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The explosion had brought the building down. John was just lucky he wasn't IN the building at the time. He had tracked the suspect down into the basement and into a hidden tunnel when the explosion went off. The force of the blast had thrown John farther into the passage and face first into a wall of rock.
When John came to, it was in the dark, and in the rubble of a half collapsed tunnel. No way back, half buried in rock and debris. It was like swimming in a sea of pain. His torch had been lost in the explosion, but he still had his phone (no signal, of course), as he shambled his way through the uneven ground and darkness. Finally the passage opened up to a tube train track. Grateful that he was finally getting somewhere John made his way down the track until he found a closed tube station. There had to be a way up from there.
Finding an entry with a locked gate was somewhat of a relief, but he was still locked in. With the tremor, he couldn't pick a lock as well as Sherlock. But he could try. I hope he made it out John thought as he set to work on the lock. It seemed to take forever but finally, John was free and street level. It was night time and he found himself not too far away from Baker street. What luck! He tried his phone again, but still said "no service" and hardly any battery left. He shrugged, he was almost there, and then he could use Mrs. Hudson's phone to call Sherlock. He's sure the explosion must have made the news, and he didn't know how long he was down in the dark. People must be worried sick.
When he got to 221, he tried his key. It didn't fit. strange, he tried jiggling it, and all the other little tricks, but nothing worked. The key worked that morning, Mrs. Hudson wouldn't have changed locks without telling them before they left. He tried knocking lightly but no answer. Sherlock might still be at the scene. So John went around back, climbed the bins, and made his way up the fire escape. You don't live somewhere with Sherlock without knowing how to break into your own home. He came in through his old window. It was dark, then he tripped over something he couldn't recognize 'til he made his way out of the room and down the stairs. Once downstairs, a light flicked on.
“Wherever you were, Watson, you better have a good explanation for why you’re back so late.”
John could see Sherlock hunched over something at the desk, facing away from him. Didn’t even bother to turn around. Bloody bastard.
“Well sorry if being blown up and having to dig my own way out was inconvenient for you.”
Sherlock whipped around with large, disbelieving eyes. Blood draining from the detective’s face was the only warning John had as he caught his fainting friend.
***
Sherlock slowly came back to awareness. Trying to remember what could have possibly happened that would have him lying on the livingroom floor. Then he remembered John. Covered in dirt and mud, looking like he crawled out of his own grave. Which to be fair, he probably had to.
“Easy, Sherlock. I got you.”
Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. And looked at John. He took in every grubby feature, the clothes he’d worn that morning, right down to the hole in his jumper where Sherlock had cut a piece for an experiment. “I thought you were dead.”
“Stop being dramatic you git, I only got a little blown up. You know it takes more than that to keep me down.” he chuckled.
A pained look crossed Sherlock's face. “John, that was fifteen years ago.”
It was John’s turn to be shocked. “Wait, what? That can’t be right..” he trailed off. How long had he been lost in the dark? Certainly not years. John finally got a good look at Sherlock. New wrinkles, hair graying gracefully at the edges. It seems Sherlock had aged 20 years since that morning! Wait, had he said fifteen years? John felt a cold dread.
“Sherlock, where’s Rosie?”
“Relax, she’s been staying with me. She’s at her friend’s house for the moment, or so she claims.”
“You thought I was her when I came in.”
“Give me some credit, I knew it was a Watson sneaking in. Technically I was still right.”
John smiled. “Still an arrogant bastard. Some things don’t change.” Sherlock looked scandalized and then broke down laughing like a mad man. It hit him all at once that his best friend is back and here, and he reached out and hugged John like a man drowning as laughter turned to sobs. John held him and rocked.
John remembered how it felt those two years Sherlock had been gone. How much they hurt. And here Sherlock just endured John’s death for fifteen years. And apparently while raising Rosie! John then realized the depth of which Sherlock had cared, and he felt bad for ever doubting this man’s heart.
But he’d missed Everything! Raising Rosie, he didn’t get to be any part of it. John was suddenly hit with the realization of everything he had lost. Fifteen years is a very long time.
After a long while, they broke apart.
“Uh, I think I got blood on you. Maybe I should go wash up.”
“That is quite the switch, isn’t it? You getting blood on me.” Sherlock smiled. “Use my bathroom. The other bathroom is now Watson’s. I’ll find you some clothes, and get the first aid kit ready.”
As the shower turned on, Sherlock got up and rushed around the flat. He had kept some of John’s clothes out of sentiment. And now they would come in handy. As he arranged the things, he stopped himself and looked into the bathroom once again. Now that John was no longer in the room his brain had time to ask is this even real? It’s been years since he took drugs, but when he hallucinates, it’s usually this very dream. Of John coming back. Maybe this was all in his head.
Just as Sherlock started to spiral, there was a loud pounding at the downstairs door. He could hear 221A answering it and then footsteps coming up the stairs followed by a pounding at his door.
He had just opened the door when it swung open nearly smacking him. There on his stoop, was Rosamund Watson with Detective Donovin close by.
“Good evening Detective Inspector Donovin. I see you’ve brought me a present. May I ask the occasion?”
Sally shoved the young blonde into the flat and closed the door behind them. “I’ll be blunt. Your girl was busted at an illegal drag race. To which she claims she was just a spectator.”
“Nothin’ illegal about watching some excitement. I wasn’t planning on watching a race this evening, I was just on my way home, heard a noise and got curious.”
“Yeah, well it’s still lucky it was me who nicked you and not one of the others. They took whoever they could catch downtown for questioning. We’re still trying to find out who’d been organizing these races. People get hurt at these things, it’s not just property damage.”
“Yes, well, i’m sure you’ll find them, Sally.”
“The job is still open if you ever want legitimate work.”
“Thank you Sally, but no. I have vowed to never work for the government ever again.”
“Suit yourself.”
Of course that’s when the shower turns off and the silence is deafening.
“You’ve got company?”
“Seriously, Holmes?!" Rosie glared accusingly, "After earlier tonight, you go and pull someone? Where did you go, the morgue again?!”
Donovin looked at him awkwardly as the door to Sherlock's bedroom suddenly opened and there’s John in just a towel.
“Sherlock, do you still have…” He trailed off as he saw a blonde teenager and a much older version of Sally Donovan in the living room. She paled. John jumped back behind the door, using it as a shield.
“Oh good, you can see him too.” Sherlock smiled. “John, I’m sure you remember DI Donovan?”
John did a shocked little wave. Sally was jerked from her stupor. “How?”
“When I figure that out, I’ll let you know. I thank you for your assistance this evening, detective inspector. We won't take up any more of your time. Good bye!” Sherlock practically shoved her out the door and slammed it in her face.
"Rude!" John chided from the doorway.
Rosie looks at Sherlock in awkward distress. “Um, Sherlock, is that who I think it is?”
Sherlock smiled wide. “That’s right. Rosamund Watson, meet your father, John Watson.”
John, still in just a towel, looks caught, almost literally, with his pants down.