Archive of Our Own

Sherlock was dead.

He’d been dead for a while, actually.

A long while. Too long. Years. John had lost count.

That was a lie.

He’d never stopped counting.

Sherlock had been dead for one year, three months, one week, and six days. 

And John knew he was dead. He had seen Sherlock’s broken body. He had watched him drop from the roof. He was a doctor. He knew when someone was dead. He’d attended Sherlock’s funeral, for god’s sake. 

Sherlock was dead. Sherlock was gone. 

Then why did John refuse to believe it?

Maybe it was stubbornness. Maybe it was denial. Maybe it was because admitting Sherlock was truly gone was too painful. Maybe it was due to something else all together – something John didn’t want to name. Wouldn’t name.

But he still refused to believe it.

So he’d watched everything. Every police alert, every crime, everything. He’d become slightly obsessed. Obsessed with finding something, anything. A case large-scale enough to drive the man out of hiding. 

Out of the grave.

It was ridiculous, really. Delusional. Like Sherlock could come back.

Yet John still watched. Still waited. 

And still Sherlock was gone.

Stupidly, idiotically, gone.

God, John missed him.

He scrubbed a hand down his face, shaking his head. He’s gone. John got to his feet and poured himself a cup of tea. He’s gone. John leaned against the counter of his flat, taking a sip of the warm liquid. Gone.

He didn’t even realize he was crying.

John wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, trying to clear his head and failing miserably. He trudged into the other room and flicked on the television, sifting through channels until he found the news. 

“Man found dead in his home yesterday evening, cause of death unknown,” the news anchor was saying in a monotone voice.

John sank into an armchair and sipped his tea. Cause of death unknown. Interesting. Would it be interesting enough for Sherlock? No, most likely not.

“Dan Rollins, aged 32, was found lying dead in his flat at roughly 11 pm last night,” the anchor continued. “Rollins had no underlying health conditions. Police are currently investigating anyone with potential connections to this man…”

She went on, but by that point John wasn’t listening. No underlying conditions, no health problems, no nothing. How could a 32 year old man just…die? 

A murder. 

Surely that was the only possibility.

John finally understood why Sherlock enjoyed this so much. Granted, he was nowhere near the detective Holmes is – was, he corrected himself, he’s gone, John – but it was growing on him. 

He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, pulse quickening. It’s nothing, he tried to tell himself. An overdose, a heart attack, something predictable.

But healthy thirty-two year olds don’t drop dead in their flats. 

Sherlock would have already been on his feet.

John – John was on his feet, halfway through the door, his phone out of his pocket before he realized what was happening. He stopped in the doorway. 

“What am I doing,” he said aloud, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’m not Sherlock.”

But someone had just dropped dead in his home. And John was the next best thing.

He stepped out of his flat and closed the door behind him, dialing Lestrade’s number with one hand. The man picked up on the first ring.

“Hullo?”

“Hi, Greg. It’s John. Watson,” he added after a second. “Listen…I just saw on the news…”

“Rollins?” Lestrade cut him off. 

John nodded, forgetting the inspector couldn’t see him. “He was murdered, Greg,” he said in a rush, standing outside his flat. 

“How do you know?” Lestrade replied after a moment, seemingly taken aback. 

“I – thirty minutes in his flat and I’ll tell you how,” John said hurriedly, suddenly hyper-aware of how like Sherlock he sounded. 

Lestrade’s dry laugh echoed through the speaker. “Alright, Detective,” he said. “I’ll send over the address.” He ended the call with a click.

Detective. 

The word rattled around John’s brain a second before sticking. 

His phone vibrated with Lestrade’s message. John replied with a curt ‘Thanks.’ He hailed a taxi and sank into the backseat of the car after telling the address to the driver. 

John stared out the window, letting the London streets blur around him in a wash of muted color. He didn’t know what he expected to find at Rollins’ flat. He didn’t know why he was even going to his flat. He wasn’t Sherlock. He wasn’t. Sherlock was dead. And he wasn’t coming back. This wasn’t bringing him back. 

“You’re here,” the cabbie said, pulling John from his thoughts. 

John shook his head to clear it and opened the door. “Thank you,” he muttered. 

“You sure you’re in the right place?” the cabbie asked, glancing out the window.

The flat was already roped off, yellow crime scene tape marking it. Police cars sat out front and a group of policemen stood outside the door. 

John nodded, stepping out of the taxi. “Yes,” he said not unkindly. “Thanks.”

The cabbie nodded back and drove off, leaving John to his devices. John ducked underneath the ‘DO NOT CROSS’ tape and made his way to the front of the flat, pushing past the policemen. He’d learned that strategy from Sherlock as well: act like you own the place, and they just might believe it.

John pulled the door open. Thirty minutes. He had thirty minutes. He glanced around, taking a few steps forward. He pressed his hands to his temples, the room blurring. Think, John, think. A coffee mug, slightly chipped, on the kitchen counter. A bookmark on the sofa. A vase on the table. 

Think, dammit. What’s missing? What’s off? There has to be something. 

There was a creak from behind him. John’s pulse thudded in his ears and for a moment something like hope flickered in his chest. He’s gone, he had to remind himself before turning around and coming face to face with Lestrade. 

“Anything?” the investigator asked, looking around the flat as he spoke. 

John shook his head and dragged a hand through his hair. “There’s got to be something,” he muttered half to himself. “There’s always something.”

But there wasn’t. He wasn’t Sherlock. He wasn’t even a detective. He was a bloody doctor.

John crouched in front of the counter, searching, scanning for anything off. He checked for fingerprints on the coffee mug. Lifted the book and flipped through the dog-eared pages. Traced a finger over the cracks in the vase. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

He swore through his teeth and stepped into the bedroom, Lestrade trailing after him like a persistent shadow. 

Rollins’ bedroom looked perfectly normal. Unnervingly normal, at that. Bed unmade, a blanket tossed on the floor, a lamp on the side table. John examined the room carefully, trying to put himself into Sherlock’s mind. What would he say? What would he do? He could almost hear the detective’s voice in his mind.

“Think, John.”

Helpful as always. 

“Thanks a lot,” he muttered aloud. Lestrade didn’t even question it. Probably because he was used to Sherlock. And Sherlock was nothing if not strange.

He crouched by the side table and glanced under the lampshade, not sure what he was looking for. Then he flicked it on with one finger and quickly withdrew his hand. 

“Shit,” he cursed, wringing his hand. 

Lestrade seemed confused. “You alright?”

John nodded, flexing his fingers. “Damn thing shocked me.” 

He froze. “...Shocked me,” he repeated, trailing off. 

The lamp was still glowing innocently. John cursed and inspected the cord, unplugging the lamp before it shocked him a second time. As he had assumed, it was tearing, the wires visible through the black coating.

And, John realized with a jolt not only from the earlier shock, it was damp. 

How had he missed that? 

Water droplets dripped onto the carpeted floor. 

John swore, rubbing the carpet. It was wet. “Electrocution,” he said quietly. “Rollins was electrocuted.”

Lestrade blinked. “How’d you know?”

“The cord’s tearing. First sign. Live wires exposed, never a good thing. Here on the table, there’s still a hint of a condensation ring. A cup was sitting here.” John stood and crossed the room to the trash bin. He sifted through it and pulled out a white paper cup. “This one, in particular.”

“So Rollins wakes up. He’s in a rush, overslept and is late for work, judging by the blanket on the floor and the un-set alarm clock. In his haste, he knocks over this cup. It spills out all over the floor. And all over the lamp cord, though he doesn’t know that. Again, he’s rushing. So he tosses the cup and plans to clean the water later, though he won’t end up doing that. Fast forward to nighttime. Eleven pm. Rollins has been working all day. He goes to his room to read a book – one he knows well, considering he left his bookmark on the sofa. It’s dark, so Rollins turns on the lamp. The cord is still wet from the morning – carpet’s padded, so it stayed damp.  He turns it on…it shocks him. He’s dead in seconds.”

John took a breath.

Lestrade was stunned. “My god. How’d you get all that from a lamp?”

John chuckled, then lifted the quilt from the bed and picked up a worn copy of To Kill A Mockingbird. “This is what he was planning to read.”

Lestrade blinked at him in shock. “Shit, Watson. You’re good.”

John laughed dryly, running a hand through his hair. “I was wrong.”

“What?”

“He wasn’t murdered.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

John shrugged. Sherlock’s gone, he reminded himself. A murder won’t bring him back. “Yeah,” he managed weakly. “Rather not have a killer on the loose.”

later

Nothing would bring him back. Nothing had brought him back. Not for one year, three months, one week, and six days. There had been cases. There had even been the occasional murder. Nothing big enough for Sherlock, though.

He glanced out the window of the cab, not paying a bit of attention to his surroundings. A year. A year. Sherlock had left him for a whole year.

“Dammit, Sher,” he muttered under his breath.

John pulled Sherlock’s phone from his pocket, typing in the detective’s password. 

That alone had broken him.

It had taken him a week or so to guess it, once he got Sherlock’s possessions after the fall. He’d tried everything. Every possible combination. From cases, to birthdays, to things completely out of the blue, combinations only Sherlock Holmes would think up. Then, finally, half-giving up, he had tried one last thing. 

5-6-4-6. John.

He’d cried for an hour after that.

John scrubbed a hand down his face, shaking his head. He typed in his own number.

Rollins case was boring. At least you were helpful. Don’t forget to get milk. –SH

He hit send, a sad smile crossing his face.

John scrolled up, seeing all the messages he had sent from Sherlock’s phone over the past year – all similar to this, all on days he was feeling particularly lonely. Days he particularly missed Sherlock. 

God, did he ever miss him. 

Rollins case was boring.

His – no, Sherlock’s – message bounced through John’s mind. Bored. Sherlock hated being bored. A man electrocuting himself was boring. A kidnapping was boring. A woman killing her husband was boring. 

John inhaled sharply as the cab pulled up to 221B Baker Street. He hadn’t the heart to move out, though he could barely afford rent anymore. Sherlock had always paid a little extra, and in turn John had done the shopping. It was their unspoken agreement. 

John stepped out of the cab and entered his flat, yawning. God, he needed to sleep. He needed a lot of things. 

First and foremost, he needed a way to cure Sherlock of his boredom. 

He needed a murder.

But not just any murder, John realized as he sank into an armchair, his tea still sitting right where he had left it, cold now. A murder only Sherlock could solve. 

But that wasn’t enough, was it?

John needed something bigger.

Something better. Or…worse.

It had to be a murder of someone Sherlock cared about. Someone he’d return for, at very least after their death. 

Sherlock Holmes had cared about very few people. And John refused to put anyone else in danger. So there was only one way this could go. Simple, really. He was surprised he hadn’t thought of it before.

It had to be the murder of John Watson.

later

At first he thought he was crazy. The idea was insane.

To stage his own murder? Kill himself without killing himself?

It wasn’t just insane. It was delusional.

But it had taken root. Crawled through John’s mind like a poisonous vine. And it wasn’t dying. 

Accepting it – accepting his death – had been the easiest part. 

Committing to it…that was a whole new challenge. Actually planning it out, deciding how he was going to be killed…it made him nauseous. 

Yet he had it all planned out. His own murder.

Everything, down to the finest details. 

Now it was the final part.

He hadn’t written anything down – too risky. Instead, John kept a mental log of everything he needed, checking them off as he went. Unnerving text logs from a blocked number. All his conversations with Lestrade, careful to say just enough to imply something was wrong. Little hints left here and there, things only Sherlock would understand. Inside jokes, so to speak. From cases only the two of them had solved, only the two of them knew about.

A trail of clues that would lead to the murderer.

Who, of course, was himself.

Though he wasn’t actually dying. Not that he didn’t want to. That would ruin the whole case. It was a murder, not a suicide. John Watson’s suicide would mean there was no mystery left to solve. ‘A grieving man takes his own life.’ John Watson’s murder…that could be the one thing that Sherlock would resurface for. A case too close to home.

John just had to play his cards right.

Two weeks he had planned this. Two weeks he had planned his own murder. John partly wished it was real. 

Sherlock had asked him once: if you were dying, in your last few seconds, what would you say?

Then, John had assumed he’d say something along the lines of please, God, let me live. 

Oh, how wrong had he been.

If he was dying? Finally, he would say in his last seconds. Because finally he could see Sherlock again.

Though he wasn’t dying. 

Not yet.

He was being murdered. There was a difference.

Moriarty’s words echoed in John’s head as he held the match in his gloved hand. I will burn you.

Something only Sherlock would know. Because only Sherlock was there. 

Arson. That was the solution. 

I will burn you.

His hands were shaking. John set the match on the table and shrugged off his coat. He was alone. Not at Baker Street, that was too easy. In a place Sherlock had told him about. A place they had camped out in when Moriarty had been after them. A place no one but them would remember. He blinked back tears, the pale blue walls spinning around him.

Sherlock’s old flat, on Montague Street. Before he had even met John. He hadn’t lived there for more than a month. 

It would’ve been so easy for the murderer to stage John’s death as an accident. But John was too smart for that. And so was Sherlock. 

He uncapped the pen and pulled a torn piece of paper from his back pocket, then copied onto it the words that had inspired this whole thing. I will burn you.

John’s hand was shaking as he wrote the note, although that was a good thing. Sherlock knew his handwriting, of course. Shaky penmanship, coupled with a few tricks he’d learned from his superior in the army, and suddenly it looked almost like another person had written it entirely. 

John folded the note and slipped it in the pocket of his coat lying on the floor. He had to hope it wouldn’t burn up. There was no way to tell. If it did, he’d left enough clues that it didn’t really matter. Then John spread the ash, courtesy of his own unfortunate smoking habits. Just for an added touch. Sherlock was right, it was hard to keep a smoking habit in London. Next came the blood. His own, enough to cover his tracks and add realness to the scene his DNA was already all over. A few drops here and there – the coat sleeve being one of them – and suddenly this wasn’t a tragic accident, this was a murder. That had been the worst part in and of itself; the cut on his palm had not quite healed. But it was all over now. 

John took a shaky breath. “God, if you’re out there,” he prayed, glancing up at the ceiling of the flat like it might offer him answers, “please let this work.” 

Hands trembling, John lit the match. 

The flames licked at the wood, and for a moment he was mesmerized by the dancing light. Elegant, really–

Reality hit him like a slap in the face, a thousand thoughts crashing into his mind. What am I doing? I’ve gone too far. He’s dead. Dead, John. Fake-killing yourself won’t make a difference. This is delusional. You’re mental. You’ve really lost it. What’s wrong with you? 

…

Clarity. 

He’s been gone for over a year and I’m still like this? 

A broken, sad smile crossed John’s face. “Yes,” he whispered. “I am.”

And dropped the match.

***

“We’re here this morning at Montague Street where a strange fire has left the police searching for answers. 

Firemen arrived around midnight to thick smoke pouring from unowned flat 5D. The fire was quickly extinguished, though it seems to have claimed the life of one man: Dr. John Watson, aged 38. You may know Dr. Watson as the associate and close friend of the late Detective Sherlock Holmes, who committed suicide last year. 

Though no body has been recovered, due to the evidence found at the scene, as well as traces of Watson’s blood and DNA, officials have declared him dead.

While the cause of the fire is unknown at the moment, investigators are on the case. The flat itself is not currently owned, making the burning question on all our minds:

What was Dr. Watson doing there? Was this an unfortunate accident? Or was John Watson murdered?

Stay tuned for more. As always, I’m James Morrison, signing off.”

Sherlock turned off the television as it switched back to the weather. He sank onto the sofa, his breaths turning shallow. His stomach rolled uncomfortably, nausea creeping up his throat. The room spun around him, reality seeming blurred, untrue. A reality where John – his John – was gone. 

Sherlock buried his head in his hands, feeling like the world had been ripped out from under his feet. Panic crawled through his mind, mixing with the tears that threatened to fall. John was dead. 

John was dead.

He shook with suppressed emotion, holding back sobs until his chest hurt and then some. His lungs felt like they were closing up. He’d forgotten how to breathe, forgotten how to think, forgotten all of it.

Was this how John had felt when he had jumped? 

God, Sherlock hated himself. Hated himself for jumping, hated what it surely did to John. All of this was his fault. It always was.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out, though of course John couldn’t hear. 

Everything he had done was always for John. He’d fucking thrown himself off of a building and faked his own death to protect John. God, he’d almost been in contact so many times. Almost texted, almost called, almost shown up to Baker Street out of the blue.  

Now John was gone. 

Dead. 

The word sent Sherlock back down the spiral of his own mind. He couldn’t breathe. He just lay there on the sofa, gasping for breath, wishing he was the one that was actually dead. 

But he wasn’t. He had survived, he had planned it all. 

John hadn’t. 

Sherlock sat up in a rush, the facts spinning around him through the tears he still fought back. 

John hadn’t planned it. He hadn’t killed himself. It was too elaborate, too strange. If John wanted to kill himself, he would’ve just put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger. Because that was John.

This wasn’t. 

John hadn’t killed himself. And this wasn’t an accident. Sherlock knew the signs. John had been murdered. 

Sherlock almost laughed, though nothing was funny. He shook his head, unable to stop the tears from flowing down his cheeks. 

One last case.

Then he was done. Done with it all. He didn’t know what he’d do afterwards. Actually die this time? 

But he’d do this for John. If someone wanted his friend dead, Sherlock had to figure out who. Someone had killed John Watson. 

Burned him in Sherlock’s old flat and made it look like an accident.

And Sherlock would be damned if he didn’t solve this case. Because it was more than a case. It was John. This was one case he couldn’t afford to fail.

The game was on, indeed. 

later

I will burn you.

Sherlock’s mind was spinning. 

I will burn you.

He held the charred paper in one hand, John’s coat draped around his shoulders like a security blanket. 

I will burn you.

He was shaking. 

He’d made his way to the crime scene, scared Lestrade half to death since, you know, he was legally dead, and acted like this was the usual, like he owned the place. 

But he was unraveling. Like a loose thread from a sweater. Sherlock was falling apart. Like a sand castle, like a house of cards, collapsing in on himself.

Sherlock took a shaky breath, feeling Lestrade’s hand on his shoulder as they stood in the ruins of his old flat. 

“...You okay?” the man’s voice was low, laced with concern and a bit of fear. It shook, too, no matter how hard Lestrade tried to hide it. John had been his friend too. 

Sherlock nodded, then shook his head. He didn’t speak. There was nothing to say. He just slipped the fire-singed note in his pocket without letting Lestrade see. That was one piece of evidence he had to withhold. One piece of evidence only three people in the world would understand. 

Only, two of them were dead.

Himself, John, and…

…Moriarty.

“You figured it out yet, freak?”

Sherlock flinched, and Lestrade’s grip on his shoulder dropped. It was Donovan, of course it was. She’d always hated him. And he didn’t care, or at least he used to not care. It had affected John more than anything. But now John was gone. 

“Piss off, will you?” Sherlock retorted, turning to face her. His words surprised even himself – he was often intentionally rude or blunt, but rarely outright cursed someone out. However, Donovan was the apparent exception.

She blinked, seemingly taken aback. “Excuse me?” 

Sherlock spun on his heel, not deigning it necessary to give that woman any more of his time. He went back to his investigation, ignoring how his eyes burned. 

He could hear her muttering something under her breath, then Lestrade’s response: “Let him be. You know they were close.”

A scoff from Donovan. “Yeah. Close.”

Sherlock didn’t dignify her with a response. He and John had been close. Never more than friends, despite all the speculation. Though Sherlock wouldn’t have complained.

Too late now, he reminded himself. No point in dwelling.

The rationality was accurate, but it was unhelpful. Sherlock’s eyes still burned, and he wiped them with a frustrated hand. He blinked, forcing the humanity down and wishing he was the unfeeling machine he was often thought to be. But the crime scene still blurred around him, the charred remnants of his old flat mixing with the police tape. 

“I need time,” he found himself saying. 

“How long?” Lestrade asked quietly. The inspector winced, realizing his mistake. “Sorry. Take all the time you need.”

“All the time he needs?” Donovan imitated, scoffing. “I thought he was supposed to be a bloody genius.”

“Donovan.” Lestrade’s voice was low, dangerous almost. 

Sherlock hardly heard the insult, his mind spinning with the information he struggled to process. The note. His old flat. The fire. I will burn you.

He pressed his palms to his temples, forcing himself to think. Forcing his brain into action. 

It couldn’t be Moriarty. 

It just couldn’t.

He’d put a bullet through his own brain. 

He couldn’t come back from that.

Why would he kill John?

Why would anyone kill John?

Sherlock gasped, the realization hitting him like a train. He had been legally dead for over a year. If someone wanted to flush him out of hiding, this was the best way to do it. Murder the person he cared about the most. And make him solve it.

A twisted game. 

But a game Sherlock had to play nonetheless.

later

Sherlock inhaled shakily, his eyes burning, but with grief or exhaustion he didn’t know. 

He was still playing the game.

Sherlock lay on his back on the sofa, his so-called murder web hanging on the wall above him. He hadn’t gone back to Baker Street. Partially because he was legally dead, and partially because he just couldn’t. 

The slightly charred note was pinned in the center of the web, pictures of John tacked around it. Some were relevant, some weren’t. Some he just needed to see, needed to remember. Scribbled words and phrases in Sherlock’s handwriting decorated the rest of the space, on the wall, the floor, the table, the mirror, everywhere. He hadn’t slept since he’d seen it on the news. And he hadn’t–

John’s coat was draped around him like a blanket, and then he was crying.

Sherlock rarely cried. 

He hadn’t cried when he’d heard the news. He hadn’t cried when he’d gone to the scene. He hadn’t even cried on the cab ride back, when he’d accepted it, accepted the fact that John was gone. 

The last time he had cried was when he’d been standing on the rooftop of Bart’s, John’s voice echoing through his phone. 

But he was crying now.

Unwelcome tears rolled down his cheeks, all the emotion he had bottled up for so many years finally bubbling to the surface. John. John. Joh–

No.

Sherlock wiped the tears from his eyes with the collar of John’s coat, forcing himself to sit up and figure out who murdered his fr–no, his best friend. His everything.

He didn’t remember standing. One moment he was curled beneath John’s coat, surrounded by grief, and the next he was on his feet, eyes rimmed red but with a sharp edge. He shoved the emotions down and crossed the room in three strides, uncapping a marker.

He wrote one word on the back of an old grocery list, tacking it up on the mantle.

Risk.

Because that’s what it was. A risk. Killing John with the hope of bringing him out of hiding, without even knowing if he was truly alive? What if he had been actually dead? They would have killed an innocent man for no reason. No sane person would do that. 

I will burn you.

“It can’t be him,” Sherlock said aloud, pressing his palms to his temples. “Moriarty is dead, dammit!”

And you jumped off a building, yet you’re still here, a voice in the back of his head reminded him. Is it really that improbable?

His phone buzzed from the table. Sherlock unlocked it, tapping on the message with some irritation. Mycroft, probably, or Lestrade, asking if he had any new developments. He scowled at the thought. 

Unknown: It’s all a trick. A magic trick.

Sherlock paused, his pulse stuttering at the words, his words, then typed a reply with trembling hands. 

Who is this?

The typing bubble appeared, then vanished.

Unknown: I will burn you, Sherlock Holmes.

He scoffed at the threat, trying again.

Who is this?

This time the reply was instant.

Unknown: Meet me at the swimming pool. Midnight.

Sherlock froze, his breathing turning shallow. The swimming pool. Moriarty. Or someone who knew too much.

He replied, his hands shaking as he typed.

Midnight? Dramatic.

Unknown: I have a flair for the dramatics, dear detective. See you then. Or not.

Sherlock swore through his teeth and slammed the phone down on the table, dragging a hand through his hair. His mind was spinning. It was too much – all of it. John’s death, the case, now this…it was like he was drowning, unable to stay afloat. 

God, he hated having emotions.

later

He probably should have called the police. Or at very least told Lestrade what was going on.     

But he hadn’t. Instead he’d anxiously paced the length of the flat, forced himself to take a nap (the voice in the back of his head that told him to do so sounding very much like John), stared at the ceiling, and now he was here. At the pool.

Back where it all began.

Sherlock’s footsteps echoed on the tile floor, the only sound in the otherwise deserted place. He hated it here. Unwanted memories clawed their way to the surface. John. Moriarty. The bombs. The twenty-one seconds where he doubted everything he’d ever known.

He checked his watch. 11:57. Three minutes til midnight. Would they keep him waiting?

If they were who he thought they were, yes, most definitely. 

Sherlock sighed, pulling the gun out from underneath his coat. He spun it in his hand, noting the weight of the weapon. Making sure it was loaded, ready to shoot. 

That was the other reason Sherlock hadn’t told Lestrade anything.

He wasn’t leaving the person who had killed John Watson alive. 

Sherlock fiddled with the trigger, flipping the safety off. He pointed it at the wall, his hand trembling just slightly. He didn’t fire, though. Not yet. No reason to waste a bullet. And John had never been a fan of him shooting walls.

Sherlock slipped the gun back inside his coat and took a breath, steeling his nerves. 11:58. He took a lap around the pool, hands behind his back. 11:59. He flipped the collar up on his coat, waiting. Just waiting. 

Midnight.

Footsteps.

Sherlock’s hand went to the gun instinctively, a whirlwind of emotions mixing through him. Fear. This was who killed his best friend. Anger. This was who killed John. Hatred. This was who killed the person he loved. Because he did love John Watson, dammit. He loved him. He’d loved him for years. And now it was too late. Now John was gone, and so was he. 

The person’s steps echoed on the tile of the pool, and Sherlock gripped the gun tighter, panic crawling up the back of his neck like a spider. He didn’t know who to expect. A stranger? A serial killer? Someone he had slighted? …Moriarty? 

The door swung open.

And Sherlock Holmes forgot how to breathe.

He took a step back, stumbling like a drunkard and catching himself against the wall with one hand. The pool blurred, the floor swaying under him. No. No, no, no.

It was like he had been yanked back in time. 

He forced himself to breathe, his pulse thudding in his ears. 

Sherlock steadied himself, the gun trembling in his grip. He tried to speak, but no words came to the surface. His mind was blank. For the second time in his life, the great detective found himself doubting everything he knew.

It was like he had been yanked back in time.

Three years prior. Same place, same time. Same door. John stepping out from the shadows. Bundled in a coat that didn’t belong to him, strapped with enough Semtex to take out a city. Twenty-one seconds of doubt.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked over the figure, the man that stood in front of him. Trying to deduce, trying to understand. But his brain had short-circuited. 

And the ghost spoke. “Welcome back, detective.”

John

He was alive.

He was real.

He was back.

He had come back.

For him.

John could hardly breathe, hardly hold back the tears that burned at the edges of his vision. He blinked, expecting the man to disappear.

He didn’t.

John opened his mouth. “Welcome back, detective.”

Sherlock

“You’re supposed to be dead,” was the first thing Sherlock managed to say. He hadn’t yet lowered the gun, though his hands shook so badly that he doubted he could even make a straight shot.

The ghost laughed, a low, familiar sound. “So are you,” he pointed out, shoving his hands in his pockets and taking a few steps forward.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked over him, from the carefully trimmed blond hair to the light eyes he knew so well, to the beige jumper he wore. His favorite. Something in Sherlock’s chest twisted uncomfortably. 

He stepped back as the ghost moved towards him, pointing the gun at his chest, just over his heart. “Don’t…don’t come any closer.”

The ghost lifted his hands in surrender, and Sherlock saw a twinge of fear flash through those grey-blue eyes. “Sher…” he started, swallowing hard. 

“How?” Sherlock asked, his breathing turning shallow. The pool was spinning again, every little movement setting something off inside him. 

“I couldn’t live without you,” the ghost replied, shaking his head slightly.

Sherlock was at a loss for words. He still couldn’t believe the man was there in front of him, alive, and real, and there. His emotions had been tossed in a blender.

But it wasn’t relief, or even love that spoke. It was anger, twisted up inside him. It was fear, the way his heart had dropped when he heard the news. It was all the grief he’d felt thinking John was dead, it was all the hours he’d spent trying to solve the murder, get revenge on John’s killer.

“You dragged me out of hiding for this?” 

John

He flinched at the words, at the cruelty of them, the harshness. 

“I couldn’t fucking live without you, Sherlock!” he cried, tears running down his cheeks now. John didn’t even try to stop them, letting all the emotion, the grief, the pain flow out of him in a torrent. 

“Do you even know what you put me through? A year, Sherlock. A year I thought you were dead. I wished–”

I wished I was dead.

I wanted this to be real. I wanted to be dead.

He didn’t say it. 

But Sherlock knew.

John saw it in his face, saw the way the detective’s expression changed. Saw it in the way the mask slipped, the anger dissipated. Replaced by concern, worry, and something else John couldn’t — or wouldn’t — name.

Sherlock

John had wanted to kill himself.

The realization, the hated deduction made Sherlock’s chest tighten, his stomach tying itself in knots. The world tilted under him and he braced a hand on the wall in hopes of steading himself.

“I’m sorry,” the detective found himself saying, the gun forgotten in his hand. “I’m so sorry.” The words tasted strange in his mouth, apologies all but a foreign language to him. 

The ghost – John – shook his head, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his jumper. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he muttered, his eyes rimmed red.

Sherlock rubbed the back of his neck with the gun, moving towards him. “I wanted to. I was almost…I was almost in contact so many times, John.”

It was true. His outbox was filled with unsent messages, things he wanted to send, things he couldn’t send. He’d gone as far as calling him from a burner phone, if only to hear his Hullo? when he picked up.

“Then why didn’t you? Why did it take me staging my own murder to make you come back?” John spat through his tears, half-yelling now. 

Sherlock swallowed hard, sighing to himself. “I did it to keep you safe,” he admitted. “I had to disable Moriarty’s network. No one could know I’d survived.” I’m sorry, god I’m sorry–

John

John laughed, the sound bitter and wet with tears. “Keep me safe?” he echoed, shaking his head. 

Sherlock, I wanted to die. 

He didn’t say that. He wouldn’t. He hardly could admit it, even to himself.

Sherlock nodded, slowly at first, then quicker. “I know. I–I know.” He took a breath. “...I had to.” 

The detective’s impassive mask had fallen, and he looked more human than John had ever seen him. Dark circles ringed his eyes, his coat was wrinkled, and his signature scarf had vanished. 

Guilt crept up John’s spine with a stabbing pain, as if he was being stung by a swarm of bees. He’d done this to him. 

But hadn’t Sherlock done the same? And John had only been legally dead for a couple of weeks. Sherlock had made John think he was dead for over a year.

That didn’t help the guilt. 

“I missed you,” the detective said, so quietly John had to strain to hear him. 

John flinched. The simplicity, the raw honesty of the words struck him like a bullet. He smiled slightly, his vision blurring at the edges. 

Then he couldn’t stop the tears. They ran down his cheeks as he fell into Sherlock, wrapping his arms around the taller man. “Arsehole,” he muttered into Sherlock’s coat. 

John felt the detective flinch before leaning into the hug, rubbing circles on his back with one hand. John inhaled shakily, half-afraid Sherlock was going to disappear. He gripped the back of his coat like a lifeline, blinking back tears.

“I’m back,” he heard Sherlock murmur. 

John pulled away just enough to look the taller man in the eyes. “Good.”

“Sorry it took a murder for me to return,” Sherlock said with a brittle laugh.

John gave a weak chuckle. “Well, it worked.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but laugh, shaking his head. “It did. It did.”

John leaned back in, not letting go of Sherlock’s coat. He shut his eyes a second, just breathing in the man he thought he’d lost forever, the bloody idiot who’d jumped off a building to keep him safe. 

Sherlock

He didn’t pull away. He’d never been one for physical affection – more like physical assault, he felt like – but this was different. This was a cacophony of emotion crashing on his head like a thunderstorm. This wasn’t logical. Caring this much wasn’t logical. It wasn’t calculated. 

It just happened. Slowly, then all at once.

John leaned back after a second, not letting go. Sherlock didn’t make him. His mind was silent for once, memorizing every line of John’s face. His eyes flicked to John’s lips, then away. A minute movement, subconscious almost.

Then John was kissing him. 

Sherlock froze, his entire body tensing up. It was like his brain had stopped processing. He’d short-circuited. He didn’t know what to do, what to think even. He wanted this – of course he wanted this – but he hadn’t expected it. It was something he’d put off as ridiculous, improbable.

John pulled away, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment. “Sorry—I don’t know what that was—I’m not—” 

Sherlock shook his head quickly, like he was trying to physically dislodge the apology. “Don’t–don’t apologize.”

John looked at him in confusion, eyes still rimmed red, still holding onto Sherlock’s coat like he might fall through the floor if he let him go.

“I kissed you,” John said shakily. 

Sherlock huffed a laugh. “Yes. I noticed.”

John’s face went redder. “Right. Well. I wasn’t planning on doing that.”

Sherlock cleared his throat, looking anywhere but at John. “Well. If you’d want to try again – properly this time, I might add – I wouldn’t object.”

John stared at him, looking as stunned as Sherlock felt. “You’re serious.”

Sherlock fought a chuckle. “Terrifyingly so.” 

John let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “You’re an arsehole.”

Sherlock made a face. “Yes,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his head with the gun that was still in his hand. “But I suppose I’m your arsehole.”