Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. I have also not had the chance to see episodes 2 or 3 of series 2 yet, so please forgive any discrepancies.

A/N: Ela (WaltzingVelocity) saw a post on Tumblr suggesting that Series 3 will begin with John receiving a text from Sherlock saying, "I'm not dead. Let's get dinner." She asked me to write a fic about it, and here we are. I'm not sure whose idea this was originally, but it was certainly not mine. I hope this is all right!

Words Come Later

His mobile buzzed while he was clearing up at Bart's. Probably Greg or Mary wanting a pint, or maybe Harry wanting dinner or West wanting a shag, although considering how their last date had gone John found the last unlikely. He briefly thought it might be Mrs Hudson complaining about something Coke had done, but Mrs Hudson would have called him, her voice long-suffering as she informed him, once again, "I am not your dog-sitter, dear."

John added his gloves to the biohazard bin and squirted sanitizer into his palms as he used his hip to push open the door to the morgue, only glancing at his mobile once he was in the slightly warmer air of the corridor. He didn't recognise the number, but sometimes he fumbled in the night and deleted names, so that didn't mean much. John opened the text, read it, stopped breathing, read it again, and tightened his grip on the phone so his fingers slid over the screen, obscuring the message. It didn't matter, though; the words were on his eyelids.

I'm not dead. Let's get dinner. – SH

First he thought it must be a practical joke. Not a funny one. Anderson, maybe, although it seemed too intimate for him. John wondered for a second if it was Moriarty—much more his style, cruel and close—but if Moriarty was alive then the consulting detective might be, too. And this text...John opened his eyes again and stared at the screen. Two short sentences and the still-familiar initials. It sounded like Sherlock. The bastard.

He cleared the words from the screen and ran his thumb down his contact list, pressing the call button when he reached Mycroft's name.

"Dr Watson. How may I help you?"

"You knew, right?" He was surprised at how steady his voice sounded. Inside he was shaking.

Mycroft blew a sigh into his phone. "Now is not the best time—"

John interrupted, "Just tell me. Is it true?"

"It is."

"Your brother did not die? He fell but he did not die," John clarified.

"Yes."

"And he has been alive for the last three years."

"Obviously." John heard the fuzzy noise of Mycroft addressing someone else and then the man's voice came clear through the phone, "Perhaps you should speak to my brother about this. I assume he has been in contact with you."

"I think you have your verbs confused. Knowing something is a bit different than assuming it."

"Do not be petty, Doctor. Respond to him. He is awaiting you anxiously."

"I'm petty?" John spoke over the sound of the other man ending the call. "Fucking arse."

He held his phone out and stared at the blurred photograph of Coke that served as his background. Fifty seconds and it buzzed with another message from the unfamiliar number—Sherlock's number.

John? I'm taking a taxi from Heathrow. Meet at the Indian place in forty minutes. – SH

The Indian place? John's fingers moved hypnotic over the screen, typing: The Indian place closed two years ago. I need to go to Baker Street. Meet me at the park by Tesco.

He continued down the hall to the lift, which took him shaking to the fourth floor. He shucked his scrubs in his office and changed into trousers and a shirt, fumbling with the buttons and knotting the tie without glancing in the mirror, and shoved some papers into his briefcase before kicking the door shut behind him.

By the time he made it up out of the tube by Baker Street his mobile had vibrated three more times. He didn't take it out of his pocket until he had reached the landing outside his flat. He could hear Coke whining for him on the other side of the door as he skimmed the messages.

Did it? I could just meet you at home. – SH

And then: I suppose the park is suitable. – SH

And finally: Is Angelo's still open? – SH

John pocketed his phone without responding. Let Sherlock get a taste of silence. John wouldn't make him wait three years. Probably.

He unlocked the door and shoved his left leg inside first, to block Coke from escaping. The mutt—part English shepherd, part everything else—pressed her wagging body against him as soon as he managed to make it inside the flat, and he reached down to scratch at the smooth black cap of her head.

"Hey, Coke, love. Give me a moment, and I'll take you out for your walk." He poured some kibbles in her food bowl and glanced across the flat to the door that led to Sherlock's bedroom. Not anymore, of course. John had given Sherlock's things to Mycroft and turned the room into a library of sorts. He had accidentally left the door open that morning, and Coke had scattered medical textbooks from the low table to the floor, and he could see the jawbone of Sherlock's skull from where he stood, sticking out from beyond the doorjamb.

The dog was eating noisily as John crossed the room and picked up the skull. Still intact, thank God. He set it on a stack of books on entomology that John hadn't touched since early days at university and shoved his hands in his pocket, running his thumb over the edge of his mobile phone. Sherlock could be back.

Did he want Sherlock back? Did he want to return the books to boxes, put Sherlock's skull on the mantelpiece, take Sherlock's bed-frame and books and files back from Mycroft and invite the hazardous mess of the man and his experiments back into his flat, his life?

Coke appeared behind him and pressed her nose against his trouser leg, panting as her tail began an aggressive wag. His mobile buzzed again, and Coke let out a small bark in response. John read the message before he returned to the living room and grabbed Coke's leash from the floor by the sofa.

I'm by the fountain. – SH

Did John really have a choice? Sherlock was alive. He was in London, and John supposed it didn't matter whether John wanted Sherlock back in his room or not—it had been the detective's flat first.

"My life, though," John told Coke as he clipped the leash onto her leather collar, "that's up to me."

The dog huffed in agreement and dragged John to the door, raising a paw to scratch at the doorframe while John reached to tug at the knob. She was down half the stairs before John locked the door and took off after a group of pigeons as soon as they were on the pavement; he had to near-run to keep her on the leash.

They reached the park in fifteen minutes, and John led Coke down the centre path. He froze when a curve brought him to the fountain and the tall man facing it. His hair was longish and dark and curled, and his coat covered him to the back of his knees and he just looked like Sherlock, so goddamn much like Sherlock, that a fist of something hot hit John in the gut and he realised for the first time since getting that text that everything had changed, again.

Coke barked and the man stiffened, turned his head over his left shoulder and met John's gaze. His lips quirked in that half smile and still John could not move. Would not move. All of his insides were moving, though, heart in his stomach and stomach somewhere around his ears and the hemispheres of his brain in his right and left ankles respectively and there he was, Sherlock Holmes, looking a little thinner but with those same changing eyes and that same long nose and that fucking smile.

"John." Sherlock nodded, his voice low like it always was in the dreams John had where the other man was alive, living, there in London. Coke growled and pulled at the end of the leash John had looped in his right hand, wanting to approach her discovered stranger. Coke was never in John's dreams.

Sherlock glanced at the dog. John could see him calculating, analysing, deducing. "She's not a replacement for you," John hurried. "One of my mates found her on the streets and couldn't take her because his daughter was allergic so...she's mine."

Coke growled again as Sherlock turned to face him fully. John kept his grip tight on the circled end of the dog's leash. "I would not have assumed that you'd be so imbecilic as to attempt to replace me with a dog. Although," and Sherlock smirked, that one he wore when he taunted Mycroft or told Lestrade off, "I'm sure she makes messes that equal mine, if not with the same inquisitive intent."

John bit back a laugh in response. Not that easy, he reminded himself, can't be that easy. "I don't know. At least she's never stuck human remains on the sofa."

"Yes, well." Sherlock approached slowly, shortening his strides and looking a bit too cautious for such a confident man. He stopped when he reached Coke, who strained against the leash about three feet away from John. Sherlock stared down at the dog. She growled and stuck her nose in his crotch. Sherlock barked out a short shocked laugh and rubbed a hand down the dog's head. "Does she have a name?"

"Sherlock," John drew the word out. All the words that came after it in his head were too hard, something like wanting to get to the bottom of a canyon when you're standing on the edge and all you can think is if I jump I die and if I climb it'll take years and if I just stand here then I may never see the river at the bottom, but at least nothing will change. And of course that was stupid because everything had changed but all he could say was "Sherlock," repeat it over in his mind like standing perpetually at the edge of his personal chasm.

Sherlock cocked his head and stopped petting Coke. "You realise that naming the dog after me does not support your claim that she was not, in fact, procured in order to alleviate your loneliness following my supposed death." All coolness, like his alleged death and John's state of being alone were nothing more than elements on his private periodic table—potentially dangerous but simply extant facts to the man. Sherlock kept his eyes on Coke and added, "Also, I believe this is a female dog."

"She resembles you in that way, anyway." Sherlock brought his eyes to John's and raised his eyebrows, head still cocked. "A bitch, Sherlock, she's a bitch." Sherlock didn't look any less confused. "Sorry, sorry, I just meant...Her name's Coke."

"As in the drink?"

If he had named her after the drug, would Sherlock have assumed that had something to do with him, too? If John had, maybe it would have. It probably would have. After all, your best mate dies and you're hit with shrapnel. You're scarred, that's just how it works. "As in the drink. She knocked over a case outside of Tesco the first day I brought her home and it...seemed fitting." He fell silent. The path was on a bit of a hill, so John was nearly at eyelevel with Sherlock for once, and he couldn't stop staring at the man. "Jesus, Sherlock."

"Would you like to get some food?" Sherlock asked, closing the distance between them. The dog followed at his side, and the leash loosened around John's hand.

John stepped back. "In a minute," he said. Jump, he thought. But really he wanted to push and shove and fight. He wanted to hit Sherlock so badly his left hand curled into a fist, fingers so tight against his palm that his short nails bit into the skin. But he couldn't hit him. Sherlock had been dead and here he was breathing and so he couldn't hit him. "You're alive," he managed.

"Obviously."

John hissed a breath. "You sound just like Mycroft." Fucking Holmes brothers.

Sherlock blinked, surprised for once. "You've spoken to Mycroft?"

John shrugged. "Had to be sure it wasn't some idiot's idea of a joke."

"Oh." Sherlock nodded. "I would love to discuss the details of my current state with you, but I'd rather we do it over a meal. Or at ho—the flat, perhaps?"

Coke had wandered off into the bushes by the path, and John turned to look at her. Maybe when he looked back Sherlock would be gone and he could mourn him again and keep going in the steady way he had been going. But God, that was mean. And wrong, too. If Sherlock disappeared again John might not be able to stay so steady. John jerked his head back to make sure Sherlock still stood there. He did.

"I'm assuming you kept me in the dark for my own safety."

Sherlock nodded.

"And Moriarty did die?"

"Yes, yes, he did. I saw the body and it was definitely him."

"Well, that's good. Good job." Inane and horrible, how awful, what a terrible thing to say about someone's death, even his. Maybe especially his, because Jesus what a price. John stuck his left hand in his pocket as Sherlock shook his head.

"So, can we go...somewhere?" Sherlock, who had been all bluster in the texts and still confident in the conversation, seemed to have deflated a bit. His shoulders slumped and his eyes avoided John's, settling on Coke as she pawed through the dirt.

"Yeah, yeah. Come up to the flat. I have some pasta we can heat up. From Angelo's—it's still open, you were wondering. It'll be..." John fell off as he turned, beginning the short walk out of the park. It wouldn't be easier or better or anything, really, because this was already too difficult, too much, and he still wanted to punch Sherlock.

Sherlock brushed his hand against the pocket of his trousers when they reached the door to 221B, but John shook his head. "I had the locks changed." Because Lestrade had told him to.

He unlocked the door and held it open for Sherlock as he released Coke, who bounded to her water bowl before flying around the room twice and then collapsing by the door to Sherlock's old room. Sherlock glanced at it, swallowed visibly, and then turned to face John.

John lost track of his mind and it pushed the most important question forward and so he asked, not thinking, or maybe thinking too much, "If I were to hit you, would you disappear?"

Sherlock had been about to place his coat on the back of the sofa and he froze, turning his head so he could stare at John again. "If you were to hit me, would I disappear?"

John could feel the beginnings of a blush running up his neck. "I just meant—"

"Of course I would not disappear. I am here. I am alive. You could hit me, and it would probably hurt your hand a little and myself quite a lot and I would possibly hit you back and when we were finished acting like adolescent idiots I would still be here and you would still be here and you would still not have any answers although you would most likely have a few bruises and I would perhaps have a broken nose." He straightened fully and held out his arms. "So, by all means, hit me, if you would like to actualise that scenario."

John stuck his fists into his pockets. "No, no, that's all right." He glanced around the room. "You can sit down, if you want to, you know."

Sherlock fell onto the sofa, just like always. John wanted tea but he wanted to get through this more, suddenly, and so he leaned against the back of his armchair, crossing his arms on the headrest and scrutinizing the length of the other man.

"You look well. Not nearly as skeletal as I'd expected." John tried the joke and found that it didn't fit quite right yet. Too soon, but that might last until they really died. "You realise you're an utter bastard."

"I don't exactly see what I did that was so bastardly." John inhaled sharply and Sherlock continued, "Yes, allowing you to believe that I had died was cruel. I am sorry that you had to mourn me and all of that. But it was for your own good, you understand, and for the good of others, as well. This way we were able to eradicate Moriarty's influence with minimal collateral damage. I would think you'd appreciate that, considering how you always want to protect everyone."

John waited seventeen seconds. "Yes, yes, well-deduced. I do like to protect people. I like doing the protecting. I also like it when people live. I particularly like it when my closest—when people I love—when you survive, Sherlock. I like that a lot. And apparently, when you don't live, when you die, or seem to die, or trick me into believing that you've died—I do not like that." He could feel the tears rising. He never cried, except when he thought about those long months right after the fall, and all the fast months that came before it.

Coke padded across the room toward him and sat so she pressed against his legs. He reached down to pet her and when he looked back up Sherlock was staring at him, hands steepled beneath his chin. "And also," John forged on, "that was a horrible way to let me know you'd survived. A fucking text message, Sherlock. Three years and then a text?"

"It seemed prudent at the time. I didn't want you to find me in the flat or the surgery and then react violently. I thought it would give you time to collect yourself." His voice sounded a little sad.

"Obviously there's not really a good way to let me know that you're not dead but seriously? Text message was probably the worst way you could have chosen. You bastard."

"I will grant you this. I may have acted in a less-than-good way when I texted you. But John," he hesitated, "what do you think about me being alive? Not me being dead and lying to you and texting you, but actually being here."

John bit his lip. "You've been trying to figure that out since you first saw me, haven't you?"

Sherlock nodded.

"And you haven't yet?"

"No. I'm getting quite confused, actually. Your reactions are not exactly easy to read. Aside from the fact that you're angry, obviously."

"Obviously," John repeated. "Look, Sherlock."

"I have been. I just haven't seen much."

"No, no. Look, I'm having a hard time dealing with the fact that you're here. This happens in my dreams sometimes, you know, you come back and you're all...you...and then I wake up and you're not here. The only evidence of you having existed at all is that fucking skull, because Mycroft refused to take it from me. And then your absence is excruciating, all over again. So even though rationally I'm sure this is real I'm having a hard time believing that it is, at the moment. And there's also...what are you going to do?"

"Well, Mycroft told me he would inform the necessary parties that I'm still alive. Ideally I will resume my business." He paused and glanced toward his once-bedroom. "I don't...I could find somewhere else to live, if you'd prefer it. I understand that three years...I suppose it's a long time...a lot can happen."

"You suppose," John shook his head, "never mind. Of course you can stay here," even though he hadn't decided that yet, not really, but it was Sherlock, it really was, so of course, "but I'm not...that's what's always so weird about those dreams, is that in them I'm who I was back then and honestly, Sherlock, I'm not. I wake up and I'm different."

"Of course you are," Sherlock said, his voice solemn. "But that doesn't mean anything. You've changed, I've changed, and we can still be flatmates."

"Yeah, yeah." John dropped his head to his forearms. "But can we still be friends?"

Silence for a while, and then Coke left John so his legs went cold and when he raised his head he found that the dog had laid her head on the sofa beside Sherlock and was staring up at him, and he had his hands over his face, fingers digging into his forehead and thin cheeks like he was trying to scar himself.

"Sherlock?"

"It's just different. It's so stupid. I thought I'd come back and things would be the same but you don't trust me, do you? It's like after the pool, but worse." His voice was shaky. It was the closest to broken John had ever heard and it twisted his heart, scrabbled at his ribcage. That voice was decidedly not Sherlock.

The three years hadn't just happened to John. They had passed for Sherlock—lonely Sherlock—and Mycroft and Lestrade and everyone, everyone else too. And knowing that John had tried to move on, that must have killed Sherlock a little, even if he denied it, because Sherlock must have tried to stay the same. Because he was coming back, so he kept the space he had made for John, he had worked at keeping it, and John hadn't known—had been deceived—and so had tried to shove everything he possibly could into the Sherlock-space, to fill it up so the man's absence wasn't as noticeable. Jobs and boyfriends and girlfriends and people to play rugby and football with and to drink with—all of that, John had tossed at the place where Sherlock used to be, and he was fine, all right, okay, good sometimes, when Sherlock was dead, but now here he was, living, and John had tried so damn hard to move on that he had blocked out the place where Sherlock once fit easily. And that was neither fine nor okay and it was certainly not good.

John swallowed. "I never forgot you, though. And yeah, I can't trust you quite the same way I used to, not right now, because you were dead—I know you weren't, I know you had three years of, well, probably what most people would think of as hell—but to me you were dead, absolutely gone, see? So I still want to be your...flatmate and your friend but you have changed and I have changed and so..."

"It'll take time." Sherlock removed his hands from his face and eyes were a little red but not horribly so.

"Yeah, yeah, I guess it'll take time."

"But that's good. We have time."

John nodded. "We do. We do. God, Sherlock, how did that happen?"

"What?" Sherlock was petting Coke again, scratching at her ears, and the dog's tail swept lazily over the floor. John hoped Sherlock knew that Coke was off limits for experiments. He'd have to explain it. Later, though, because it seemed they suddenly had a few of those.

"Having time. I thought it was all gone. For us, anyway." John straightened and pressed his fists against the base of his spine, stretching. Sherlock just smiled at him. "I'm making tea, you want some?"

"Yes."

John passed by the sofa on his way to the kitchen and he dropped his hand to tangle in Sherlock's hair for just an instant. His hair was soft like always and Sherlock did not disappear. John continued on, his fingers dragging the curls away from his flatmate's head for a moment before they sprung back, and John smiled as he filled the kettle with water. Not a dream. Here Sherlock was, breathing here in London, and here was John's sudden and good reality.

A/N: I honestly don't know what that was. I hope it was okay, especially for all of you who have just watched Reichenbach.