Good day, fellow Sherlockians. I am quite new to the Sherlock fandom and I have found myself stuck deep in the trap. Also, I'm quite of a H/c person myself, and would heavily prefer hurt over comfort. Have fun reading!

I have made some changes and such, do read it again, as it is more detailed than the previous versions. -26

Sherlock had finally managed to finish the last sniper, Moran. He deemed himself to have self-control, as he had only rendered the man unconscious and bound him. Perhaps he had also pinned and exposed some of his crimes that are just enough to be locked away for life, just to be safe. Although, this process had managed to gain him several cracked ribs. He had self-accessed himself before deciding that he should go home instead of seeking for medical help.

Back to John at 221B Baker Street.

He hailed for a cab as he texted Mycroft and Lestrade to inform them about his finished work. Both of them knew he was alive and despite Sherlock's denial, he needed them to be able to dismantle Moriarty's network. It was big and spread out like a sticky spider web; it took him three full years before he could go home. Just a day before, he had more than grudgingly requested Mycroft to inform Mrs Hudson about his return. He hated to be relying on his brother so much but he wouldn't want his dear landlady to have a heart attack.

According to Mycroft, it had seemed that she had taken the news of his quite well, as she usually would have. After all, Mrs Hudson seems to be not surprised that Sherlock had the capability to pull out any tricks, even if it's rising from the dead. Secretly in his heart, he had been very grateful that she treated him as equal. He caught his brain to stop wandering to unnecessary areas.

Mycroft had also asked if Sherlock wanted to pre-inform John about his return, but he wanted to have a surprise for his friend. So, he had dismissed the offer with a wave of hand, despite Mycroft's warning of John's nature.

After telling the cab driver the address, he carefully leaned back on the hard leather seat, as to not jostle his ribs. Despite the act he put up, every bump on the road made him flinched from the pain. Either the cabbie didn't notice or he didn't bother to ask, the trip was filled with silence. He was grateful for the silence for now; he wanted to save all his breath for his explanation later. Not that it's because of his breathless state. He pulled his grey cap lower and imagined his reunion with John.

Sherlock, being himself, deduced that John would be angry and then later, forgiving. John was the same every time they had an argument. He sincerely hoped that John hadn't changed much. He found himself slightly smiling at the fact that he would be able to see John face to face after a three-year period, and not from CCTV tapes that Mycroft had sent him.

Of course the years weren't as luxurious or fabulous as anyone would have thought, and Sherlock had faint, pink scars scattered across his body to prove it. His pale skin contrasted against the hardship he had gone throughout the years. He had purposely worn a long coat today to cover these up. He knew that it was most likely for John to be fussing over his state of health and he couldn't deny that those weren't all that annoying as he made them seem to look like.

The chilly weather had helped to cover the suspicion of wearing both a long-sleeved shirt and a trench coat. He looked exactly like himself three years prior before his fall. Only his ever presence scarf was tucked neatly inside his coat pocket. His clothes were a bit worn out, having to only have the ability to switch between small selections of fashion anyways. Honestly, who would really care about fashion when you're needed to be up and about chasing criminals around the world?

Now that everything was cleared up, he was able to dress like himself again. Sherlock had no longer continued to dye his hair and he grew his hair back out. He remembered the times he had to change his hair colour three times in a week's time. At one point, he had decided he had to cut his curls short. He had really, honestly, looked forward for this day for a very long time.

The cab ride had seemed to take years but in reality, it only took an hour. Sherlock felt like a child once again, his fingers clenched tightly together, forming red crescents inside his hands. Being nervous, Sherlock pondered, such a humane feature. His knuckles were white and his hands would have angry-looking welts later but he didn't mind. Not that anything really matters now that he was going to see John soon.

"We've reached." The cabbie's gruff voice sounded throughout the tight-spaced cab. Sherlock dug around his pocket for some cash and he placed them on the waiting, outstretched hand. The cab driver turned over immediately to look for change.

"Keep the change." Sherlock muttered and out the cab he went.

He shuffled and recomposed himself on the doorstep before fishing out his keys and unlocked the door. He quietly walked inside, looking around for the landlady's presence. Yet all he found was a sticky note stuck on the table. It was yellow and was left since yesterday, Sherlock deduced. It seems that Mrs Hudson wanted to give them both some personal time.

'Gone out to visit. Welcome home x'

Her short message left yet another small smile at his face. Oh, he was such a sentimental person today. And with such a thought, he put on his stoic face again, despite his heart thumping loudly from excitement. John seemed to be influencing him into being an emotional human. Letting his human side out from the prison he had locked them in.

As silently as possible while walking up the stairs, he had come up with many ideas of different scenarios about their meeting. He couldn't walk fast and being silent on stair case took quite a toll on his injuries as he could feel his painful breaths trembled slightly once he reached his destination.

He had almost hesitated again, but he managed to quickly allow his gloved hands to push open the door gently. His blue with yellow specks eyes darted around the room to look for a familiar figure. Obviously he knew that John had moved out, being unable to stay in the same place, but he wanted to try his luck upon seeing him today.

And since when he have based events on luck? Of course Mycroft had told him beforehand that John was coming here today, Sherlock corrected himself.

"John?" And there goes said person, who was sitting on Sherlock's armchair.

Everything was still in place, Sherlock observed. His violin was still untouched on its original spot, in the open case, having been coated with dust. The skull, his 'old-friend', was surprisingly on the mantle. Every single thing was in fact, the same as the time when he left. Perhaps Sherlock had underestimated John's grief; he had hoped that the smaller man would be able to move on even though he had selfishly wanted him to remember the supposedly dead man.

John turned around to face Sherlock, and to Sherlock's surprise, he started to chuckle hysterically. It wasn't immediate chuckling, as John had furrowed his eyebrows and squint a bit first. After he managed to control his laughter, he spoke up. His eyes were at Sherlock's direction, yet they were not looking at him as well. It was like he was looking through the consulting detective.

"Oh dear god, I might have escalated from imaginary voices of you until even your image now. Perhaps I should go to a psychologist instead of my therapist anymore." It was then Sherlock had actually noticed the cane was back at the doctor's side. "Why hello, Sherlock, it was nice to meet you here. Perhaps I have accidentally died and I'm in heaven now."

Sherlock frowned deeply, and he stepped towards John. Each steps were painful, and he knew he should have seek for medical treatment before coming to John but the idea of John just made his adrenaline go high again.

He wasn't a man of usual physical touches, but the state of which John is currently in sent butterflies flying in his pit of stomach. He was worried, and he needed to prove to John that he was real. And that he was alive. He was really right here now, this current flow of time, with John.

"John?" He asked softly again, lightly grabbing the sides of John's arms. "John, look at me. I'm back. I'm back, and I'm not dead. I'm real." No, no, he wasn't going to let John go hysterical as soon as he comes back. He just needed to explain to him, and then everything would be fi-

Thump. It took Sherlock some moments before he realised that he was punched by John and he was sprawled on his back, on the floor. It took him another few moments before feeling the sharp pain on his chest to indicate that John had punched him at the chest instead of the face. That's new, he thought. It wasn't a particularly strong punch, but it wasn't a light one either. His cracked ribs decided that it was enough force to send them breaking.

It took Sherlock forever to control his need to groan and wheeze. He only barely managed to conceal them as coughing from the knocking out of wind. He brought his hand up to cover his coughs and grimaced slightly when he pulled his hand away from his mouth. He quickly clenched his fist and looked up towards the army doctor.

John looked absolutely furious and his ears were red. Sherlock had the most inappropriate time to imagine steam coming out of his ears before mentally shaking his head to clear the image. He opened his mouth to talk but John started first.

"What is it then? Three years, Sherlock. Three bloody years. Did you know how much had I grieved for you? I placed sodding flowers on your damn headstone, Sherlock Holmes. Do you know how much it hurts when my therapist continued to tell me that you were dead? Why couldn't you just tell me, was it really that hard to, maybe, call or send a text? Oh no, I have to be 'dead' for three years and come back partying and oh yes, John would forgive me in a split second. We'll be back in Lala-land and everything would be fine."

Sherlock continued to stare silently as the doctor fumed away.

"No, Sherlock, nothing works that way. Absolutely nothing. You do not come back to a grieving friend and think that all would be alright. Did you know how I felt when you just bloody said, 'Good bye, John.'? In fact, I'm leaving now. So bugger off and don't come finding me."

John did as he said. He picked up his jumper from the arm of the chair and stormed across the room to the door. Sherlock panicked and he quickly stood up, ignoring the sudden dizziness that hit him hard. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, and the pain flared up in his chest again. He had to explain to John.

"J-John?" He nearly moaned out his name, and he cursed himself. John didn't seemed to have heard his stutter. All he needed now was John to stay for a few more seconds, "John, don't go. Let me explain. Please."

Sherlock's use of 'please' made John pause in his tracks, but not enough to turn around. Even when Sherlock let out a long string of harsh coughing, he didn't change his mind. Sherlock needed to learn that not everyone could be as lack of human emotions as him. John was about to continue his leave when the sound that made him turn around was the abrupt stop of wet, hacking coughs and the heavy sound of 'thud'. He spun so quickly on his heels that he had almost gotten dizzy himself.

What he saw almost made him have a heart attack.

Sherlock was lying on his side, unconscious as his chest barely rising up and down. There were wheezes when he breathed in and out. His arms were limped in front of him and his right hand was unclenched, a red stain in his palm was so striking against his pale skin. And there was this one thin, steady trail of blood trailing down his cheek from his mouth that sent John skidding towards the unmoving body.

"Sherlock?" His voice broke at the end.