A Pleasant Surprise - BBC Sherlock

It had been a month since Sherlock Holmes died. A month since John Watson saw his best friend jump off that roof. John didn't want to believe it. He couldn't believe it.

After all, it was Sherlock. He wouldn't kill himself. That's what he told himself, but his eyes told him otherwise as he stood in front of Sherlock's grave. He didn't show any signs of being suicidal, wasn't depressed, nothing. He was the same as he always was. Nothing changed about him.

John found himself clinging to the silly hope that Sherlock was alive. That it was all some sick joke because he was bored and he would walk in 221B Baker Street like nothing happened. It seemed like something he would do, at least. Maybe when John came home Sherlock would be lying on the couch, saying he was bored and shooting holes in the walls. He found himself smiling fondly at the memory as he left the graveyard. Maybe he'll go out for a pint or two.

Later that night he was stumbling into his flat, clearly drunk. To his surprise he saw Sherlock sitting on the couch, thinking. Before John could ask anything, the supposedly dead man looked up and said, "I was wondering when you'd be back."

John rubbed his eyes and blinked, trying to understand whatever was happening before him. Maybe he was hallucinating. Yes, he had to be. That was the only logical explanation. His drunken mind caused this. He nodded in agreement to himself. He stumbled up the stairs to his room as soon as his head hit the pillow.

Downstairs, Sherlock, who expected this reaction smiled and waited eagerly for the morning.

~*~*~*~

John woke with a pained groan. His head was pounding. It felt like someone took a sledgehammer and hit him fifty times and then some more out of morbid pleasure. He stayed in his bed, not wanting to move, as the events of last night replayed in his head. He let out another groan. His mind was so cruel, giving him false hopes. He forced himself out of bed, got dressed and went downstairs, expecting another unusually boring day. No weird experiments in the refrigerator. No chasing down taxis or criminals. No cases. No Sherlock Holmes-

The sweet, sweet sound of a violin being played, something he thought he'd never hear again, interrupted his thoughts. His sluggish pace down the stairs changed dramatically into a hurried run, hope finding its way into his heart. He reached the bottom of the steps and nearly slipped, expecting there to be more stairs as a sudden dizziness overcame him. He closed his eyes and leaned on the railing for a few moments, steadying his swimming mind.

Once he opened his eyes he saw Sherlock. There, in front of the window playing the violin like he always did. Unlike the usual annoyance he feels when he hears the violin, now it brought him an overwhelming sense of relief and joy. Upon hearing John's arrival, which wasn't hard from the stomping down the stairs, Sherlock turned around and put down the violin. "Good morning."

Hangover forgotten, John ran across the room towards Sherlock and punched him in the face. He deserved it after all. Leaving him alone to think he was dead for a year. How could he get over that after he told him such a terrible lie? He couldn't. He simply couldn't.

Sherlock expected the reaction. He would be mad at him, it was only normal. For John at least. What Sherlock didn't expect though, was what John did next. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's thin waist and buried his face in his shoulder. "You bastard." He said, his voice slightly muffled and though he tried to keep his voice under control it cracked anyway. Sherlock returned the embrace tentatively, not knowing what to do in these situations.

John wanted nothing more than to cry. Cry in relief, in joy, in frustration because he's alive. But men don't cry. Soldiers don't cry. They man up and pull through it without a single tear. And yet, once again, his eyes betrayed him and tears began to well up in his eyes. They kept spilling out without his control. No matter how tight he closed his eyes they would find their way out somehow. Sherlock, still at a loss of what to do, is rubbing what he hopes are soothing circles on John's trembling back and whispers calming words that he hoped would help.

They stood like that until John's sobs subsided and eventually stopped. John's hold on Sherlock didn't loosen any throughout the affair. The headache only proved to get worse from the crying but he couldn't care less. John's voice was hoarse and muffled against Sherlock's shoulder and difficult to understand, "Promise me something, Sherlock."

"What is it?"

"Don't leave." Me hung after the end of the sentence, unsaid, but not unheard.

"I won't. I promise."

John smiled up at him with red puffy eyes and his arms fell to his side almost reluctantly as he went to make breakfast, the smile never leaving his lips.

Maybe today won't be so boring after all.