A brisk wind blew through the door as John hastened to close it, stepping into the warmth of the flat's small entranceway. It had been unseasonably cold for the past week, making his daily trecks to and from work even more unbearable than they had already been. They gave him too much time to think. About how he'd likely have to move out of the flat at the end of the month since he couldn't come up with enough money needed to pay the rent. About how he hadn't had a date in ages since none of the women around him ever seemed to interest him anymore. And about Sherlock. He'd had far too much time to think about that.

He began climbing the narrow staircase, stripping off his jacket as he did so, before he came to an abrupt halt just before the turn in the stairs. For a brief moment, he'd thought he'd heard the almost forgotten twang of a violin string being plucked upstairs. But no, it must have just been his imagination. Extinguishing the thought, he continued walking.

There it was again.

Again, John paused. Had it really been his imagination? After a few agravatingly long moments of waiting, being as silent as he could manage for fear of missing it, he heard it once more.

He didn't hesitate for even a moment. He rushed up the steps, dropping his coat behind him as he did so. Just before he reached the door leading into the sitting room however, he froze. Did he really want to see what lay beyond that doorway, so familiar yet so foreboding? What if it really had just been his imagination? It had been a long day. His mind could just be playing tricks on him. The dead couldn't come back to life after all. He shouldn't be wishing for the impossible.

But what if? What if he was right? What if his mind wasn't fooling him? What if the man that he had ached to see for what felt like an eternity really was just on the other side of the thin door, sitting there plucking at his violin, lost in thought just as he had so many times before?

That small hope was all he needed. He just prayed it wouldn't betray him.

Taking a deep breath, he turned the knob, opened the door, and stepped through the passageway in one fluid movement, not allowing himself any time to rethink this action.

And there he was. Sitting in his black leather chair, eyes staring off into space, violin tucked under his chin, just as he always had been. He didn't even look up.

"Sherlock?" John asked, just above a whisper. He didn't believe his eyes. He was afraid to believe.

"Hello, John." Still Sherlock make any attempt to look at John. He just sat there, his finger moving now and then to pluck another chord.

"…What are you doing here?"

"I live here. I assumed you knew this."

"No, I mean what are you doing here, alive, rather than lying dead in some grave in Newport cemetery."

"You asked me to not be dead. I thought I may as well oblige."

"I-" He cut himself off, confused and bewildered, "How… did you know I said that? No, wait, don't answer that. Better question: Exactly how are you alive?"

He fully expected the man before him to go into one of his usual long winded explanations, but instead Sherlock simply turned his head to look at John and smiled slightly. "Missed me, did you?"

John paused a moment before he answered. "Would you mind standing up a minute?"

A look of confusion flashed across Sherlock's eyes, but nonetheless he obliged, rising and pacing quickly over to his roommate. Without warning, John swung his fist out, hitting Sherlock harder than he had when they'd been trying to sneak into Irene Adler's residence. Harder than he'd even known he was capable of. The taller man staggered, barely able to stop himself from toppling over as he slammed a hand against the wall to right himself. "That," John said, "was for making me think you were dead. And that's not even close to the amount of pain that you put me, that you put all of us through with your little charade."

"Right, I deserved that," Sherlock replied, eyes cast down as he held a hand to his throbbing cheek.

John spun around, pacing back and forth a few times, hand running through his hair, before turning back towards Sherlock. Grabbing the man's shirt so that he could pull him down, John crushed his lips against Sherlock's before quickly pulling away and striding to the door.

"And what was that for?" Sherlock asked softly.

"…For coming back."

Without turning around, he left the room, walking quickly up the stairs and to his room. As he shut the bedroom door behind him, still not completely convinced he hadn't simply imagined Sherlock being there, his cell phone buzzed in his pocket, alerting him of a new text.

"I missed you too. –SH"


A/N: I watched through Sherlock around a week ago and well, suffice to say I quite enjoyed it. This isn't at all how I think John and Sherlock will actually reunite, but I liked the idea and I just really want them to kiss when Sherlock returns, okay? This is my first time writing about these characters, so hopefully it's not too bad.

BBC's Sherlock and its characters were written and created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I own nothing but my imagination.