Title: "Forsaken"
Fandom: Sherlock
Summary: Sherlock assumes John will welcome his return from the grave.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.

A/N: I did some heavy editing of this chapter so a lot of mistakes and typos have been fixed as well as the overall language of the story.

...

"Keep your eyes fixed on me, please... will you do this for me?"

Images danced behind his lids as he tossed and turned in his fretful sleep. A familiar voice called out to him and images of a life from previous years shook him to his core.

Then, a fall. A man dressed in black fell to his death from atop the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital.

Dr. John Hamish Watson awoke fitfully from his nightmare sitting up in his bed. Blinking rapidly to chase away the remnants of his dream he ran a shaky hand down his face. There was a chill in the air he felt now that he had emerged from beneath the warm and cozy blankets laid across him.

Sinking back beneath the covers he rolled onto his side to try and get back to sleep. Another night, another nightmare from his previous life with that man. Nothing ever changed. Three years and nothing had changed.

…

John was busy getting on with his day when something most unexpected happened. He had just put the kettle on and was upstairs in his bedroom searching for a nice book to read when he heard a door close from down below. It wasn't unheard of, doors opening and closing in the flat especially seeing as Mrs. Hudson enjoyed doing nice little acts for him now and then.

However, that was before the incident and lately she had been visiting him less and less often. He didn't take offense to it. No, after all it had nothing to do with him and everything to do with...

He didn't like being here anymore either. He'd thought about moving on more than one occasion but one day he came to the sad realization that he couldn't possibly live anywhere else but here and so here he had stayed.

A loud almost hollow sound echoed up the stairs and floated around John's ears as he paused in his search for a proper book. He stood straight upright and stock still as he tried to ascertain exactly who was in the living room below. If it were Mrs. Hudson she would have called out to him by now. She would have climbed the stairs to check to see if he were home. But no... whomever was down there, they were purposefully trying to keep quiet.

Stepping lightly down each stair John held his breath in anticipation of just who he might find below. Perhaps it was just his imagination again. He had been hearing things after all. This was most likely in his head as well. Another one of his strange delusions that had taken effect since... that day.

Standing in the middle of his living room was a man; dark haired and so very, very tall. He was wearing a long, dark trench coat of some kind. The good doctor's poor heart gave itself a heart wrenching squeeze wanting to cling onto the hope that this man was who he thought he was. But, he had been wrong before. John stopped where he was just inside the door way to the living area. The figure turned slowly, methodically and then smiled a large, genuinely happy smile at him.

"Hello, John."

Many thoughts ticked by inside the doctor's mind. Many emotions surged through him but mostly he just felt dead on his feet. Was he dreaming? He was exhausted by all of this. These crazy delusions and dreams were sucking the life out of him. He was so tired and felt so very empty inside. Hadn't he moved past all of this? Hadn't he been doing better? Yes, he was still having nightmares and yes he wasn't sleeping a proper 8 hours a night but still. Surely, he was past the delusions?! Maybe Mrs. Hudson was right to stay away. He was clearly losing it. He wasn't getting better as he'd hoped. No, he was getting much worse.

"Great." he swallowed as the tears began to water and well in his eyes. "Not this again."

Sherlock Holmes looked confused as he stared back at his best mate, completely real, corporeal and in the flesh. "Sorry?"

"I can't believe this. I'm hallucinating again. Again!"

John Watson shook his head and turned away from the man quickly moving into the kitchen to retrieve the kettle which had just begun to whistle.

"Um... John? I'm not a hallucination."

Sherlock spoke the words lightheartedly, almost teasingly to his friend. He stuck his hands in the pockets of his new coat while following behind John into their kitchen. He watched as he dutifully made tea for himself.

Abruptly, he sobered realizing that this was a very serious matter and not the time for jokes. Surely, John did not find this funny and neither did he. He simply could not contain his glee at seeing the man again. There were many words that could encapsulate what he was feeling at the moment; ecstatic, joyous, mirthful... ooh! Mirthful! That was a good one!

Sherlock brought his gaze ahead once more tenderly and lovingly glancing at the blonde head of hair in front of him.

"I'm... I'm very sorry, John. I know that I... " he sighed trailing off as his eyes roamed over their kitchen, a place he had not seen nor stepped foot in for the better part of 3 years time.

What was there to say? It had been a long time. He was at a loss for words. He just wanted to hug the man, squeeze him tight and promise to never let go ever again. But the man in front of him had yet to say anything more convinced he really was a delusion of grandeur and too good to be true.

Upon Sherlock's continuing explanation however John dropped his mug onto the counter spilling hot tea everywhere. He spun around, mouth agape staring at the figure standing in front of him. Sherlock met his eyes and swallowed nervously.

The two stood staring at each other for a very long moment before John began shaking his head in disbelief.

"No. No, you can't be here. You're dead. You... are dead, right?"

Sherlock sighed for the fifth time in just a few minutes and stared down at his shoes. They weren't polished ones that he usually fancied. No, these were worn trainers decorated in bits of mud and messes of all sorts. He'd been undercover for so long feeling so uncomfortable in the garments he'd been force to wear in order to 'blend in' with the populace.

He found the strength to meet the man's eyes after a second and then shook his head. "No, John. I'm sorry it had to be this way. I needed you to believe that I'd died in order for all this to work. It was for your own good."

The doctor stood there just staring, his mouth agape again as he blinked slowly at the vision of his former friend. "No... you... ?"

He was in shock. Complete and utter shock. How could he do this? How could any sane person do this to someone they loved?

An uneasy, tense moment passed between them. It was so strong, so palpable that the detective could almost taste it in the air.

John chuckled humorlessly as he glowered at the man. "You... you faked your death?!"

The question was spit out with such intensity that Sherlock had to take a step back. He thought maybe he might strike him, this time purposefully aiming for nose and teeth.

"John-"

"No!" He was yelling now, his voice booming in their small kitchen and bouncing off the walls all around the flat. "No... you don't get to do that. You... you made me believe that you... "

His voice gave out on him as tears finally overtook his eyes leaking traitorously down his cheeks. He swallowed and looked anywhere he could anywhere but at that gorgeous face; that amazing, beautiful, wonderful man's face. It was a face that he had tried to forget, a face that still... still plagued his dreams nearly every single night for the last couple of years.

The truth hit John H. Watson like a ton of bricks and he reached behind him to grip the counter for fear he would collapse at any second. Sherlock Holmes was alive. He was alive and well apparently. He stood tall with not a scratch on him. There was no blood covering his face. His eyes were bright and lively. They reminded him nothing of the blank stare he had seen that day, that day that he had...

"John, it's okay. It's alright. Everything's going to be okay." Sherlock moved to help him stand upright as he was now sagging against the stove and barely keeping himself up. However, when he reached out to his friend he was angrily shoved backwards by the doctor's hands.

"Get away from me! Don't! Don't touch me!"

"You-"

"No! I don't want to hear another word from you! You lied to me! You... I thought that you died, Sherlock! Do you know how many nights I... how many times I thought about... ?"

There was nothing but rage and grief coloring his face as he repeatedly shook his head back and forth in disbelief. He felt out of control, insane even. He was quickly feeling as though he may do something crazy. His reality was unraveling all around him leaving him powerless to stop it.

He stood up a little straighter and made to move his way past the detective but found that he wouldn't move. He didn't want the doctor to just run out of the flat so there he stayed firmly blocking John's path to the living room. His friend stood where he was defiantly avoiding meeting Sherlock's eyes.

He swallowed back the tears and took in a steadying breath. "I can't believe you would do this to me. I can't believe... I thought that you..." His voice wavered off unable to continue, feeling the emotion swell inside of him.

This was killing him. It was eating away at Sherlock's heart. Something that he used to think he had lacked. However it became quite apparent to him after 3 years that he did in fact have one. Having to stay away from John had nearly broken him. Everyday he'd missed him. Every day he followed him around town always staying just out of sight. It was a difficult thing to accomplish and to maintain but in the end it had been well worth it. Or at least that was what he had thought. Now though he wasn't so sure. Their relationship or former relationship seemed to be quickly disintegrating before his eyes. He felt panic rise up within him at the very thought.

He had imagined this scenario in his head a million times. He'd thought carefully about the best way to break the news to his former friend that he was indeed still very much alive. Even with all of his planning, Sherlock hadn't imagined things playing out quite like this.

John glanced up at the man's face, his tears having streamed down his cheeks and fallen away to the floor below. "I missed you so much. I felt like... like I couldn't go on anymore. So I... a couple of times... I..."

The bottom of his lip wavered ever so slightly. A look of sorrow overtook his usually cheery face... a face which the investigator had grown to love so very much. John was broken, a hollowed man who seemed only a fragment of his former self.

Sherlock stared back at the broken man wanting to say so much but not knowing how to go about it. He wasn't used to all of this emotion. He deemed it unnecessary but in this case... perhaps it was warranted. He just didn't know how to reciprocate. Wanting to reach out to the doctor he hesitated fearing it may make things worse. So he just listened, staring back into tearful eyes that looked upon his with a look of betrayal dancing in them.

"...I thought about ending it. Ending it all. But I... I couldn't do it. I'm a soldier and... it's not... it wouldn't be dignified. Suicide. No matter what... no matter what happens... you keep going. I was lost... so lost without you. So alone." John stared at a point somewhere behind Sherlock's head, towards something in their living room. "I... why? Why did you do this to me?!"

Something in his eyes changed then the detective noticed. He tried to read the man's emotions as they contorted across his face. Something flashed in his eyes and suddenly all of the sadness that had been there was gone replaced by anger. Bright and powerful anger and betrayal flared throughout his deep blue eyes.

"You're a terrible person, Sherlock! My god... my god! What a terrible human being you are! To do such a thing not only to me... but to Mrs. Hudson?! And everybody... and everybody else! But no... to me?! To do this... to me?! I was wrong. I was so... so wrong about you." he swallowed and shook his head again in disbelief.

The investigator bit the corner of his lip surprised at the amount of anger that was directed at him. Oh no... this wasn't going well at all. The panic swelling up inside of him was making it hard for him to breathe. He swallowed nervously again.

John stared into Sherlock's eyes. All the hurt and pain he'd felt over the last few years, everything he'd tried to forget rose to the surface in those eyes. "You're not a human being. You're just... just a robot. Just something that... tries to understand people and fails. You don't even care... "

He forcefully brushed passed him nearly knocking the wind out of the taller man. Sherlock spun around and followed him over to the door where the doctor had grabbed his coat and was now throwing it on. John stormed out of the flat and down the stairs.

"John! Wait! You-"

"No!" the blonde paused nearly halfway down the stairs to the front door which led out to Baker Street. "No, I... I don't have anything else to say to you. I'm done. It's over. I'm so... I'm so done."

And with that he charged out the door to the street and into the cold afternoon leaving Sherlock Holmes to stand at the top of their staircase. He was frozen to the spot. His heart pounded painfully against his rib cage stung by his mate's cold, cold words. Such anger... such fury had shone in his eyes and it had all been directed at him.

He had thought his return would be welcomed, would be one filled with hugs and joyful tears, smiles and laughter and perhaps... something more. But no, he had been completely wrong about the reaction and blindsided by his dear friend's emotions.

Did he have regrets about his actions? Sure, he regretted it. But what could he have done? There had been no other answer, no other solution to the problem. He had saved John's life as well as Lestrade's and Mrs. Hudson's. He could never have let any harm to befall any of them. John was angry but he was still alive. John was hurting but he was still breathing. Sherlock swallowed as he felt a numbness creep up across his heart. He had saved the man's life but still lost him.

…

Approximately six hours and forty two minutes later, John pushed open the door to the living area to find Sherlock Holmes waiting patiently in the dark. He was sitting on the couch very calmly just... waiting. John glared at him intensely although he was sure the man wouldn't be able to see it in the darkness. He placed his coat on their coat rack and turned on the lights in the flat.

Sherlock watched him moving about the flat with sorrowful and remorseful eyes. How could he explain this to John? How could he get him to understand that everything he had done he'd done for him? And yes, he'd also done it for himself for what good was he without John? If John had died then Sherlock would not have been able to trudge ever onward. There was no way. There was no question of that. He admired John very much. He always had but he found he had a much deeper respect for him now seeing as he had "carried on" despite his death. And that was truly amazing Sherlock concluded. He was so very glad he had because without John, there was no Sherlock Holmes.

Having trudged into the kitchen John stared at the kitchen counters. They had been cleaned and tidied up no doubt by Sherlock himself. The spilled tea had been cleaned up and the shattered mug disposed of leaving no trace of the mess behind. The thought brought a bitter smirk to John's face. Yes, if only things were that easy. If only you could clean up messes and emotions that way. To be able to right wrongs with such ease and to undo hurts and betrayals. What a perfect world that would be.

"John?"

The voice called out hesitantly from behind him and he spun around to face his former flatmate. Sherlock wasn't meeting his eyes and was instead staring off somewhere to the right. John crossed his arms not ready to deal with this yet if ever. He wished, oh how he'd wished that Sherlock would have just left after he had stormed out, just gone away somewhere. Why did the stubborn man have to stay and wait for him to return? Why?

"John... I... I am sorry." he glanced up into the doctor's cold gunmetal blue eyes. "I know... you don't understand. You think that I... purposefully set out to hurt you maybe. I don't know why you'd think I would do that. Perhaps, it's your loner lifestyle or maybe your-"

"Stop it! Just... just stop it! Okay?" John licked his lips quickly becoming very irritated with the conversation. "This is about you and me. You and me, Sherlock! You faked your death. And you say it was for my own good? You've hurt me deeply. And I can't... I can't just... I can't do this right now."

John strode purposefully towards the living room but the detective's hands shot out and stopped him before he could reach it. "John, I know that I hurt you but if I didn't kill myself then Moriarty's men would have killed you! And Mrs. Hudson! And Lestrade! Okay?! So I did what I had to do. It was the only way. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry that you had to go through that. But it was hard for me too."

The doctor wrenched out of his grip. "Oh really? Really?!s Was it so hard for you to break everyone's hearts around you?! Really?!"

"Yes, John! Yes, it was hard. It was hard following you around everyday, watching you from a distance. Not being able to say anything, to do anything when I saw you break down. Not being able to speak up when you just seemed like you needed someone to talk to. You spent all that time alone. You were alone every day. I was right there and I couldn't... I couldn't do anything!"

Sherlock's eyes were watering now. He was losing the battle of holding back his own tears. The air was still tense between them and he suddenly worried that it might always be forever more. The thought began to suffocate him and press down sharply on his heart until he could swear John may be able to hear it's rapid beating as well. He swallowed and tried to grasp onto him again but John moved out of his reach walking backward a few more steps towards the living area.

He shook his head in disbelief. "You followed me around? You... you tracked me?" There was that anger again crawling up his tired and sallow face.

"I had to make sure you were alright! I had to keep you safe just in case-"

"Just in case what?! I thought that that's why you faked your death, right? So that I would be safe?"

John didn't wait for a reply and instead jogged out to the staircase leading up to his bedroom. Slamming the door to his room he collapsed onto his bed too frazzled from it all to even undress. Reaching into his pockets he emptied the contents onto his bedside stand. Slowly climbing beneath the heavy blankets he shut his eyes and tried to shut out the world around him.

…

A soft couple of beeps sounded from somewhere in the bedroom as John Watson gradually regained consciousness. He peaked out from beneath his warm fortress of covers before grabbing at his phone on the table. It took him a couple tries before he really got a handle on it. John sighed already realizing who it must be from. After all, he had received only 1 text message in the last month and it had been form Harry. No one else seemed to care enough to bother talking to him anymore.

It was 7:29AM and Sherlock Holmes was texting him most probably from the living room down below. Well, that was just fine. He didn't feel like getting up from his bed. It was far too cold outside of these covers and he certainly didn't feel like dealing with Sherlock Holmes anymore. Glancing down at the illuminated screen John sunk down further beneath the warm enveloping covers.

[7:28AM number blocked: I'm sorry, John. -SH]

He sighed deeply and shut his eyes willing for some sort of escape from all this mess to just appear in front of him. No matter, better just reply and then maybe I can go back to sleep, he thought bitterly. He typed his reply quickly before tossing the phone back onto the bedside table.

[7:30AM Leave me alone, I'm sleeping. -JW]

No more than a moment later his phone began beeping once more. John sighed and groaned outloud. He should know better than that. He should have just ignored him. Grabbing the phone again he began to read the reply.

[7:32AM number blocked: I just want to know if I am welcome to stay here still, John? I am sorry for what's happened between us but you must understand that what I did I did out of love. I only care for your safety. -SH]

He tried to laugh but it had died in the back of his throat. Rolling his eyes he quickly typed back a reply.

[7:33AM Yes, you said that. -JW]

It was apparent that he was not getting back to sleep. Sherlock would no doubt continue pestering him until he was satisfied with their conversation. He will outlive God trying to have the last word. And he would not stop until they "work it out". John knew that. He didn't want to work things out, he just wanted to let it be. He wanted to stew for as long as possible. He wanted to feel things at his own speed. Still, it was best to do this through text message he supposed. If he was being forced to work out the problem then he would much prefer to do it via text. He just could not look the man straight in the eye. Not now... and certainly not for a while. If Sherlock was going to force him to have this conversation then they would have it. But he was staying right here, warm and cozy, beneath these covers in the safety of his own room. He couldn't guarantee himself that he wouldn't just punch the man in the nose if he saw that face once more.

[7:36AM number blocked: Please, John I don't want to fight with you. I just want everything to go back to normal. I want things to be the way they were before. Please. -SH]

John scoffed angrily and began mashing down the keys on his mobile in reply.

[7:37AM Well, they can't Sherlock! They just can't. Life doesn't work that way. You'd know that if you'd ever had a relationship in your life! -JW]

Sherlock was sitting on the couch in their living room although he suspected that it was John's living room more so now as he had not lived there in such a long time. John had seemed to have moved on, or at least he had tried. In following him almost daily Sherlock had noticed many things about the man. For one, he hadn't seemed to spend much time with anyone the years that he had been gone. John often ate alone, walked alone... stayed at home (alone). No matter how much John had tried to manufacture the outward appearance that he had been doing fine and that he had moved on he truly had not. Sherlock knew that. He could read the man like an open book. He could read most people like an open book but he suspected John more so than anyone else simply because of his love for the man. And his familiarity with him.

Familiarity does breed contempt. Perhaps this played a factor in John's anger. Sherlock idly wondered if Lestrade would try to punch him when he finally met up with the man or if he would welcome him back with open arms the way he'd imagined John would.

He sat still just musing about the circumstances that surrounded the two of them. He glanced all around the room taking in the scene but not really seeing anything. He thought over John's statement before finally typing a reply back.

[7:40AM number blocked: I wish it did. -SH]

The doctor sat up in his bed and leaned back against the headboard. His vision was growing blurry and startlingly he realized it was due to his tears. They were clouding his vision quite remarkably. He shivered and pulled the covers closer towards him, his phone forgotten below in his lap. Licking his lips he wiped the tears away with the back of his hands. He took a deep breath and let it out hoping it would calm his morose heart.

[7:43AM I don't know what you want from me, Sherlock. -JW]

Sherlock gripped the phone in his hands tightly almost furiously although he wasn't quite sure just who he was angry with. He swallowed and realized it was only himself. He'd ruined everything. No... Moriarty had ruined everything. He'd promised him he would burn the heart out of him. It looked like he had truly succeeded.

[7:45AM number blocked: I just want you. -SH]

John felt something stab at him in his chest and he realized it was his broken heart. He had been so alone for 3 whole years. He'd gotten used to it. He'd accepted it even... accepted that he would always be alone. Accepted that that was just how life was. One day you were on top of the world and the next you were barely scraping by.

And now, Sherlock Holmes was back in his life. He had dreamt of this. He had imagined it a thousand times over and over in his mind. He had wished for it, truly wished for it. And now that he had gotten his wish all he could feel was anger and hatred. He wanted things to go back to the way they were as well but was that even possible? How could they just pretend everything was back to normal? How could John forgive the man?

His phone beeped again dragging him out of his bleary thoughts.

[7:49AM number blocked: John, please. I need you. -SH]

John took a deep breath and let it out shuddering slightly from the action. Tears still stung his eyes but he didn't bother trying to clear them out of the way any longer. His heart ached, his mind swam and his lungs felt constricted. He was so despondent and so griefstricken that he feared he may simply die of a broken heart at any moment.

He slowly typed out a message in response to the man feeling extremely forlorn about the whole thing.

[7:52AM Let's go down to the cafe for some breakfast. And coffee. No more talking just now. Let's just get something to eat and deal with everything else later. -JW]

The phone almost immediately beeped in reply, a new message popping up across the screen.

[7:53AM number blocked: I agree. -SH]

A few moments later John made his way down the stairs fully dressed albeit somewhat sloppily. He'd simply pulled on whatever was nearby double checking for cleanliness of course. Sherlock stood from where he had sat on their couch. A couple of glances told the doctor that the detective hadn't slept and was in fact wearing the same clothes as the night before. Nothing too unusual. He wasn't one to sleep all that often anyway. John nodded towards the doorway and the two gentleman made their way out of the flat and down towards the street.