Here I am again, with another AGOS fic, and I would first like to take a moment to say that I admire all you fanfiction writers.

While I find it very entertaining to write a fanfiction I also noticed it can be quite frustrating. Maybe it is just me but I got the problem that I know exactly how I want to write something, but it never comes out the way it was supposed! And while somtimes the change is a blessing, other time it only makes me even more insecure about the things I write and I read it over and over and then I put it away for some time, to clear my mind and then I read it again and again, and it can be quite despairing.

And again I thank everyone who reviewed and favorited my other story, always gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling :)

Anyway, I tryed my hand on the after-show reunion here, and I have changed it so many times that I really don't want to anymore :D I hope it is ok. This is the first of two chapters.

Oh and same warning again, I'm a writing Newbie and english is not my first language :)

Anger and Forgiveness

Two o'clock.

Two o'clock in the morning and by all means, he should be asleep next to his beautiful wife.

It's not like he wasn't trying. He was lying in bed next to a sleeping Mary after all. And yet, sleep was one of the farthest things from his mind.

And who was responsible for his wakefulness? Again?

Of course, none other than consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, whom he had thought dead, up until the previous afternoon.

Well, he hadn't taken his return as good as he could have. Maybe he even overreacted a bit. A lot. But something in him had just snapped. He couldn't help it.

"No Mary." John called down to his wife, "It wasn't important. Just…" Just what? A tiny moment of foolish hope. Watson sighed. "Just something I wanted to know." Then he closed the door along with his eyes and slumped against it, banging his head on the wood twice, as if punishing himself for allowing to believe even for a second, that his best friend could still alive.

He had seen him fall to death. There was no mistake, Sherlock Holmes was…

"I believe you as a doctor are aware of the fact that even the slightest hit on the head can bring damage to the, in my fullest opinion, most important part of your body. We don't want to risk that, do we?"

Watson froze, but didn't dare to open his eyes. That voice… it was impossible.

He could hear someone clear his throat. "Watson?" it sounded a bit uncertain, very much unlike the way he was used to this voice sounding like. He was used to confidence and often arrogance.

Slowly the doctor opened one eye, peering over to his desk, where he believed the voice to be coming from. After a moment of disbelieving, one-eyed starring, he opened his second lid.

Either there was something wrong with his eyes, ears and/or mind, or there in front of his desk stood non other than his dead friend Sherlock Holmes.

And he looked ridiculous.

His hands were clasped behind his back in a familiar position, his hair looked a little dishevelled, not unusual either. But he was wearing a really hideous attire, in colours that seem awfully well-known to the doctor.

But all this John only noticed fleetingly, merely a habit he picked up from Holmes. To observe. He was too overwhelmed with the presence of the detective, he couldn't really think.

The two man just stood there for an unknown amount of time. One to shocked to do anything else, the other seemed a bit nervous, shifting a little from one foot to the other.

Finally Holmes seemed to lose the patience and made a step towards his friend.

"Watson? I just," he sniffed his nose a bit, like he often does, and straightened up. "I just came by to see…to say that, well I guess you have already deduced it, that I'm not as dead as some might thing I am."

Still, the doctor could nothing but stare. Was that really Holmes in front of him? Hadn't he seen him fall? Was he dreaming? He'd already, more than once, dreamed his dearest friend had been returned to him. But…he seems so real.

"Uhm, it would be beneficial for this conversation if…well, if you could come out of your…state of shock."

The detective was now standing right in the middle of the desk and the doctor, waiting for the other man to make a move. Which he finally did.

John slowly pushed away from the door, deciding that standing around wasn't helping matters at all.

With steady steps he walked over to the assumed dead detective and extended a tentative hand to the mans shoulder, needing to feel the solid body to confirm that he wasn't just seeing things. The hand slowly slid down to the mans chest, and only when Watson could feel the steady heartbeat beneath his hand he looked at Holmes face for the first time.

"How…" he couldn't even find words to state his question.

"Ah yes," Holmes now seemed to feel more confident again, "The how is a very interesting but also long story, you see…"

And Holmes was talking. Talking like he was just explaining one of his cases he had solved, but Watson wasn't able to listen. Emotions were catching up with him, and strangely, it weren't the relieved ones.

It was real. He was real. This was his friend, his brother, the one he had seen falling down the waterfall of Reichenbach, whose funeral he had attended. Two month he had gone trough hell, trying to adjust his life new. He'd felt lonely and abandoned, despite the fact that he was building a new life together with his new wife. He had mourned and missed him to the point it hurt. And now he was standing, right here in his study, like it was the most natural thing!

Something in him snapped, and before he knew it his fist stung and Holmes was on the floor, holding his jaw gingerly.

"Well," the detective said calmly, getting up, still rubbing his face, "I can't say that was totally unexpected. Are you know ready to lis…"

But Watson wasn't finished, Holmes had in the past often done something to annoy him or make him angry, but never had felt as mad at the other man as he did at that very moment.

"How dare you!" he hissed "Two month you have been gone! Made me…everybody believe you were dead! What where you thinking?" his voice grew steadily louder and Holmes was cautiously stepping away from him, but Watson followed, his finger in front of him punctuating his words.

"Now, my dear friend, if you'd let me ex…"

"No! I don't want to hear it! Of all the infuriating, stupid, annoying, self-minded things, this Holmes, this is definitely the most outrageous of your doings! How could you do that to us? To me?"

Watson had Holmes backed against the door he had previously been leaning against, the detective's hands where raised in front of him in a placating gesture, but Johns fury knew no end.

"I've mourned you Holmes! I've thought I had lost my best friend and now it turns out said 'friend' just didn't feel like telling me he survived, rather leaving me with the pain of loss!"

"No, it really wasn't like th…"

"Get out!"

Until now the detective had remained calm and even understanding, but at this words his eyes widened a bit.

"Watson can't we just…" again, John wouldn't let him finish.

"No! Get. Out. I don't want to talk to you! Get out you selfish bastard!"

Holmes cringed almost imperceptibly, then sniffed again. "Alright. Maybe I really should take my leave for know. Let you calm down. Then we can talk."

"Don't count on it! And now leave!"

Watson stepped back, fists clenched at his sides, to give Sherlock room to go trough the door, which the detective did with slightly slumped shoulders. But Watson wasn't about to take pity on him, feeling to much fury toward the man at the moment.

One more time the black haired man turned to the fuming doctor.

"I'm back at Backer Street. I'll come by tomorrow or so." He said almost indifferently, but everyone who knew Sherlock would hear the uncertainty accompanying this statement.

Watson turned away, "Just go."

Only after he heard the door closing and Holmes footsteps descending down the stairs, followed by the closing front door, did John relax his posture, the anger left him slowly and he slid to the ground to lean against his desk, emotionally exhausted. He closed his eyes and just tried to breath.

John didn't know how long he stayed in that position, until he heard a soft knocking and the door opening again.

"I've cancelled our reservation in Brighton." Mary said softly.

"Hm." Good. He didn't feel like honeymoon anymore.

"He looked tired." She commented quietly.

"Please, Mary," he said tiredly and pressed his hands to his face, "leave me alone for now." And she left.

After he had calmed down and was thinking rationally again, he had had felt sorry for sending Holmes away. He should have at least let him explain, but all he had been able to see was his own anger. He had felt hurt and, yes, even a bit betrayed.

He and Holmes were supposed to be friends. But what friend lets the other go trough the pain of loss, that wasn't even necessary, for there never had been a loss to begin with?

But then again. What friend throws the other out when he tries to explain himself?

What if Holmes now decides to leave for good?

Watson groaned in frustration and turned to his side. Even if he had been angry when he finally had his friend back, John was sure he wouldn't be able to take it if he lost Holmes again.

But Holmes had said he would come back tomorrow, hadn't he? So he would be coming back… wouldn't he?

Suddenly he felt the desperate need to see the man. To check up that he was still there. That he hadn't burned the bridge of friendship with his sudden display of fury, for which he thought he had half the right to and for the other half he felt guilty.

Hastily but as quiet as he could manage, the doctor got out of bed and searched in the dark for clothes until a light was turned on to his surprise.

His wife sat patiently in bed, she didn't look angry, but like she expected this to happen.

"I'm sorry Mary. I really have to go." He explained and went to the adjoining bathroom to put his clothes on.

"Yes, I know." she sighed when he emerged back in the bedroom, "Do look him over, John. He really looked unnatural tired."

He hadn't seen it. Was too absorbed in his own emotion to look out for the wellbeing of Holmes. He would change that now.

John leaned down and kissed his woman goodbye "I will."

Then he was on his way and Mary turned off the light after his exit.

Two o'clock or not. He was going to Backer Street. Now.