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The title applies to both me and Sherlock lol
Quite happy to be back, and now that l my book has reached
*1000 READS*
I figure it's about time that I resolve this long-awaited story.
Continuation of the "I'm back" "You're back?" Series, this is the final part so wooo
Genre: Angst with a happy end (fucking finally am I right)
Ship: Platonic??? JohnLock. (It can be interpreted as platonic or romantic honestly)
TW/CW: Swearing I think, mention of The Fall, talk of suicide
Enjoy!
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John had relented.
He had gone to find Sherlock because Lord knows he couldn't stay away from him. Everywhere he looked, there was something that reminded him of the detective.
On the walk home from the shops, he had caught sight of a tall, curly-haired man in a purple button-down; when he turned around, it wasn't even someone John knew.
Whenever he walked past a clothing store and saw a long black pea-coat, his mind immediately began to wander back to his ex-friend.
Hell, he couldn't even take a cab anymore because they reminded him to much of their first case together with the loony cab driver.

That and... well, he was overwhelmed to see him again, to say the least. It had been two years and now he shows up out of nowhere, seeming to have not changed a bit. Any person who's lost someone could only dream of that happening. So, you can't really blame him for going back to 221B, even just to hash it out with his previously-dead flatmate.

His throat felt dry as he approached the building. So many questions whirled around his head, and he found himself oscillating on the doorstep a bit as he thought.

What if he didn't want to speak to John anymore? With how he acted at the restaurant, it wouldn't be a surprise. What if he told Mrs Hudson, and now she wouldn't want to see him either? What if she didn't even let him in? What if he wasn't welcome anymore?

John's stomach tightened as these thoughts made their way through his mind; he didn't know if he could do this anymore. He missed Sherlock. After some long, hard thinking, he could finally admit that to himself, but he didn't know if Sherlock would feel the same now.

After a quick moment's decision, John stepped away from the door and shoved his hands into his coat pockets; he figured that he probably wouldn't be welcome anyway, and it was starting to rain so he was just wasting time and getting his coat wet by standing there motionlessly.

However, he had gotten not three feet away from the door when it opened behind him, showing Mrs Hudson herself. Her hair was slightly bedraggled and she was shaking her head furiously, carrying a large bin bag and heaving it onto the front stoop. Once she caught sight of John, though, her whole demeanour changed. She practically beamed at the man, seeming to completely forget about whatever had made her so angry before.

"Oh, John! Where have you been, love? What're you here for so suddenly?" She questioned, walking over to him and pulling him into a fierce hug. John winced and patted her back, letting out a short but genuine laugh.

"Hi again to you too, Mrs Hudson! Well, y'know how it is with work and all; the clinic's been a right pain at the minute." Unbeknownst to Mrs Hudson, who was still clinging onto him and refusing to let go, John was grinning ear-to-ear at this welcome. His shoulders relaxed and he just felt overjoyed: she was happy to see him. That was one worry out of the way, at least.

"Of course, hun. Anyways, enough about that. Are you here to see Sherlock?" John tensed.
"You know, he's been talking about you constantly since he got back." The frail woman continued on, clearly not noticing John's discomfort until he spoke up.

"I don't... I don't know if I'm here to see him, to be quite honest. I mean, I guess so, but it's just difficult..." He led off, sighing and glancing around uncertainly.
Did he want to explain to sweet Mrs Hudson that just a few days ago he'd almost squeezed the life out her adoptive son in frustration, just because he was actually alive? No, not at all. But every fibre of his being was practically screaming at him to ask the question he'd been thinking about since he ran into her; how did she manage? Sherlock must have surprised her too when he came back, so how did the poor woman not have a heart attack, let alone let him back into the flat?

He sighed again and tapped his foot, before giving her a brief pat on the shoulder and turning around to face the door.
He reached the entrance of the building, hesitating one last time. He angled his head to the side, clearing his throat and averting his eyes.

"Mrs... Mrs Hudson?" He paused, "Mrs Hudson, when Sherlock came back, did he... I mean, were you..." The landlady stared at him, eyed brimming with sympathy. There was a short moment of silence where John almost regretted bringing it up. Then, with the gentleness of a mother comforting her upset child, she spoke.

"Was I afraid? Angry? In disbelief?" John nodded, looking slightly embarrassed.

"Well, yes, yes, and yes. You see John, when you get to my sort of age, despite what people may say, there are still many things that can scare you, or make you angry, and make you think you've gone loopy. And one of those things, specific though it may be, is your child committing suicide and then reappearing two years later with not a curl of his hair out of place. It is scary, and I was angry. Of course I didn't believe he was really there! It was all over the bloody news that he'd... done what he did. It was hard to take in, so of course, yes, I was in disbelief.

"But, the thing is, it doesn't matter that he lied. Really, it doesn't. It doesn't matter that he ran away from his problems and it doesn't matter that we didn't see him for two years of our lives, only for him to show up out of the blue. What we have to focus on now, right now, is that he's alive. Whether we like it or not, the troublemaking genius is back, just the same as when he'd left. I was terrified when he showed up, I'll tell you that. D'you know what he did? He showed up in the shadow of the doorway, all scary-like and then boom; there he was. I screamed; I thought I'd finally lost it. But that fear was only temporary. What lasted was the relief, and the happiness. That's what really matters, isn't it." She finished, reaching a hand up to wipe at her eye.

John walked over to her, the two strides covered rapidly as he wrapped his arms around her. The scent of teabags and various cleaning products infiltrated his nose, along with the slight undertone of honey and cinnamon.

"Thank you," John muttered, "So much."

"Oh, don't thank me, John." Mrs Hudson pulled away from him, sniffing and grinning lightly.
"Now go on, go see him. I'm sure he'd love a visit from you."

****

The atmosphere was tense. A knife couldn't have cut through it, not even if it were thrown by God himself.
They weren't sat in their usual armchairs; the situation was still a little too raw to handle such a big step. Those chairs felt... sacred somehow. All of their favourite memories spawned in them; quiet cups of tea in the morning, deduction evenings by the fireplace, even their raucous boardgame night.
It was like they weren't quite ready to go back to that yet.

So instead, rather awkwardly, John sat tensely on a chair that he had dragged over from the desk and Sherlock was perched on the arm of the sofa next to the door. Both were quiet and unmoving, half avoiding each other, and the other half simply not knowing what to say. The tension was just slightly on the edge of bearability; John and Sherlock had never felt so uncomfortable, especially not in each other's presence. However, it was the other person's presence now that made them so awkward.

"Tea?" Sherlock suggested, glancing at John and clearing his throat.

"No." John answered abruptly. "Thank you."

They fell back into quiet, the conversation dying just as quickly as it had been conceived. John's eyes flitted around the room, desperate for a distraction.

The armchairs remained barely touched, as could be seen by the traces of dust in the cracks of the chair; Mrs Hudson could do many things, but dust accurately wasn't one of them.
The mantelpiece held its usual inhabitants; the inquiries pile, normally held up by the knife plunged into the solid oak wood, lay empty of any letters.

"There haven't been many cases," Sherlock blurted out, "Because, well, you know..." He trailed off, instantly regretting his word choice.

"Because people still think you're dead?" John said coldly. "Yeah, I'm not surprised. Can't imagine people think contacting a dead detective is worth their time much. Maybe check if they're trying via seance instead." He bit harshly.

Sherlock flinched. Just barely, infinitesimally visible, he recoiled.

"You're right." He replied simply. John just rolled his eyes in response.

"Why'd you do it, Sherlock? You could have told me, you could have told anyone, yet you didn't? Why the hell didn't that occur to you?" Despite his furious tone, John remained calmly sat in his chair, crossing his arms in indignation and glaring at the detective. Sherlock remained still, his face unreadable. Well, unreadable for most people. For John, it was quite easy to detect the sense of guilt behind his expressionless face.

"I did it," Sherlock said solemnly, "To protect everyone. To protect you. Do you really believe that if I had let you in on what was happening that Moriarty wouldn't have found out? I had to keep it completely secure and unknown to everyone par myself. It was easier that way."

"Easier." John repeated, the dimming anger inside him igniting again, "Easier for whom? I know that Moriarty would have figured it out but GOD, Sherlock, we might've been able to think of something else if you'd have given it a chance! You were dead for two years, forgive me for not whooping and cheering at your reappearance. When most people die, they stay dead. But, of course, the miraculous Sherlock Holmes just had to outdo everyone at that, too."

"Right again, John." Sherlock spoke after a brief moment of hush, "I realised all of that during my time away, but it was too late to come back by that point. It wasn't safe for anyone, especially you. And Mrs Hudson. And even Lestrade. It just wasn't safe, and I knew I couldn't risk losing any of you due to my own impatience. I needed to dismantle Moriarty's entire network before I could even contemplate the concept of returning. I know that it was... sad, for you. But admittedly, it was hard for me, too."

That last sentence was hardly audible, but John heard it anyway. His breath caught in his throat slightly, and he felt his fists clench tightly in... something. He didn't know what emotion it was, but he didn't think it was anger.
John knew he hadn't seen Sherlock for two years, but it somehow hadn't occurred to him that Sherlock hadn't seen him for two years as well. He was unable to reach out to anyone; not John, not Mrs Hudson, not Lestrade, not even Molly or his brother. All the people he interacted with on a daily basis, completely stripped away from him, leaving him isolated and probably bored out of his brilliant mind. He hadn't even considered that Sherlock, quite possibly, felt just as alone as he did, likely even more so. John had never felt more selfish.

"I thought you were dead. For two years, I thought I'd lost you." John mumbled, looking down at his lap.

"I know John, but I needed you to think that. A lie can only be convincing if no one else knows about it. I'm sorry that I hurt you, I am, but I had to, for your safety."

The room gradually fell back into quiet again, but not as uncomfortably this time. They were both aware of the other's situation now. Well, a little moreso than before.
The rain had lightened up by now, yet still pattering softly against the window and now accompanied by the classical music that was drifting up from Mrs Hudson's flat below them.

"Are you sure you don't want any tea?" Sherlock asked again, "I was just about to go make some anyway so it's really no trouble..."

John inhaled deeply.
"Oh, go on then," He answered, shaking his head, the tiniest of grins gracing his features, "Do you remember how I take it?"

Sherlock smiled gently. "How could I forget?"

They had more to talk about, of course, but things tend to be easier to digest when you have a nice cup of tea and the presence of your best friend with you.
At first, John was upset to see Sherlock back, as anyone would be if they were in his situation, but then he listened. He listened to Mrs Hudson's speech, which was starting to make more and more sense the longer John sat there in the flat. And then he listened to Sherlock. He finally got to hear Sherlock's side of the story and understand where exactly it was that he was coming from.

Sherlock was back. And John couldn't be more relieved.

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Approx 2240 words
Leave any suggestions for stories in the comments, they're always appreciated :)
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