Continued Sherlock fanfic, post-Reichenbach Fall. The first part is here.

Written for Kajsa.

    “Why aren’t you?”

            Sherlock’s brow furrowed and he tilted his head. Jesus Christ, John had missed that.

            “Why aren’t I what?”

            “You know,” John said, picking at skull fragments on the mantle. “Rolling in your grave. The one in Isleworth Cemetery.” He looked back at Sherlock, who now looked sheepish. Good. “The one with your name on it.” The one I’ve been visiting, he thought.

            None of this was real. How could it be? John had come to be alone, mourning his friend, and now he was neither, for the friend had showed up uninvited to his own cold house very much alive.

            But I saw him jump, he thought.

            But I felt his pulse, he thought.

            Good thing John’s therapist was on speed dial.

            But in the very back of his mind, John knew that it was real. Sherlock was as real as he had ever been, or even more so, and John hated him for it. He couldn’t have let John in on the secret, maybe? Not waited two whole weeks just to reveal himself in his own apartment, as if nothing had changed? Maybe spared John the lack of sleep and the oceans of pain and the solitude?

            Of course he couldn’t have. Sherlock needed his damn theatrics.

            Fuck him.

            “Molly arranged things for me,” Sherlock finally said, toeing the tasseled edge of the floor rug.  He let out a small chuckle. “Good thing I was fancied by a coroner.”

            Good thing John’s fist was too quick for Sherlock’s face.

            He took two quick steps, wound up his arm, and John’s knuckles slammed into Sherlock’s right cheekbone; the force threw him backwards into the kitchen table, which was still covered in microscopes and Petri dishes and a collection of fingernail samples that had been pilfered from God knows where. John didn’t even feel sorry as glass broke and chairs crashed to the ground. He felt nothing as Sherlock fell to the floor and winced and brought his hands to his face.

            Emotion finally pierced his rage when Sherlock’s eyes met John’s, exposing a world of hurt and apology and worry.  But it was quick to fade.

            “You were dead,” John spit. “You convinced everybody that you had died.


            “Do you want pictures from the funeral?” he interrupted. “Do you want a copy of my speech?”

            Sherlock’s eyes squeezed shut, but he tried again. “I know you’re upset, but listen-“

            “No you listen, Sherlock Holmes, because you are officially the world’s biggest ARSEHOLE.”

            Sherlock stood up, his hand applying pressure to his swollen cheek, and strode angrily over to John.

            “I wasn’t given a choice.”

            “NEITHER WAS I.”

            With his hand covering half of his face, and through the anger and the sadness, John saw Sherlock roll his eyes.



            “I’m not just some pet that you keep around for tricks!” John bellowed, pacing around the room. “I’m your damn flatmate!" He turned and shouted into Sherlock’s face."People thought we were together. I DESERVED TO KNOW.”

            Sherlock pushed past John and flopped onto the couch. “Do you think people would have believed me if my-” he made a face “-boyfriend wasn’t upset about my death?” He shot John a skeptical look. “You’re a retired army doctor, not an actor.”

            John took a deep breath, determined not to shout anymore, and sat down on the coffee table.

            “People think we’re dating because we care about each other.” Sherlock didn’t look at John as he spoke, pulling a small blue ball out of his pocket and throwing it in the air. “I care about you, Sherlock. I’m the only friend that you have. And just to be clear, I am so very, very glad that you aren’t dead.”

            Catching the blue ball in midair, John took Sherlock’s hand and squeezed it; Sherlock looked over at their hands, and gazed up at John in incredulity. He hadn’t been expecting civility for a while.

            John threw the ball at Sherlock’s face. “But you are the single biggest dick to ever walk the streets of London.” He stood up and turned the coffee table on its side, dumping books and half-filled mugs of coffee onto the carpet; then he stalked off toward the door. “Part of me wishes that Moriarty had just shot you right then and there.”

            Sherlock sat up. “What about the other part of you?”

            John didn’t stop walking, and didn’t turn around.

            “The other part of me wants to shoot you myself.”

  1. assclassandsass said: eeeeee you like it you really like it?
  2. stalkerish reblogged this from assclassandsass and added:
    omg I had to stop like five times just to say “OH MY GOD GJSHGKLHGHK” out loud
  3. assclassandsass posted this