Chapter Text
Preface
He was furious with the man who had commanded—commanded! —him to meet at 221B. He had dragged himself there in an utterly foul mood—a three-day-old foul mood that had started the night that he couldn’t settle down. He hadn’t slept well since then, and work had become stressful as he tried to maintain a professional relationship with Mary that she seemed entirely unwilling to accept.
He hated being there. Hated it. He hated the Tube station and he hated the walk from the station and he hated turning onto Baker Street and he hated seeing Speedy’s and he hated digging his key out and he hated letting himself in. He hated knocking on Mrs Hudson’s door. He didn’t hate her, but that was a moot point, as apparently she was out. He had stomped up into the flat, hating every step. Swung open the door.
Oh, God. The smell. That wonderful, familiar smell. Even after all this time and all of Mrs Hudson’s efforts, the flat still smelled—
of Sherlock.
It smelled of books and smoke and dust and peppermint and gunpowder and melted plastic and that odd odour that neither one of them had ever been able to identify but it was still so familiar.
So many memories. Too many memories. His head was bursting with memories.
He had deliberately stayed in the sitting room, nursing his aching, overly-full head; he had not wandered through the rest of the familiar home.
No. Not home now. Not for ages now, despite the familiar wallpaper and sofa and—was that the Union Jack pillow? He had picked it up and pressed it to his face, breathing in deeply.
It smelled—it smelled like smoke and mint and hydrochloric acid. It smelled like—
Sherlock
“Doctor Watson?”
The door to the flat swung open. Mycroft Holmes was standing in the entrance. “Mycroft. What’s this all about? You know I don’t like being here,” he immediately demanded. Was it his imagination, or did he look uncomfortable? Maybe someone had finally shoved his umbrella up his arse.
But who was that behind the supercilious man? John frowned, suddenly wary. “Is there someone with you?” He tipped his head, trying to see around him. Mycroft took a step to the side, revealing—
“Oh my God…”
John’s voice faded as a grey fog filled his vision. Voices came out of it, echoing and smearing weirdly. Was one of those voices his own?
“No. That’s impossible.”
“John, are you all right?”
“No. No. It can’t be.”
“Sit down, doctor.”
“Water.”
A cup was pressed to his lips. He swallowed the tiniest bit, but it helped. He held up his hand. “Yeah. Yeah. I’m okay. I’m…” He stopped. He was seated in a chair that he didn’t remember sitting down in. His chair. His old chair. His own chair. He realised that he was still holding the Union Jack pillow.
He was having a hard time catching his breath.
“John, I’m sorry to have done this in this manner, but I thought face-to-face would be the… easiest way for you to receive the news.” Mycroft was standing stiffly to the side of the chair.
He saw colours and movement and heard footsteps. There was someone in front of him now. He squinted at the figure.
He bent his head down; he was going to be sick.
“John?”
He shook his head, unwilling to open his mouth at that moment. He took deep breaths.
“John. Please look at me.” He complied, carefully. “John. It’s really him.”
“How is that possible?” he gasped.
“I’ll explain everything, but—”
“My?”
That voice.
Oh, God, that voice.
How many times had he wished that he could hear that voice? He didn’t care what it said. It could rant or insult or deduce or say anything it wanted if he could just hear that voice again.
How many times had he watched that stupid birthday video clip?
How many times had he fallen asleep weeping for that voice?
“I want to… can I?” the voice said, hesitantly.
“Yes, of course.”
And suddenly there was someone in front of him on top of him wrapped around him breathing him in
He needed his hands free.
He needed them free to touch.
He needed them to feel the razor-sharp cheekbones and the papery skin and the tangled curls and the bony shoulders and the too-thin chest and the long, white fingers and the full lips and
His eyes
He needed to see his eyes.
The last time he had seen them, they had been open. Staring. Sightless.
He tipped the messy head of curls back with one gentle hand.
The eyes were shut.
He took a deep breath. Tried licking his lips. Tried clearing his throat. His voice came out like rust anyway.
*Sherlock?*
Sherlock opened his eyes. [Pinpricks in Maps]
Chapter 1
Sherlock opened his eyes.
Oh my God, John’s heart sang. It’s him. It’s really him. I asked him to not be dead and he’s not. He’s really here—alive and warm(ish) and breathing and…
Wait. How had he survived? He jumped off a building, for Christ’s sake. I saw him do it. I saw him—no, I did not see him hit the ground—I saw him right after. On the pavement. Blood in his beautiful curls and on his beautiful face and I tried to reach him; tried to take his pulse and people kept pulling me away. I couldn’t get to him. I couldn’t reach him. I couldn’t reach—
And strangers’ hands had turned him over and I saw his eyes. Open. Dead. Staring. NO.
*
But now Sherlock had opened his own eyes.
This was real. This was really happening.
So he looked into those eyes—those amazing blue/green/grey/sliver/gold eyes that had flashed and peered and penetrated and revealed, and he looked deeply in the hope of seeing some of that—any of that.
Sherlock—his Sherlock—his Oh-My-God-It’s-Really-Him Sherlock—looked back.
And John’s stomach did a very odd thing that had him swallowing hard. Because there was—nothing.
“This isn’t Sherlock,” he shouted, suddenly shoving the thin man off him. He crumbled to the floor without a sound. “What the fuck is this all about, Mycroft?”
“John! I assure you—this really is him.”
Was it him? It had to be. Mycroft was always right. But how could it be him? He was dead, after all. Dead and buried and he visited the gravesite regularly and—
Breathe, John.
Sherlock sat where John had dumped him. He looked rather dazed.
John frowned as he knelt next to him. He placed a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock turned his head slowly and stared at the hand. His silence frightened John. He turned him gently by the shoulders so he could look at Sherlock’s face. Look into his eyes again, this time with his doctor’s eyes—and his stomach turned again.
This was his Sherlock—however that could be possible—but it was a side of the man that he hated to see; hadn’t ever wanted to see again. “What’s he on?” he snarled at the man’s brother.
“A tranquilliser.” He withdrew a bottle from his pocket and handed it to the doctor.
John looked at the label. “This is an antipsychotic,” he noted with alarm.
“Yes, it is.”
“Why?”
“It’s a long story,” the older man commented drily.
“Come on. Let’s get you into your chair. All right?” The doctor cautiously helped his—the realisation hit him again and he felt dizzy and sick—helped the thin man up and got him seated. He then glared at the tall man standing stiffly in front of him. “What the fuck happened to him?” he demanded. Sherlock flinched.
Mycroft hesitated a long moment, looking uncharacteristically uncertain. “I never intended any of this, John,” he finally stated quietly. “Moriarty had to be stopped—his network was far more extensive than we originally understood. Sherlock was the only one who could have done what he did. I had no idea how hard it would be on him.”
John glared at him.
“You must believe me, and understand that it was not his choice. He never wanted to leave you.”
John didn’t move.
“I didn’t know that he was returning until he was on British soil again. We had initially been in contact, but—we lost track of him some time ago.” Mycroft sounded like he had a fishbone stuck in his throat.
“So you sent him off—what, undercover?—and then lost track of him? You—the man who keeps surveillance on our bloody landlady—you lost track of him?” He laughed humourlessly.
“In a word, yes.”
“For how long? How long has he been off your radar?”
“Well over a year,” the government man muttered. “About sixteen months, actually.”
“What?! You—you arranged for him to fake his own suicide, let me think that he was dead—the media ripped him apart, Mycroft! And you just sent him off to deal with whatever your little problem was and then you lost track of him for sixteen months?” He had to hold himself back from throttling the man. Instead, he turned back to Sherlock, who was sitting quietly, looking from one to the other of them.
John squatted down and looked up into his eyes. Sherlock frowned and tried to gaze back at him, but he appeared to be having trouble focusing. The doctor reached for the healing injury on his temple and the younger man flinched, but only after a slight pause. “God, did you have to dope him up so much?” the doctor growled.
“He was… agitated.”
“How long has he been back?” He brushed the familiar curls away from the pale forehead.
“We picked him up eight days ago. We don’t actually know how long he was back in the country before that.”
“Did he tell you what happened to him?”
Sherlock looked slowly from one face to another again. He was clearly trying to follow the conversation but didn’t seem to be having much success.
“He doesn’t speak much.”
“So why have you brought him to me now?”
“Doctor Watson, my brother has clearly been traumatised, both mentally and physically. He is malnourished, injured, and on top of everything has been going through withdrawals. He has rarely spoken since we picked him up—and then only with much prompting. Not much of it made sense.”
“I said, ‘why now?’ Answer me.”
“Because three nights ago, he finally said something of his own accord.”
“What did he say?” John muttered through gritted teeth.
“He said ‘John.’”