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Trudging up the stairs to 221B, juggling his cane and bag of shopping, it hadn’t slipped John’s mind that it was almost 3 years. 3 years tomorrow, in fact, and it didn’t get any easier.
Lestrade had no doubt realised, if the messages on his phone were anything to go by, but all John wanted to do was drown himself in a bottle of something and hopefully not regain consciousness until tomorrow had been and gone.
Letting himself into the flat, ignoring the fact that something felt different, John was heading to the kitchen to put away the milk when he heard something moving in the sitting room.
John sighed to himself, before marching, as well as one could with a cane, into the sitting room to face the intruder.
“Mycroft, how many times have I told you, I –“
John stood paralysed inside the doorway, for it wasn’t Mycroft who greeted him. Instead it was the back and ginger (“Ginger Sherlock? Really?” “It was the least obvious.”) curls of one far-too-thin, dead-until-10-seconds-ago detective, currently inspecting the bookcase.
“Ah, John. I’m sorry I wasn’t home sooner, but Moriarty’s web gave me more trouble than I had anticipated. There’s still one more left, but as he is aware of my continued existence, I thought you might appreciate me home.”
Sherlock turned with a grin, proud of himself for taking John’s feelings into consideration, when he noticed that John hadn’t moved, and instead appeared to be shaking as tears rolled down his face and his fists were clenched.
“John? What’s...what’s wrong?”
John merely shook his head, closing his eyes. This wasn’t happening. This wasn’t possible. Sherlock was dead. This was obviously just a hallucination. This was...
John appeared to be on the way to a nervous breakdown, so it was a relief when Sherlock took him by the upper arms, urging him to look at him, apparently beginning to panic himself.
“John? I...I don’t understand? I’m home now, you’re meant to be happy...”
John couldn’t speak. Instead he opened his eyes and allowed Sherlock to deduce anything and everything while he tried to come to terms with the fact that Sherlock was alive.
Suddenly the penny dropped for Sherlock as he dropped his arms and seemed to fall backwards onto the sofa.
“Oh God, you thought I was dead? But Mycroft told me he’d look after you. He assured me that you knew!”
John snorted at this, before finding his way, shaking, onto his armchair, and, resisting the urge to place his head between his knees, zoned in and out of Sherlock’s ramblings. Just like old times.
“That Git....fat.....just because....not my fault...well maybe slightly....web.....hard work....legwork....almost done....Moran...back now....trusted him....or at least....least he could do....and you....safety....number one concern.....you......never have left..... he promised.....watch....surveillance....I’m sorry...”
John’s ears suddenly perked up at that: Sherlock never apologised.
“What?”
“I said I’m sorry John. I thought you knew. I would not have returned in such a way if I had realised. Please forgive me.”
John suddenly found himself staring into Sherlock’s eyes, as he had apparently come to kneel in front of John, begging (“John:1 Irene:0” “Really, John?”) for forgiveness.
John brought his hands up to grasp Sherlock’s arms, reassuring himself that he was real, he was alive and he was here, before pulling his arm back and punching the git in the face, this time not avoiding anything.
“I guess I deserved that.”
“Yes, you did. Now start talking.”
And talk he did: He explained to John what had happened on the roof as John patched him up; why he had jumped as John made him tea; how he had pulled it off as John pushed food at him and finally what he had done until he arrived back in Baker street as he fell asleep next to John.
John forgave him relatively quickly, but not until Sherlock had put on more weight, handed John the video footage of his reunion with Lestrade and confrontation of Mycroft (whom John had punched the next time he had visited) and they had taken down an expert sniper using a mannequin.
All in all, business was back to normal on Baker street.