Return to Me [ Joan H. Watson and Sherlock-Alexander-Holmes

It had been Eleven months. Joan was still not fully recovered from Sherlock's Death. She had since been deluding her hope in the instance that he might be alive. She knew he wasn't a fake but now she wasn't sure if he was alive. The doctor hoped he was. She had loved him, she never admitted it to him because the word was't something he was accustomed to.

It was a tuesday. She was relaxing in her arm chair when she heard a knock at the door. She walked towards the doorway half expecting it to be Mrs. Hudson.

Almost a year after faking his death. Sherlock had left Joan alone. No warning. No explanations as to where he would disappear. He lied. Sherlock said he was a liar. A fraud. A fake. But he never was. He had a feeling. One he couldn't really place, for Joan. He would think about it, day after day. The fall would only propose time to think.

Sherlock decided today was a good day to go home. Knocking,he bites his lip and stands waiting. Deductions made by Sherlock were that the chances of this meeting ending well was, well, slim. Balling his hands behind his back, he prepares for the inevitable.

Joan's eyes widened as she saw a disheveled and disappearing Sherlock. He looked horrible. He looked like he had lived in the wilderness. She couldn't speak. she felt an overwhelming anger take over her. "How could you?" She narrowed her blue-gray eyes at Sherlock, nevertheless opening the door wider, "You left me. You DIED."

"Not by choice! I'd never leave you by choice, Joan!" Sherlock scowls stepping in. "Moriarty... He had snipers on you all. And I'm the one in fault? I love the way you think." He says sarcastically. His voice softens. "You know what? I'm sorry. So sorry." Sherlock looks down at his feet, tears slowly falling. "I didn't want to go. But if they didn't see me die, you would've. And... And I couldn't loose you."

"You're at fault for not sending out a sign or a postcard or something." Joan gestured to the empty flat, "I was left without you and do you know how that tore me apart?"

"Your feelings... You ripped apart?" Sherlock groaned and ripped off his shirt. Not caring about the buttons. "Look at these scars? Look! All because I wanted to save your life!" Sherlock's tears fell. "And yet I've done so much wrong."

Joan raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. He was the man without feelings or regards for them, why was he saying this? "Sherlock..."She whispered, shaking her head and looking around the flat. No, this wasn't him. It didn't feel like him. It was too late and all too fast.

She narrowed her eyes at him, thoughtfully, scanning his pale chest and looking at the silver or flesh colored lines of scars, "H-how did this happen?" She was confused. Did he harm himself? Who did this to him? "What happened? Why did you leave? What were Moriarty's plans..."She paused, "Please...."She pleaded softly, "I don't understand you right now, what happened?"

"The... The bastard knew I didn't die. Just as I knew he didn't die. Sebastian got a hold of me... He beat me. /cut/ me. Trust me... It's not as bad as it looks. I'm safe. Your safe. I went off to take care of Moriartys men. One by one. I'd get hit, cut, kicked, shot at... All for you." Sherlock scowled and pulled his shirt off the rest of the way. He bit his lip.

Sherlock dragged his hand through his hair. "Are you okay, with me back? I'll leave if it'll make you happy... I'll be gone."

"Put your shirt back on." Joan said firmly, glancing at Sherlock and his chest before sighing. "They did that to you? How did you escape?" Joan asked softly. "I....I don't want you to leave."

"I refuse... Besides. I've made scraps of this one." Sherlock walked into his part of the flat am grabbed his robe. He pulled it on and pulled off his trousers. He pulled on his pyjama bottoms with a smile. Walking back out, he spoke. "Joan? Did you miss me as much as I missed you?"

Joan rolled her eyes at the stubborn man. She began to make tea like it was any other day. She glanced at him from the kitchen. The army doctor turned around to meet his gaze, "Yes. Depends on how much you missed me..."She whispered.

"I missed you more than anything. More then life." He whispers looking back into her eyes. Wetting his lips, he smiled. "I missed you so very much, Joan. More than I could ever truly explain. Not a day went past when I didn't think about you. I tried not to. But I did." Sherlock smiled gently. "You are amazing."

The tea kettle whistled in the background and Joan set it on another burner before turning to meet Sherlock's eyes. "More than life?" She whispered, the words cutting through her. It had been eleven months without a word from him, without evidence that he was alive, that he wasn't a fake and she longed to hear those words.

She shook her head as the consulting detective said she was amazing, "Sherlock..."She practically implored him to stop but the words kept cutting through to her core. Sherlock had missed her. HER. Someone not that important. Someone who could be boring. "I...I missed you more than you could know....I..."

Sherlock hid a smile under an unemotional face. "That's. nice. You didn't tell me... Well... If you hit me... I'd quite right deserve it. I abandoned you with no hope of knowing I was alive. You know what..." Sherlock stands in a ready position for Joan to punch him and not knock him over. "Punch me."

Joan bit her lower lip, "Sherlock..."SHe whispered, shaking her head, "God knows I want to hit you ,but not now."

"Do it. Unless there is something else you'd rather do?" Sherlock rubbed at his chin. "God... Do something."

"I just said not now, I'll let you explain yourself, why you did what you did." Joan told Sherlock, raising her eyebrow at his erratic behavior. He was all over the place, wanting her to hit him and then telling her how much he missed her.

"You, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson all had Moriartys snipers on you. I had to fake my death. If I didn't you would've died. I couldn't let you or any if them die." He smiles softly. "Trust me?"

"Mostly." Joan told Sherlock with narrowed eyes, surveying him, "What will you do to earn my trust back fully?"

"Understandable." He looks down and whispers. "Love you."

"What will you do though?" She asked again. Joan raised her eyebrows in shock, "W-what?"

"Nothing. Sentiment makes one weak. So I don't believe in it it." Sherlock lays across the couch and pulls off his robe. Leaving him in a pair of pants and Pyjama bottoms.

"Of course you don't, you're emotionally devoid." Joan teased Sherlock.

"I said if love you, okay? Now you know. Don't harp on my feelings, or I'll regret ever telling you. I trust you." Sherlock gazed down. His body was freezing but he didn't care.

"You love me?" Joan swallowed thickly. No, she couldn't hear that from him. Did he mean it? She wasn't sure.