Back from the Dead (Sherlock)

The words cut through him like a knife, but it didn't hurt, it was... good. A feeling he had forgotten.
"I..." he trailed off, the words he wanted to say stuck in his throat. "I just never... you could have started... a career elsewhere... you didn't have to come back for me."
It was not what he wanted to say, not even close, but it came out anyway.
"One can always make new friends..."

He frowned when he heard the rest of the words, his body automatically responding, standing up and moving to the window.
He was not limping any more, but he didn't notice.
"I don't have my gun anymore, Sherlock..." he warned him, eyes instinctively looking for hints, dangers lurking in the dark.
He knew war better than he knew himself.

"What would be the point in working without you?" The idea of starting his career again without John just seemed completly absurd and unthinkable. "I need you John. You know that."

Sherlock dropped the curtains back into place and led John gently away from the window.

"Don't get too close. This guy's a crack shot. Probably the best sniper in Europe. Might be an idea to stay away from the windows for the time being. We don't want him to even know we're in if we can help it. And I'll get your gun back. I told Mycroft to take it off you. I...I thought you might do something stupid."

The idea of John contemplating suicide still hurt Sherlock badly, although he was ashamed to notice he was secretly pleased that John would care about him so much.

"No, I don't know that," he protested, how could he even think Sherlock needed him if he had been away for three bloody years?
He shook his head, willing himself to calm down.
"You didn't need me before you met me," he pointed out off-handedly. "You didn't need me these three years... you could very well start all over without me."

He took in a deep breath and let himself be led away from the window, he really didn't like the idea of a sniper targeting the house.
"We need to get Mrs Hudson to a safe place..." he muttered worriedly.

He felt his face burn red at the mention of the reason why his gun had been taken away.
"It was my own choice, Sherlock... you shouldn't have meddled," he muttered defensively.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock snapped. "It's not your own choice if it affects me. Of course I need you. You're my..." Sherlock searched for a suitable word. "Assistant."

That wasn't the word he intended to say. Why did he always do that? he thought angrily. He always said things even though he knew he was hurting people. Hurting people he cared about.

"And much more." he added quietly, hoping that would make amends.

Sherlock turned his back away from John, took out his phone and began to type out a text message to his brother.

"Mrs Hudson will be fine. She's made of strong stuff." He suddenly stopped, remembering something. "That reminds me. She still thinks I'm dead. Maybe I'd better tell her."

"It's my life, my choice," he insisted stubborn, he couldn't believe he would get such a speech from Sherlock, the one who faked his death for three years!
"It's not like I had any promise to keep, I have no sort of commitment to this life!" he hissed, realizing he had said too much.

He frowned looking away, much more, Sherlock had said, how silly.

"Just... shut up Sherlock, it's fine," he needed to stop this conversation, it was just managing to hurt him further.
And this was not the right moment to pity himself.

"Yes, you should tell her... I... maybe I should mention it to her before.." he said, nodding, wondering if she was going to think he had finally gone mad.

Sherlock was completely confused by John's outburst. He honestly thought he'd be pleased to hear he was needed, wanted. God, human emotions were complicated, he thought to himself.

"Yes fine. By all means go and tell her."

Sherlock petulantly pushed past John and collapsed onto the sofa in a huff, facing the wall sulking. He wished he could understand his friend better. He heard himself sigh. Then he turned his attention back to the text he was writing to Mycroft.

Need John's gun back. Things going OK so far I think. -SH

John looked at him for a moment, he knew that when Sherlock reacted like this it meant he had no idea what was going on. He felt guilty, but at the same time he knew that certain things were better to stay in his head.
This was one of the things he never did three years ago, and realizing that made him feel even more guilty.

"I will be back shortly," he said quickly and moved to the door, then he realized he'd have to leave Sherlock alone.
What if he disappeared again? It was irrational, but it froze his muscles.

"On second thought... I'll just call her up and talk to her on the door before she comes in..." he said, feeling very stupid, but he needed to have Sherlock in his line of vision.



(Should we move Mrs. Hudson? Or should we skip it? We could gliss over it in a post, like doing a summary of how it went. It's not exactly necessary to the plot, I imagine? John tells her, she thinks he is going mad and is about to kill himself, he gets offended and shows her Sherlock, she cries and hugs him, she tells him never to leave John alone again?)

(Lol, that sounds about right. I'll just take it from the part where Mrs Hudson goes back downstairs having had a happy reunion with Sherlock!).


Sherlock popped into his bedroom and began to gather up his chemistry equipment. With his arms full he staggered back through the living room and into the kitchen, plonking everything down on the kitchen table. He kept glancing up at John whilst he was setting up, wondering what he was thinking.

"Hope you don't mind..." he muttered. "Kitchen's a bit too clean for my liking."

He could feel John's eyes watching him. Sherlock had something he wanted to say but didn't know whether he had the courage to face the answer. He coughed a little and frowned...then turned his attention back to setting up his latest experiment. He wondered if John could tell he had something on his mind.

Mrs Hudson was one of the dearest people in John's life, but he couldn't help feeling irked by the fact she would easily believe he'd go crazy.
Apparently it was clear to any one that Sherlock's death had taken a toll on him. He did not like that idea, especially now that he had so much hidden inside.

He felt a bit unsettled once she was gone, knowing very well that this could be him going insane, his eyes never leaving Sherlock because he was scared to wake up and discover it was all a dream, or worse, maybe he'd wake up in an asylum.

He heard Sherlock's voice, but it took him a while to understand what he'd been asked. "You wouldn't stop even if I minded, now, would you?" he joked, running a hand over his forehead, willing himself to get a grip.

John knew Sherlock very well however, even though three years had passed.
He noticed the awkward coughing and the frown eventually, and he looked at him with a eyebrow raised in curiosity.
"What is it?"

Sherlock glanced up from his microscope.

"Hmm? What? Nothing."

It wasn't nothing, you idiot. Just say it.

Sherlock's hand began to shake a little, and he dropped his petri dish, making a clatter on the floor. He licked his dry lips quickly and took a deep breath before looking up at John.

"John...I..." he looked away again, bending down to pick up the dish and place it back on the table. Then he leant back into the microscope so he didn't have to see John's reaction.

"Are you glad I'm back?" he asked quietly.

John frowned at the first reply, but did not complain, he knew that if Sherlock didn't want to talk, he would not. At the same time though, he knew it was not over. In fact the other's hands were shaking and the petri dish ended up on the floor.
It was uncharacteristically clumsy of Sherlock.

And then he understood why.
When the question finally came.
Sherlock was insecure, and it was something he didn't deal with well.

"What? I-" he hesitated, his heart started to beat faster, as thoughts jumbled together, he thought it had been clear, but evidently it wasn't.

"Look at me Sherlock," he said, straightening up, blue eyes searching the other's frame. He wanted Sherlock to see it on him that he was going to say the truth and nothing but the truth.

"I feel... I feel I am finally alive again," he whispered, trying not to look away, because he needed to make his point. "As if I was dead as well these last three years..."

"I am sorry it seems like I am not happy. I need time to adjust to this... I have been unhappy for a long time now, I don't remember how to be glad anymore," he confessed, rubbing the back of his head.

When Sherlock heard those words he felt his heart beat a little faster and a warm feeling seeping round his chest. John /was/ glad. It was such a relief to hear him say it that he felt like leaping up and throwing his arms round him. But such irrational behaviour hardly seemed suitable. He shifted in his seat, his leg jigging up and down, edgy, forcing himself to stay calm. Then he looked back up at John again.

"Thank you. That..." he glanced away and coughed a little, "...means a lot to me."

That was enough. Sherlock was quite embarrassed now and attempted to immerse himself in what he was doing. It took him a couple of seconds to realise he wasn't actually /doing/ anything. Just sort of...starting into space. He stood up from the table and moved towards John who was hovering in the doorway. Flashing him a brief smile, he moved back into the living room and collapsed on the sofa...a little confused.

John looked at him, stared at him, it was endearing the way the other was nervous. He wondered why, even though he knew it had to do with the fact that Sherlock did not have many friends at all.
This was foreign territory for him.

"I have always felt alone, Sherlock..." he confessed, following him to the living room. The words were spilling out of him before he could really think about them.
"You are the only one who ever made me feel... real, and human, and... you know, not alone."

He wondered if he could feel that again, if his new feelings would be able to adapt to this or he would end up distancing himself from Sherlock because he knew they couldn't be requited.

"I owe you so much," he admitted, knowing Sherlock had not been able to hear his words back then.
And at least those words, he needed him to know.

Sherlock buried his head into the cushion and moaned in frustration at his inability to express himself. John was always so good with words...always knew the right things to say. Sherlock envied him.

He still had so many things he wanted to say to John but most of all he needed him to know how much he cared, how much it had really hurt to be away from him for so long, so much so that Sherlock was surprised and shocked by the intensity of his own emotions.

"I missed you John," he mumbled quietly into the cushion, half hoping that his voice would be so muffled John would be unable to hear him. "I missed you so much."

It felt such a relief to finally say the words, and he had a vague idea that John possibly felt the same way. But he instantly became self conscious thinking perhaps he'd said too much, that John would think he was being too sentimental...and he drew his knees up to his chest and closed his eyes, wishing he could just disappear into the sofa.

John wasn't expecting those words at all, after all Sherlock never needed anyone at all, he had always made sure of that.
/Alone is what protects me/, was the last thing he said to him before that fateful phonecall.
It was a lie, wasn't it?

Sherlock was a real friend, he cared. He knew that, he had always trusted that, and it was part of the problem.

He felt a bit guilty seeing him so troubled.
He moved closer, and one hand shook a bit as it settled on the other's hair, stroking them slowly.
He was trying to be comforting.

"I missed you too, every day," he confessed with a sad smile.

"Now you are here though, you don't have to miss me any more," and he couldn't help but wonder why it was not enough.
Why was Sherlock so frustrated?
"Is there something else?"

Those were the words Sherlock longed to hear and as he felt the presence of John close to him, felt him perch on the sofa next to him and felt his gently fingers stroking his hair, he turned his body round and buried his face into John's lap, surrendering to the comfort of his touch and smell. It felt so good to be home. To be back with John. His John. Once again he felt tears welling up in his eyes and he was overcome with the depth of his emotions.

"I won't ever leave you again," he mumbled. "I promise."

John felt his muscles freeze when Sherlock buried his head in his lap, for a moment he was painfully aware of the undecency of the position, for a moment he was scared of just how badly he could ruin this if his body reacted in a sexual way.

Then he realized the depth of Sherlock's pain, not unlike what he had felt, not unlike what he felt in that moment.
He relaxed then, his hand buried itself in the other's ebony locks and he sighed.
This was them, and it was /sacred/.
The intimacy they shared in this moment was the most important thing.

It was John's place in this world.
By Sherlock's side.
"Good," he said with a smile. "Because I don't want you to go anywhere."

Sherlock heard his phone beep in his pocket. He knew it would be Mycroft responding to his text but he didn't want anything to interupt this special moment he was sharing with John. He felt so contented and happy just lying there he could quite easily have fallen asleep. The only thing keeping him alert was the sensation of John's fingers gentlu caressing his hair. Sherlock was so unused to physical contact it send electric shocks down his spine. He shivered slightly and gave a short sigh of satisfaction. He was totally at peace. Reluctantly he slowly moved his arm and removed the phone from his pocket to read the message.

"Mycroft certainly knows how to ruin the moment," he murmured, then a little louder said, "apparently your gun's on its way over here." He fired off a quick reply back -

Any other news? -SH

Then put the phone back in his pocket and resumed his position on John's lap.

For a moment John really felt nothing was wrong with the world. Things were damn easy if it was just the two of them.
He was truly happy just feeling the other's hair in between his fingers.
For the first time that night he started thinking that this was real, because nothing so painfully wonderful could be a dream.

Sherlock moved at some point though, he mentioned his brother, and John felt uncomfortable again.
"Good to know," he said, shifting a bit when Sherlock moved to settle back on his lap, so that his crotch was a bit more away.

His hand fell back on the other's head, this time at the base of his neck, his fingertips still brushing the other's hair and his palm on the skin.
He had no idea whether this was alright or not, he just needed to keep feeling Sherlock by him, alive, breathing, warm.

The sensation of John's fingers on the back of his neck made Sherlock's whole body tense up. He'd never been this close to anyone before or had this much physical contact but somehow, with John, it just felt so deliciously wonderful and right, it really didn't matter anymore. For once his mind felt relaxed and at ease, and he wasn't over analysing every situation like he normally did.

"Thanks for being my friend John," he heard himself say. "I've honestly never had one before."

John was mesmerized by the feeling of Sherlock's skin under his hand, and for a long moment he let his fingertips draw a few patterns along the patch of skin that was not covered by the detective's shirt.

The words brought him back to earth though, and he felt guilty for his own actions. He took his hand away, swallowing hard. "I am sorry," he said without thinking.

"I will... always... be your friend, Sherlock," he muttered, reassuring.

John broke off the physical contact, and it brought Sherlock rapidly back down to earth.

"No!" He cried out instinctively. He had meant "no don't stop" but he stopped himself saying the rest of the sentence. It occurred to him that perhaps John didn't want to do it anymore and a dreadful feeling rushed over him that maybe he'd been forcing John into it and that he'd made him upset and embarrassed.

Sherlock sat up quickly, his head spinning and a sickening feeling at the pit of his stomach.

"I'm so sorry." He whispered before standing up and moving towards the window, twitching the curtains slightly to peer out of Baker Street. He could feel his cheeks burning bright red. Once again he'd managed to go and screw everything up. He was sure that John hated him now.

John started when the other cried out, he was surprised to realize Sherlock had been aware of the touch.
"Hey," he whispered, if he had to use logic, the one that Sherlock admired so much, he would have to think Sherlock was upset now. Because he had stopped touching him?
It was the only option after all.
As surreal as it felt.

"Sherlock..." he said, standing up, his heart skipping to a fast pace, he reached out for the other's hand and squeezed it, slowly pulling and moving him away from the window. "Let's stay away from the windows, yes?" he suggested with a half smile.

"You know... if you want me to touch you, you just need to ask," he said with a very low whisper, he knew what he just said could be misunderstood in oh so many way. But it was true, he would do anything, really.