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[ John would say it had been a normal day, as far as days tended to go anymore. He was ever a man drilled into taking up a routine at the end of the day, and the past couple of years certainly hadn't been an exception.

Wake up, breakfast, work, lunch, work, home, dinner, telly, eventually bed. Maybe a date breaking it up a bit, a phone call to Harry, a cuppa with Mrs. Hudson. A drink out at a pub somewhere. There had been a very noticeable lack of insane runs across London or criminal rings to be broken up since Sherlock's death, of course, and he would be lying to say he didn't miss it (even worse if he were to say he never missed Sherlock- not that he really tried saying either). But at the same time he'd come around to a certain appreciation for the stability, the same vague sort of gratefulness he'd had when he first came home from Afghanistan. No real chances of trying to hold some poor bastard together with two hands and not enough bandages: no best friends jumping off of hospital roofs, except in the occasional nightmare (and those, at least, he could handle having).

And god, he hated it, hated everything dark and washed-out, hated having nothing worth doing when he'd been part of something that felt so important and lost it, twice in his life, but he was still here. He walked, he breathed, he talked, he could still smile and still laugh, because he was very much alive and planned on keeping it that way. He couldn't go back into the army, Sherlock Holmes was dead, and the universe didn't miss a beat because of it (the Earth kept going around the sun, the bills needed paying, he needed honest to god human company and to not drive himself mad thinking about why and how he could have stopped any of it).

People might say any number of less than complementary things about John Watson, for whatever reason they'd have, but they could never call him a coward.

It was hard. It slowly got easier. He held no expectations of getting fully over what happened, but he wasn't stupid enough to say his life was over. Less than what it was, maybe, but there was always a little something worth the effort (and maybe he went to bars a bit on the seedier side more often than he ought to, maybe he'd stopped a mugging or two as time passed, played a little bit of daring with London traffic when he needed to cross the street, but it was worth it. A little fresh air. Something exciting).

Today was not a particularly exciting day. The routine went entirely as normal, he spent his day looking over colds and ear infections with all good humor and patience. Chatted with a nice enough woman when he stopped to pick up milk- definitely wanted to call her this week, he feels like he'd like to get to know her. Steady routine, good old responsible John, coming home like he would on any other day. A few more grey hairs than he used to have, the start of shadows under his eyes from a bad night's sleep, but on the whole still very much as John Watson as he's always been.

This, of course, is typically where one includes "little did he know." ]

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_{[ The day that Sherlock Holmes died meant a lot of things to a lot of people. Some would see it as the day that a great man leapt to his death, others would see it as the day the maniac behind the alias James Moriarty had finally found what he'd deserved, and a select few would see it for what it really was - blackmail.

Mycroft owed him. Mycroft owed him more than he'd ever owed anyone, and he held up his end of the deal; he told Sherlock the names he needed to find, he kept John in the dark and Sherlock continued to live a life under another alias in another country. It was harsh and it was boring - but he did what needed to be done; he killed the men that had given up their lives to keep a gun trained on the three people he cared about the most, and it took more restraint than Sherlock even knew he had to keep away from the United Kingdom.

Then came the day that he could take his name back, the day that he was allowed to live his own life with his own mind and his own movements - now he was free to be himself, and there was only one person he needed to see now that he was back.

It could never be said that John is a hard man to track down; he had taken up another job as a GP on the outskirts of London (no doubt it was too expensive for him to continue living at 221b), so Sherlock followed in his footsteps until he found himself making an appointment to see doctor John Watson in his very own GP under the name of 'Richard Brooks'.

Well, he'd hate to give the game away too quickly. ]}

[ The doctor is in and the receptionist ought to be calling Mister Brooks back any minute now. He sends the previous patient out with a handshake and a smile, takes a look at the papers for the next while they send for him. Looks like a new addition to the practice, which is interesting enough. They mostly deal in regulars these days.

He can't help a certain amount of tenseness in his body once he's read the name, for being so familiar- but stop being ridiculous, John, you know very well who it can't be. Stupid reaction. It's a bit late on for getting paranoid.

Not that it has him relaxing to think as much. When 'Richard' is called back, he'll be looking at his clipboard with a light frown, ever so carefully seated where his back won't be to the door when it opens.

Just in case. ]

_{[ There's something about knowing John's tensed up at the sight of his alias. Some might consider it cruel, but Sherlock can see a small tint of irony to the whole thing; the name that tore Sherlock Holmes down and left the crumbling ruins for everyone to see, and now, two years later, barely anyone remembers the day that Sherlock Holmes was named a fraud and committed suicide with the admission. The media moves quickly, and time heals all wounds.

But Sherlock has missed John. He's hated being so far away, he hated the lies and the secrets and god he hated that there was a man with a gun aimed at him throughout most of those two years.

He's dead now. Sherlock can't be held responsible for it - it was suicide. Or so the note says. Shot himself in the head, and there's no evidence to suggest otherwise.

He really could be a criminal mastermind. Instead he settles for sitting in a waiting room full of sick people (he needs to find a decontamination shower, he does, he does, he does), twiddling his thumbs until there's a quiet beep and a sign with his name on it, telling him to go to room four. He goes, knocking on the door gently.

And then he stands there, back straight but his fingers fiddling with the seams of his jumper (he's dressed down considerably - it's part of his old alias). There's no denying that he's nervous. ]}

Hello.

[ The returned "hello" is halfway out of his mouth when he looks up, which is approximately the point where it breaks off and falls to the ground where another hundred half-started words have met their grave before. The familiar voice registers only belatedly, something dim in the back of his mind while he's blanching, gripping the clipboard until his knuckles are white (if still doesn't feel hard enough to be satisfying; he almost wants to press until the bone snaps, until they're jutting out of the skin, and that would be when he woke up).

Sherlock Holmes, standing in the room with him, dressed like an average human being and breathing, like it's not impossible, like he's got every right to be. Sherlock Holmes.

John's swallowing hard against a very dry throat, suddenly, trying his hardest not to look completely lost and reeling or pained or- god, or just desperate and five seconds from losing the typically reliable privilege of working knees.

It would be a lie to say he's succeeding, but nothing can stop him from trying to act like he is. King of the stiff upper lip since he hit 18. ]

Sherlock. [ It comes out as more of a question than he'd wanted. ]

_{[ The silence presses in on Sherlock more than anything else - it's oppressive, smothering him and forcefully taking his breath away, making him pause without his permission. He's watching John so intently that everything else just drips away; the only important thing here is the man in front of him, and he's holding onto his clip board for dear life, like it might hold all of the answers, like it might explain the situation he's currently found himself in.

He tries for a smile but it's broken; he's almost forgotten how to do it, his muscles finding the movement strange. A genuine smile is different from a faked one, after all - and John will always get the real ones.

There's something that forces Sherlock to take the risks he's always been known for, so he takes a step forwards warily watching John all the while.

He wonders briefly why John refused to believe the lies Sherlock told him. It's sentiment, he knows that, he has it - a small part of it, lodged somewhere inconspicuous, waiting for the right moment to strike. John had always believed, and he's an idiot for it. But it's charming all the same, just to know that there's one person in the world that found the story of Richard Brooks to be a fake.

Sherlock is waiting. He's waiting for John to do the next move - because there are so many possibilities stretching between them that Sherlock is mentally preparing for them all.

He didn't think it would be this hard to think of words. Who knew coming back from the dead was such an awkward conversation starter? ]}

Good to know you still know my name.

[ John doesn't take a step back for Sherlock's step forward, but he doesn't mirror the movement, either. The time until Sherlock speaks is spent watching him blankly, almost equally warily. Sherlock's looking at him like he's a skittish animal that's going to be frightened off. Almost absurd enough for a smile of its own, if he could get his face to cooperate. ]

Made an impression. [ It comes out numb, quiet, automatic and aimed at Sherlock's left knee because John is shaking his head. Slow, methodical, ultimately ineffective, but he does it anyway and tries to dredge up anything he can think of. He can't seem to bring himself to feel in one direction or the other, he can't think (shock, some part of him is saying, and isn't that the most ridiculous notion, wouldn't it just figure?), can't do anything but stare at the man standing in front of him and keep shaking his head.

No, no, no, no.

Yes. Yes, there he is, right there.

Oh god. ]

Sherlock. [ He says it again and it's all weak confirmation, everything feeling so much slower for no real reason. The clipboard at some point has hit the ground and he's not entirely sure when that was, just knows that he can see it very clearly with the way his posture is crumbling, surprisingly clearly for the fact that his vision seems determined to deteriorate into television static (and there go the knees, there goes any real coherent thought- he can almost literally feel something crashing down on him, taking him with it, down where all the half-finished words are- you said goodbye, I saw you jump, I'm sorry, you're alive, where have you been). He feels sick, is he going to be sick, no, of course not, no, he's not going to be that hopeless. John's vaguely aware of trying to stumble to the nearest wall to catch himself on his right side, entirely intent on gathering his composure and pushing onto his own two feet again, but it doesn't quite work out the way he wants it to; he sags, he buckles, he doesn't understand, and when his eyes roll back and he officially gives up the fight to make sense of any of this it's as far from graceful as a fall can really be.

Hold please. Service has been temporarily disconnected due to technical errors. ]

_{[ There's an awful lot of staring going on between them, and Sherlock isn't going to be the one to break it. He may take another half step towards him, but that's because he's calculated the way in which John is about to lose his footing - if nothing else, Sherlock will be there to catch him when he falls (because it's not a question of if, it's definitely a question of when).

There's always so much to observe and so little time to take it all in, but he can see it all happening before it does. He has seconds, short as they are, before anything happens. ]}

God knows I like to make an impression.

_{[ The seconds are meant to tick by but they're dragging instead, and Sherlock is watching John with every fibre of his being, from the way he shakes his head to the way that every question dies on his tongue - he's trapped between an odd limbo, one that just doesn't seem to want to end. With every passing moment, Sherlock's finding it harder to remain stoic and in control. It's hard to keep himself at bay, when he's worked so tirelessly until he'd be able to stand here before John again, and for all he knows it's possible that John doesn't even want him there. He waits, and the waiting is what's killing him.

Sherlock doesn't miss a trick. The moment he lets go Sherlock is there to catch him, and he holds John tightly, refusing to let go because he worries that the moment he does, John might run away.

It's a fear that has no business flitting through Sherlock's head, and yet there it is, repeated over and over. He moves to kneel on the ground, careful with John's shoulder and wary of the cold floor below them both - so much so that once he's sat down properly, he lets John's head rest in his lap. He'd like to pretend that he doesn't realise what his hands are doing as his fingers sift through John's hair, but he's always completely aware of every movement he makes. Maybe he can pretend otherwise.

It's good that he has a car available, and better still that he has the authority to pull John out of work early - though that can come later. ]}

I'll answer all of the questions you have once we're home. Assuming, of course, you'll still live with me now that I've returned.

[ John, predictably, is the picture of quiet and still for the next couple of minutes until he finally stirs, pushes his eyes open, turns his head, turns it back and oh, Sherlock's still here. Okay.

After he passed out on him.

He swallows.

It's nice to keep his thought process shallow enough to just realize his dignity is no longer intact and blink up at him for a couple of seconds. That was embarrassing. That was really... pathetically embarrassing. Wasn't it? A twitch of ungodly relieved proportions is trying to push through into a grin in spite of all best efforts anyway, and that's-- fine. It's really fine. Someone could walk in and find them like this and god knows exactly what they might think about it, and that's fine too, it's actually kind of funny. Just like old times. He doesn't let it come to much, because he's not sure at what point giggling over apparently being a teenage girl might wind up turning into something much less tension-breaking and harmless, and now, right now, he wants to be in control of himself. No more fainting. No inappropriate laughter-come-hysterics, hopefully.

Logically, John knows he probably ought to be more upset by this. Betrayed, angry, confused, something, anything: he can't really seem to be bothered to yet. He will later, likely as not, for all that he might not mention it and eventually just explode into it, some giant painful thing that's everything except relieved and absolved and my best friend is alive and talking because he's afraid that if he stops for too long he'll blink and Sherlock won't be there.

He's always been a bit of a masochist, but John thinks he would at least like some time where Sherlock is just alive and he is just happy to have him alive. John swallows again, and ignores the fact that his eyes are wet, because he's always been pretty good at ignoring those things for himself. Tries to avoid a waver in his voice, which works well enough as he still sounds more dazed than anything. Dazed and very quiet and I would appreciate it if you actually are here right now, my good man. ]

All right?

[ Funny how gravely important that question feels once it's out. He can't seem to think of a more important question that's ever needed answering. ]

_{[ Minutes pass and nothing of interest happens at all: Sherlock continues to hold John up, refusing to allow his grip to slip and at some point, he moves just so that his leg doesn't cramp up - but beyond that, he's still, he's quiet and he's watching. He can't even bring himself to look away, because it's John and he'll never know just how much he missed him, because there just aren't enough words in the English language, and there's not enough even in the French language or the German - nothing fits, because this is far beyond the puzzle pieces Sherlock has learnt to cope with.

All of this surpasses everything he's ever learnt, and he's not entirely sure what he might have been expecting - he'd never even allowed himself to think of this day, not when there was always so much left to do. Eventually the days blurred and it all ended with the last man's life ebbing away at his feet, and he gained all of his control back in one smooth motion and yet it still felt as though he'd lost everything, like he'd left it all behind.

And he realised that he had - but it was never by choice, that's something he'll always have. That's something he can explain and maybe, just maybe, if he's lucky, John will understand, John will accept him and let him back in.

But he knows he doesn't really deserve it, because it was so long ago and it still leaves a bitter taste in his mouth even now.

The moment John blinks away, Sherlock offers him a smile - it's sad and it's slow, but it's there, and it's genuine, because these past few years have been anything but genuine and if anyone deserves that, it's John. The moment he spots tears is when he moves, gently wiping them away. God, that's not fair, because he needs to look up and away to make sure that his eyes don't sting him in a similar way, and he hates that he has to avert his eyes at all.

The question is met with a laugh, quiet and hoarse. ]}

Yeah. Yeah, I'm all right. You?

[ John hesitates for a beat, which annoys him because he's hardly a swooning damsel and he can do whatever the hell he feels like- grown man, he's got the right of way. Or something. He feels like he can feel entitled. When he gets over it, he reaches up to take a very firm hold of Sherlock's wrist, and he's quick about getting to it. Part of it is to do with putting a stop to that tear-wiping business. Fingers around his eyes and really just preventing the inevitable, isn't it.

But it's mostly to do with getting his fingers in the right position and pressing and counting what he can. Pulse, respiration, doesn't seem like he has a temperature. Completely physically fine. John's grip tightens, just a bit. ]

Been worse. [ Floor's clean. Not concussed. Definitely Sherlock. He breathes in through his nose, clears his throat, tries to smile back. It's... about passable. ] Bit shit for a reunion, wasn't it? Sorry.

I was hoping for a parade.

_{[ The floor is very pointedly cold. Cold in such a way that his bones are beginning to ache, the way in which cold just seeps through your clothes and up into your skin, cold, so cold, but never enough to make him move. His wrist is caught and he makes no move to pull it free, though his hand is still poised, refusing to relax. His pulse is steady, his breathing is rhythmic. All in all, very much alive, very much there and very much with John's head in his lap.

Still, it's not as though he can even force himself to care, whether someone walks in or not (but they won't, no, Sherlock has back up and the CCTV cameras have been switched off and there are no footsteps echoing in the adjacent corridor. They are, for all intents and purposes, alone - which is especially impressive, given that this doctor's surgery is very much a public place). ]}

I suppose I'll settle for a cup of tea at yours.

_{[ Because he didn't answer, and the irrational part of his brain is telling him because it's possible John doesn't want him any more, can't stand him, moved on, has a life. Illogical with nothing to prove any of those thoughts as anything more than conjecture, the very thing he hates to do without evidence and yet here he is, doing it anyway. ]}

Nobody's worth a parade. [ Though really, if anybody...

John hangs onto his wrist for just a few seconds, just to be sure, before he's going ahead and moving to sit up. Not an uncomfortable lap to be in, but the longer he's on the floor the harder getting off of it is likely to be.

He expects someone ought to have checked in by now, but all things considered, he's fine that they haven't. To Sherlock he offers a slow nod, a searching look. Cup of tea. Fast, easy, more comfortable, more room to try to sort out what to ask first. ] Okay.

_{[ John's already thought it before Sherlock commits to say it. He'd deserve one, if only because he's Sherlock Holmes. Stopped death and oh so much more, but that's for later, that's not a thought to have when John is pushing himself up, and Sherlock forces himself to stay still.

The moment John says 'okay' is one that has Sherlock's shoulders slump, ever so slightly, relaxing enough to breathe but not enough to unwind the coil of uncertainty entirely. He's just been invited back; it doesn't mean anything beyond accepting an explanation, and god, all of these unhelpful thoughts will drive him insane; Sherlock Holmes, look at the facts, not at the possibilities. The possibilities are never ending, a layer of one thought on top of another, always more dramatic and always something soul crushing.

There's no sense in it. He pushes it down and away, brings himself up and forces more factual thoughts into his head. John's been going through the motions, it's clear - barely sleeping, going out when he's asked and living a life Sherlock knows he hates. His hand has stopped shaking for the first time in what must be two years to the day Sherlock stepped off of the building, he has a crutch to enforce the psychosomatic limp Sherlock made a point to get rid of. It's almost like he was never there, but he was, because he can see it in the way John looks at him. He was there and does he really deserve to be now? ]}

Good. Good.

_{[ Reinforced, because that's precisely what it is; it is good, it's brilliant, and it's offered him enough energy to push up onto his feet, offering John a hand in the process. ]}

Edited 2012-05-13 00:31 (UTC)

Good enough. [ John takes Sherlock's hand without any hesitation, using it to pull himself up with a grimace. Straightens out his clothes, runs a generally futile hand through his hair, gathers up the clipboard from where it was dropped and stares down at it. Which might be a better tactic if he were bothering to actually read what's on it. ]

I'll have to talk to the front desk about leaving. Reschedule my appointments. [ Certainly not going to be happy to hear that much from him. He debates sounding put-out about this fact, but in all honesty just sounds distracted. That's what the day is, mindless to distracting in five minutes flat, Sherlock Holmes walking in and John Watson dropping everything to follow him back out.

It's frustrating. It's annoying. He's still going to do it without shouting this one time because he needs answers. Because he can't say "this is where I'm staying now, go wait for me," because for all he knows he's hallucinating. Be a terrible day to go mad. ]

_{[ His fingers curl around John's hand and he holds still, acting as the weight that'll help him to his feet. He lets go fairly quickly - as soon as John's steadily on his feet, and not for the first time in two years does Sherlock miss the confines of his coat. The natural habit of placing his hands into his pockets is forcefully ignored, and instead he leans up against the bed behind him, patiently waiting on John. ]}

No, it's done. _{[ Outwardly, he's every bit as calm as once might expect, but inwardly, oh, now that was another story entirely. His heart beats as quickly as it did the day he left John behind, so irrelevant or so he'd like to hope; a distant past, something he's come back from and intends to try and fix, but it's not all up to him. ]}

Are you ready?

_{[ The answer is plain, Sherlock's read it several times over, so why did he even bother to ask? ]}

More or less- what do you mean "no, it's done"? How done is "done"?

[ Do I still have a job, Sherlock, and I don't suppose you can deduce where I put my bloody cane while you're at it.

John naturally takes to the more important questions when more than one elects to crop up.

He could have outright answered with "yes", which was more accurate, but he feels a distinct and childish urge to make himself not desperate. ]

It's been taken care of.

_{[ There's a very gentle tilt of the head, something that says come on without so many words. He scoops down and picks his cane up, holding it out without another word on the matter.

He even manages to keep his expression steady, despite how entirely unimpressed he is with John's returning psychosomatic limp. ]}

[ John will definitely award points in Sherlock's favor for that much- because the look on his face is one very shameless advertisement for not a word, please.

He'll follow along readily enough with that, of course, but questions are not out of the picture. ]

You do know you can't just pull someone out of work problem-free and only give a vague excuse?

Yes. I also happen to know that it takes a lot of persuading for someone to take over another GP's shift, not to mention a ridiculous amount of paperwork which allows you the rest of the week off. There are no strings left untied.

_{[ Sherlock takes his moment of explanation to lead John through the clinic, offering a quick smile towards the receptionist (practically works for him, like the majority of this clinic), until he barely pauses before the automatic doors. Once they open up, Sherlock marches towards the waiting taxi a few mere feet away. ]}

It helps when most of the people here owe me a favour or three. Do keep up, John.

Well, excuse me for falling out of practice. [ But he doesn't sound all that sore about it, not really. Not today. Today he just wants to get into a taxi, have tea with his dead best friend in his flat, pretend he doesn't feel like walking next to him with a cane officially removes most dignity from his person, and then very likely sleep it all off.

Which, apparently, he'll have the week to do around... whatever exactly Sherlock wants him for. ]

You're not excused.

_{[ It's shock. He's taken John into consideration this time - actually, he's done nothing but think about how this day might go, from John's reactions to the weather, of all things.

And perhaps it's not going as smoothly as it could be, but it's better than some of the scenarios Sherlock had thought up. Once John's in the car, Sherlock informs the driver of John's address (yes, he knows where you live, John) and then settles back into his chair. He finally takes the time to give John a proper once over. ]}

Shocking.

[ On the matter of John's proper once over there is enough to say. Military posture, tight hold on his cane handle, head turned to look out the window but all his awareness very focused on the car's interior. It was look out the window or blatantly stare at Sherlock through the whole ride, and he imagines he'll be doing enough staring over tea.

Lost a little weight, a bit more by the way of grey hairs, in the middle of one of those bouts of bad sleep nights that everybody comes by now and again. Does his shopping, does his work, hasn't been sick, not currently in a relationship, drinks but not heavily, on... moderate speaking terms with his sister. Uncomfortable and confused at current, which is probably to be expected.

Healthy and hodgepodged together into one working piece, on the whole. ]

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