Chapter Text
John Watson is having a panic attack. They used to call him brave. Unflappable. Unfaltering. Fearless. He used to agree. He used to take pride in it. But then why is the knowledge that his sociopathic room mate is standing on the other side of the door causing his heart to beat so erratically in his ears? He'd thought he saw the swish of a familiar coat headed towards the flat when he'd glanced out the window moments ago. But familiar as it was, he knew it was impossible. Pull it together, soldier. You kept your wits through a bloody war, don't go losing them now. And taking a steadying sip of tea, he'd prepared himself for another bland night in, but then he'd heard a knock below. Then the bewildered voice of his Mrs. Hudson. And he could hear Sherlock's arrogant voice in his head telling him to observe the evidence. And it doesn't take a Holmes to make out Mrs. Hudson's lecture about 'just popping off for three years, with no word to anyone.' Then there are steps. And damn that absolute arse. Because as if three years wasn't long enough. Now he's hovering outside the door. Probably preparing for an entrance equal parts dramatic and blasé, as only the consulting detective himself could manage. And John knows what he ought to do. He ought to storm right out that door and never, never come back. Except, he doesn't think he'd ever recover from losing him again. Sherlock Holmes is back from the dead. And that is certainly unexpected. And God, has he missed unexpected. All the same, this confrontation is going to be anything but pretty. And with the way his body is betraying him now, he's not sure he has the nerve. Brave, they used to call him. If only they'd been right