John sat in the flat of 221B Bakerstreet, not really doing anything particularly. It has been two years since the Fall, as John called it, and he was doing better than before. Not good, but better. The first year he had been so full of grief that he had locked himself in his room, crying and hugging Sherlock's pillow. Other than fetching the pillow, he hadn't dared to be in Sherlock's room or touching his stuff. The skull and violin case had after some time collected enough dust to make hundreds of people sneeze. When the smell had finally disappeared from the pillow, John had spent hours crying by himself, not daring to go asleep afraid of the horrific nightmares of the Fall. After some time, Greg had pursuated him to talk to someone and gradually, he became more and more normal. Though he still had his bad days.

Like today. It was the beginning of January - oh how he dreaded January! The birth month of Sherlock Holmes. Whenever it got close to Sherlock's birthday, he would remember the awkward days. John would get up early to make something special, which Sherlock wouldn't touch at all. He would congratulate the birthday-boy and hear the response of how it didn't matter and that he had better things to do. And yet in the evenings when John would give him his present, Sherlock's face would lit up and he would eagerly open the package like a little child. Then at last when John would go to bed, he would hear a soft and deep 'thank you' and it would warm his heart more than any girl, he had dated, had ever managed to.

But today there would be no sour Sherlock, complaining about the meaningless celebration. No eager fingers ripping the wrapping paper apart. No sincere 'thank you' to contradict the otherwise emotionless detective. This was what made John's heart clench like it never had before (excluding the Fall). The lonely Christmases he could take. The empty flat he could handle. But Sherlock's birthday he couldn't manage without the main character. He was usually alone the days before and after the 6th and oddly enough people knew not to bother him at that time. His vacations always seemed to land on those days, and John felt grateful for that. Greg never asked him out to have a drink, and Mrs. Hudson never offered to dust of in that period. He was grateful for all that. But right now, he forgot the gratefulness, his mind lost in old memories.
As the day went by he didn't leave his chair. He just sat there looking at the empty one in front of him. He didn't cry, and he was convinced, he had no more tears to shed.

The day would have gone by quietly with emptiness filling the old soldier's heart, if it had been the usual. But John knew it wasn't, when he heard the stairs creak. John, however, didn't do anything. This week he was going to think of only Sherlock and their memories, and not bother about unwelcomed guests. Though, his interest perked when the door opened, but he didn't allow himself to turn his head. Whoever had entered didn't close the door and soon John saw a shadow hovering over him. Feeling his curiosity growing stronger by each second, he closed his eyes trying to compose himself. There went a few long seconds before the shadow moved once again. When John thought it had finally left, he settled his gaze upon the empty chair once again. What he didn't expect, was it to be occupied.

John blinked trying to understand that someone was sitting in Sherlock's chair! Though his anger of someone else than Sherlock sitting in that chair, disappeared as soon as he looked closer. Someone was sitting in Sherlock's chair. But that someone was Sherlock. There was no doubt. The usual tired eyes had dark circles underneath them, as though he hadn't slept for years. The usual thin body was nothing but skin and bone, his skeleton clearly visible under the formal clothing. The usual long, dark curls where unevenly cut, and some places even bald. But the doctor in John, that noticed all this, didn't have place in John's mind, as several other questions and emotions ran through him. This wasn't just another dream or hallucination. This was the real, breathing, living Sherlock. Who did nothing but stare at John.

John felt at first relief and happiness, that his friend was back and alive, but those where soon replaced by anger, betrayal and hurt.

"You-" John started in a dangerously low voice.

"You-!"

"Do you have any idea, what I've been going through? Hmm?" John finally managed to say in the same low tone as before. When Sherlock didn't answer, but kept staring, John felt the anger take over.

"You have been alive all this time? I have grieved for you! Do you know, how long it took me, just to talk to other people again? I saw you jump! I saw the blood! I FELT YOUR PULSE GONE WITH MY OWN HANDS! I attended your funeral! And all the while, you where still alive! Why? Why did you leave? Why did you jump?" John raged while standing up to hover over the frail supposed-to-be-dead detective, who said nothing, but looked up with apologetic puppy-wide eyes.

"Don't you dare! Don't you dare look at me like that, and expect me to forgive you this easily! Why did you come here?". Sherlock could see the rage in John's eyes and swallowed a lump. He cleared his throat and carefully tried to see if he could voice any words.

"I-" he swallowed another lump.

"I didn't- I mean. I don't-" was all he could say, the guilt making the otherwise talkative detective go cold for words. John chuckled humourlessly.

"So now you have nothing to say, huh? No bragging about how you did it? No reasons for me to go through hell? I guess they were all right. You do not own a single emotion in your body. You're just a machine, unable to feel or to care. Nothing but a freak!"

The words echoed more than it should be able to in the small flat. The rage was slowly fading, but not yet enough for John to realize, what he had said. As soon as he had said the words, something had flicked in Sherlock's eyes. He stood out of the chair and looked at John with cold eyes. It was as though someone had flicked a switch, turning Sherlock into the cold, cynical sociopath he had been before, he had met John. The impact of the last word had been to much pain for Sherlock to comprehend, so he had chosen the easy way out: not to feel anything at all. It didn't matter anyway. If John also thought he was a freak, then there was no need to feel anymore. He gave a slight nod, before turning on his heel and walking out of the flat.

It was only when he heard the front door shut, that John came to his senses. The words he had said still echoed in his mind and realization dawned upon him.

"Oh god" he whispered and fell back on his chair. He grabbed his head with a hand as though to make the words disappear. Regret and guilt filled his heart, no sign of the rage he had had before. He sat for a while in silence, thinking the scenario over and over. At last he shook his head to get rid of the regret, calming himself down.

He'll get around eventually, he thought. It's not like he isn't used to being called that.

John went to the kitchen and put the kettle on, forgetting the guilt completely. He didn't remember the cold look Sherlock had given him, as well as he didn't notice the sudden change of his best friend. The joy of having him back overshadowed the thought of what impact the words had really done.

...

Sherlock shut the door to his new flat, that Mycroft had arranged for him. The eager, guilt and hope he had felt before, he left for Bakerstreet, where all gone. Left was a cold façade, similar to the one he had had all those years back. He sat down in the couch, closing his eyes to enter his Mind Palace. He went through every door and every floor, clearing all his memories with John. It was too painful to remember, and being the sociopath once again, he couldn't afford to have emotions. He remembered all the memories in different ways, so that no knowledge would be forgotten. Only John.

He locked the door with multiple locks and uttered a satisfied sigh, leaning back against the couch. Though not long after, he walked out of the apartment once again. He still had two years of not solving any of Scotland Yard's cases to make up for.

...

Greg Lestrade was staring at his phone, having just received a text.

Not dead. Need a case. Text the details. SH

His mind went to two years before, not really understanding, how he could be alive. Then again, this was Sherlock Holmes, the most clever man he had ever met. If anyone could fake a suicide, it would be him. And it seemed he had. Just to be on the safe side, he decided to text the brother.

Is there any non-dead detective I should know about? -Greg

Perhaps. MH

That was enough to clear all doubt, and Greg quickly texted the detective back with an address of a murder, he had yet to solve.