was here. They sat on their respective armchairs, facing each other, and for a moment it felt as though the last three years hadn't happened.

'You have tidied the place up a bit,' Sherlock remarked as he scanned the room. The room was, of course, by no means tidy, but once Sherlock's mess of chemical equipment and books lying on the floor was removed, the place immediately looked so much cleaner.

'I still keep all of your stuff. In your bedroom,' this was John's way to make Sherlock know that he hasn't erased him out of his life completely.

'Why?' Sherlock asked.

'I don't want to say it out loud.'

'Sentiment?' John nodded, and thought about how Sherlock was so good at acting how he couldn't understand it.

John remembered his teacher teaching the class about Parallax error. He held his thumb out, closed his left eye and positioned it in front of him. His thumb just about covered a smiley face a student had drawn on earlier. He opened his left eye, then closed his right one. This time, his thumb has shifted, and he saw the smiley face looking back at him.

His teacher went on to explain more about the subject, but John's memory regarding this lesson never went beyond his thumb and the smiley face (turns out Physics and solar system was not his forte either). What you see is different, depending on where you see it from. He summarised in his head.

So, he tried to see from Sherlock's perspective as he recounted his days starting from the fall. He saw his grim determination to save his friends from a genius whom he knew would go to any lengths to break him. He saw how he suffered alongside his friends whilst they grieved him, all the while knowing that it would have been unnecessary had he been someone other than Sherlock Holmes. He saw how he couldn't risk even a phone call or a message, because everyone he cared about was being spied on.

But most of all, he saw his vulnerability and loneliness as he hid from everyone, pursuing Moriarty's network as it pursued him.

'The lengths I had to go to to disguise myself. It makes one wonder who actually is the criminal,' Sherlock complained, but grinned proudly because he managed to fool everyone. Well, nearly everyone.

John also saw how he almost died a few times when some of Moriarty's network saw through his disguise, but he still made it out alive because he wanted to come home. He saw him on that day he came back. He went to 221b, as excited and happy as a child on a boxing day ready to unwrap his biggest present, then found that his world didn't welcome him anymore.

'I had to stay with Mycroft for a few days. He was intolerable,' Sherlock pursed his lips and frowned childishly.

'He came to talk to me about you though,' John pointed out. 'He does care.'

'That is because he doesn't want me in his flat either,' Sherlock argued back but John could see him smile.

After Sherlock told his story, John told Sherlock his. It was more difficult than he thought, telling his best friend how his 'death' made him feel and saw the detective's downcast eyes filled with guilt and sadness at the pain he had caused. Lies would not get us anywhere, he reminded himself, so he continued.

'The moment I saw you lying on the pavement I knew that it was too late to save you. You lost so much blood,' he swallowed. He could still see the image swimming in front of his eyes. 'But I couldn't believe it, not even when Molly looked at me in the eyes and said that she was sorry. I thought I was dreaming, it couldn't be real.

'Three weeks later, and I was in my bed. It was a very quiet night, and it suddenly dawned on me that I haven't heard you playing your violin for days. I guess this was when I finally understood. I ran down the stairs like a mad man, switched on all the lights in the house and…' he closed his eyes. 'And you weren't there. I sat on my armchair, and I cried for the first time since your death.'

'You were watching me at the grave, Sherlock. I just had a feeling that someone else was there. I said I wanted a miracle, and I wanted you to come back. From where, I didn't know. At that time, I just thought… If you were back, everything would be the same as it once was.'

He took a deep shaky breath and closed his eyes. 'The thing is, Sherlock, I am not so sure anymore. You have come back, but nothing is the same, and I don't know if it will be the same ever again.'

After two weeks since Sherlock's return, he had moved back to 221b. John hadn't forgiven him for what he had done, but had welcomed him with opened arms to come home. After all, he needed Sherlock as much as John needed him.

Sherlock, knowing that he couldn't ask for more from John at that moment, eagerly accepted the offer (Moreover, who would want to live with Mycroft anyway?). This means two weeks after John had had the shock of his life, his home was once again filled with experiments in petri dish, body parts stored next to minced beef, and the unbearable odours of various chemicals.

There weren't many people that really cared about Sherlock, but those that did received his return with great enthusiasm, albeit with a bit of hurt that he didn't confide to them about his plans. Those people included Lestrade, and a few clients whom Sherlock had helped tremendously in the past and had remained loyal to him. The general public was just delighted to see their favourite detective/celebrity on the news again, and Richard Brook had been forgotten. Life seemed to have continued as normal.

Except it had not, and Sherlock was the only one who saw that. He couldn't pinpoint what exactly was out of place, but 221b felt different. His biggest wish was for his life to go on like it used to, and the reality was so far away from his expectation that it both infuriated and disappointed him.

He didn't like the looks John gave him sometimes when he walked into the same room. He would stare at him, eyes filled with shock, as though he had seen a ghost. This only lasted a second before John remembered that Sherlock was actually alive. Then his eyes would dim with recognition and he would go back to whatever he was doing before.

Sherlock hated it. It hurt him and made him feel guilty in a way he couldn't explain. They wouldn't talk for the rest of that day. Sherlock usually went out during these days anyway, breathing in the cold crisp London air until he knew John had gone to bed. Then, he would come home at midnight, and the flat was always silent.

'John. Lestrade called, triple murder in London. Looks very promising,' Sherlock paced to the door, putting his coat and scarf on along the way. It was the first time he had been called to a crime scene since his return. 'John?' He turned back when he heard nothing from him.

Sensing Sherlock's stare, John finally looked up from his laptop. 'No. Not today,' he replied, then continued to do whatever he was doing.

Sherlock was baffled. John had never said no to a case before, especially a promising one. 'Stop rambling nonsense on your blog. Come,' he tilted his head to the door slightly.

'No,' John shook his head.

Sherlock sighed with impatience. 'Lestrade is desperate, and we both know the cases that make him desperate are the best ones.'

'Not today. You can go by yourself,' John didn't acknowledge him anymore, and instead looked at the monitor to pretend that he was working. He waited for a few seconds but heard nothing. He looked to the door, and Sherlock was still there.

'You have never refused to go to a crime scene before,' Sherlock mused, frowning slightly at him.

Indeed, it was the first time John said no. One time he was having diarrhoea when Lestrade asked Sherlock for help, and he was still dragged to the crime scene. The Speckled Blonde, one of his favourite adventures actually. Of course, he left out the diarrhoea part when writing up the case. Too embarrassing.

John smiled ruefully, those were good memories.

'The last time we solved a case together, we were in Dartmoor, and that was before you faked your death,' he recounted slowly, then thought for a bit. 'You know everything about everyone, so you probably have never been lied to, but I have,' he looked warily at Sherlock. After trying to immerse himself in their old life for weeks, he suddenly felt exhausted of pretending that things were okay. They weren't.

'I had to live three years without you, and you lied to me. A white lie, but still a lie,' he could feel a dim rush of anger in his body, but like his vitality, it dispersed completely after a second. 'I can't go with you to crime scenes like we used to, and pretend that the last three years didn't happen.'

'Please,' it was Sherlock, pleading. It felt urgent, as though his world was going to crumble at any second to his knees. John ignored him.

'I told you once that I didn't know if things would be the same ever again, but now I know…'

'Please.'

'It is never going to be,' John's hands went up involuntarily to cover his face. His hands felt hot against his skin. What felt hotter though, were his eyes. Soldiers don't cry. John always said. Tonight though, John wasn't a soldier. He was a man, lied to and hurt by his best friend, and angry at himself that he couldn't make things right again.

Sherlock looked at John, he had never seen him cry before. Sadness flooded his ice-cold blue eyes for a second, before his defence mechanism took place. He lifted up his chin, and the mask of impassiveness slid into place. His voice, however, sounded bitter as he spoke.

'I see. You didn't say no to the case. You said no to me.'

There was no sound for a second. Then John heard footsteps tapping down the stairs, and the loud slam the front door made as Sherlock walked out. The sound reverberated around the whole house.

John's breath shook as he exhaled, slowly. 'I am sorry,' he choked out with difficulty, but no one was there to hear him.

It was midnight when Sherlock came back. From his own room, John could monitor his movements by listening quietly. Sherlock opened the front door gently. His tired footsteps trailed up the stairs. It stopped for a moment when he reached the floor where the sitting room was. Then, it continued, to John's surprise, up the steps.

'John?' Sherlock said to the closed bedroom door. John didn't reply.

'John? I know you are awake. You have the habit of switching the lights off in the sitting room before you sleep, but the lights are still on,' John remained still, sitting straight on his bed. On his lap was his casebook, where he had written down every case they had solved together. Funny enough, remembering those adventures actually made him sad.

Sherlock heard no response, and he sighed. 'I found the murderer John,' he gave John a few seconds to ask 'how?', and proceeded, with disappointment, when he heard nothing.

'Only one victim, a doctor, was badly mutilated. The other two, including the wife of the first victim and their child were stabbed to death only once to the chest. This was the first mistake. Why did he disfigure only the first victim? The wife had tuberculosis, and had a prescription of Isoniazid, which was missing. This was the second mistake.

'The murderer disfigured the doctor, because he knew him, and hated him. We found out which hospital the doctor used to work in and the patients he had interacted with. He had recently discharged a patient, who had been admitted to hospital again just after the murder occurred due to intractable seizures. You are a doctor, you know the side effects of Isoniazid. It can cause intractable seizures. The patient was the murderer.

'The dead doctor knew that the murderer has Münchausen Syndrome, a psychological disorder when people feign illnesses to receive attention and sympathy. He threatened to expose him unless he gave a large sum of money. The patient wasn't rich, but he couldn't afford to be exposed either. This left only one choice for him.

'He found doctor, killed him, then mutilated his body out of hatred and a moment of recklessness. At some point, he saw the Isoniazid prescription, and took that too without thinking. He killed the other two victims because they saw him when they came home, presumably from shopping. They hadn't done anything, so he didn't disfigure their body. Case closed,' Sherlock sighed.

'Just thought you would want to write up the case notes for me, like you used to,' there was a pause as Sherlock wondered if this was the right thing to say.

'I… underestimated the impact my absence for the last three years had on you, and the time you needed before you can fully accept me again. John… I will give you time, as much time as you need.

'But promise me one thing, John… Don't leave me… I'd be lost without my blogger,' he sounded so devastated and timid, so unlike the Sherlock Holmes John used to know, that his heart clenched tightly. Nothing was the same anymore.

There was a pause, then…

'I am sorry. Forgive me… Goodnight, John.'

'John, can you pass me the map?' Sherlock stepped into the sitting room, and immediately laid himself on the sofa, his back lying against the arm rest. He flexed his long legs until they were comfortable, then brought his hands together underneath his chin. His usual thinking pose.

John walked in after Sherlock, laden with bags of groceries. If one thing never changed in 221b after Sherlock's return, it was how much milk they needed. Between Sherlock using milk for his experiments which he conducted on a daily basis and their unhealthy habit to substitute tea for water, it ran out pretty quickly if they didn't buy at least three bottles of it every week.

'This one?' John walked to the mantelpiece and picked up a Bristish Isles map - pocket size. Sighing, he tossed the map to Sherlock, who was on the sofa, just a few footsteps away from him (or so he estimated, he couldn't be bothered to walk the distance to check if he was right). What could he say? Tossing things like grenades instead of just passing them over like normal people do was apparently their favourite pastime.

Or, he attempted to toss it to Sherlock. The map landed on the table, just directly 20cm away from Sherlock's hands on his stomach, palms open and facing upwards, waiting to receive the map.

'John,' Sherlock's deep baritone voice drawled lazily as he protested.

'What? Can't you just move your hand a bit and pick it up?' John scolded exasperatedly, but he was actually laughing inside. Sherlock had the intellect beyond that of an adult, but he behaved like a child. Of course, this childish side was only visible to a few lucky ones.

'The sole reason I told you to throw the map to me was that I didn't want to move,' Sherlock talked back. 'It is not my fault your tossing skills has deteriorated so much.'

'Can't blame me, I haven't practised for about three years,' John yelled from the kitchen as he took out two mugs. It is best to make tea when the milk is still fresh. He heard silence, and suddenly realised what he had said. Silently, he poured the tea into the mugs, then the milk until they were full.

Walking out of the kitchen, he laid one mug on the table, just next to the map. 'This is your tea,' he said. 'Drink it when it is still hot.' John looked around, and found that their armchairs were already filled with miscellaneous objects. And of course Sherlock hadn't bothered to make room for him on the sofa. Shrugging, he opted to stand and took one sip of tea from his mug.

'And Sherlock? Pick up your own damn map,' he said, and out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Sherlock smile.

'Thank you so much, John. I wouldn't have bothered you if my TV hadn't stopped working,' sat herself on the sofa as John switched on his TV.

'It is fine, . You are welcome to drop in whenever you want,' John smiled. 'What show are you watching again?'

'The Modern Beauty on channel four. They teach you what clothes to buy. Cerise is a good colour for me apparently. Makes me look young. Thanks John,' Mrs. Hudson smiled appreciatively at John as the show came on.

John put the remote down, picked up today's newspaper and sat on his armchair. He flipped the pages. Murder, more murder, a suicide that looked more like a murder. Sherlock would love this one. He scanned the pages, and stopped when he saw the date.

'16 of June,' he murmured.

'What about it?' asked, one of her eye still glued to the TV and one sneaked a glance at John.

John sighed. 'This was the day Sherlock jumped but didn't die.'

Finally looking away from the TV, 's eyes skimmed the top of the newspaper. 'Oh!' She frowned as she saw the date. Shaking her head, she spoke. 'Can you believe it has only been four years? It seems forever ago!'

'It is a long time ago,' John said and looked around their apartment. Everywhere was dotted with Sherlock presence, from a hazardous experiment he had been conducting in the kitchen, to the music sheets scattered on the floor, scrawled with his messy handwriting, to the pack of nicotine patches he used yesterday because he was bored again.

Sherlock had left him four years ago, and returned three years after. John himself hadn't taken it very well, which was to be expected, but he still let Sherlock come back to 221b. They tried to accept each other again (admittedly, it was a slower process for John), and since then, a year had passed.

John looked outside the window in a daze. He wondered if all that had actually happened. Sometimes, it felt as though Sherlock had never left in the first place.

With a jolt, John suddenly felt like he finally understood something.

Sherlock ran along the alleyway, his path barely lit by the streetlights above. He and John were chasing a suspect. They had just been informed by the Homeless Network, exactly fifteen minutes ago, that the said suspect had appeared in this region. So far, he hadn't seen him. He was beginning to think that the murderer had escaped when he heard John yelled.

What happened next was a blur to Sherlock. He remembered turning his body by approximately fourty five degrees and ran into another path, but didn't remember much else. His only thoughts at that time only consisted of John. John. He needed to find him.

He stopped when he saw two figures about ten steps away from him. When he had got used to the even dimmer lighting in here, he could see the murderer, smirking smugly as he held a gun pointed to John's temple.

Sherlock quickly looked John over. No visible injuries, which was good. It could have been a lot worse. Being the blogger of a detective didn't always improve one's reputation. Certainly not among the criminals. He frowned, puzzled, when he noticed how John was still holding his gun in his right hand. The criminal hadn't even bothered to tell him to disarm. Either he was an amateur (which he was not, according to his criminal records), or he was very arrogant (this was more likely).

'So you have found me,' the murderer shrugged nonchalantly. 'Too bad none of you would be alive to report my location. The Sherlock Holmes that I know doesn't seem to work very well with the police. I bet you haven't told them where I was.'

'There was no time for the police,' Sherlock replied stiffly, and it was true. For him, at least. He could see John rolling his eyes with irritation as he spoke. Sherlock immediately deduced that if they both survived the murderer, he wouldn't survive John when they went home.

The murderer shrugged again (honestly, it was getting a bit annoying). 'This makes it easier for me then. I will firstly kill your companion,' he nudged John with his gun. 'Then it will be you. Well, since I am playing nice today, I will count to three before I shoot,' he grinned. 'So you have time to say a quick prayer, or declare your love for each other,' he added, before barking out a hideous laugh.

Both Sherlock and John groaned. Even the psychopaths and criminals thought that they were gay now.

'One…' With that, John caught Sherlock's eyes and pointed to his gun. Quickly, he tossed it over. The gun traveled in the air as…

'Two…' Leaning down a bit, Sherlock caught the gun with his right hand soundlessly. He raised it, and before the murderer could figure out how the gun appeared in Sherlock's hand, he was shot in the forehead.

'Nice catch,' John complimented once the murderer (now a dead corpse) released his hold on him.

'Nice tossing skills,' Sherlock complimented right back with a smile.

What could they say? Tossing things like grenade were apparently their favourite past time, and an ultimate life saver.

The press and the Scotland Yard arrived later, and both the detective and the blogger were immediately bombarded with questions. How did you find the murderer? Is it true that you are seeing a woman named Mary, John? How did you know he was the criminal? Are you both still living together? Can you tell us what other cases are you solving right now, Mr. Holmes? Are you two married?

'I thought Mr. Holmes has been solving crimes by himself since he came back from the dead,' a reporter questioned John.

'We are still partners when we are solving crimes. And friends, when we are not,' John replied without thinking. 'We have always been.'

And when Sherlock turned to John with question in his eyes, John nodded right back, and smiled.

They have always been. It just took him a bit longer to realise it, that's all.

~ the end ~

Notes: It has taken me three tries before I get this fic right. I have even stopped myself from watching season 3 trailers and the minisode until I finished the story, because I know these clips would influence how my story goes. I want to write my own version of what John is going through, before and after Sherlock's return. I have put a lot of effort into this piece, and I hope that it shows.

Thank you for finishing the story. Please review/comment if you can spare a moment or two. It is always exciting to read what people think of my stories. :) I accept anonymous reviews too!

MRS x