One more miracle

Chapter Six

Sherlock obliged to John's request with unusual haste, simply glad that John was giving him a chance to explain at all. The army doctor watched him from his arm chair, taking in the way he moved about. He had missed it so much. But he wasn't about to soften up. Not yet. He still had difficulty accepting that he was truly there, and the fact that he had been alive all along, and had listened to him everyday. Did Sherlock really hold him to such high regard? Did he mean that much to the detective that had him intrigued from the beginning?

His soft face of reverie shattered when Sherlock returned, carrying two saucers and smoothly handing one to John. Sniffing once in precaution, he took a small sip. Exactly the way he liked it. All these years, Sherlock had remembered. Not only that, but he was drinking it as well despite him preferring coffee. They sat in silence for awhile, Sherlock staring John down in hopes he would speak while John kept his gaze anywhere in the room besides him. He was definitely glad Sherlock was alive, overjoyed, yet his mind simply had to make everything complicated. It just had to dampen spirits by making him remember all the pain Sherlock put him through, making him recall what he had been willing to do just before Sherlock returned. These thoughts caused him to turn slightly more bitter and he turned to face Sherlock.

"What have you been doing this whole time while you were.... gone?" He asked, his intention to continue sounding angry but rather sounded weary. Three years had definitely taken it's toll on the poor man, and he looked far older and worn down. He watched Sherlock, noticing his jaw stiffen slightly as he saw what he had brought his only friend to.

"Throughout the past three years I've managed to apprehend two of the assassins. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson are safe, but you... you aren't." He set his saucer on the end table to face John properly. "Technically you are in even more danger than before. If he finds out I'm alive, he will kill you." John simply hung his head, shaking his head as if to scold him. He looked up again, and his entire military demeanor seemed to ebb away as his eyes held the threat of tears.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

A lump rose in Sherlock's throat as John continued. "You could have told me what you were going to do before. You could have... you could have given me some sort of message instead of leaving me to rot, giving me nothing but memories." His voice grew increasing louder. "I bet Mycroft knows you're alive! He could've told me you were instead of filling my gun with blanks like he didn't trust me!" John knew that particular complaint was irrational, for only moments before he had attempted to take his life, but his emotions were at their peak. He couldn't calm down now. Until Sherlock spoke.

"I did."

His face froze and he stopped, gazing at Sherlock who had become extremely interested in the carpet.

"What?" Sherlock's oceanic eyes flitted up towards him again.

"I did try to tell you in the only way possible." He leaned forward towards John in his seat. "Do you remember every word we exchanged that day?" John dug deep into his mind to that constantly visited scene of horror, replaying it all in his head. Yet the words were all a blur. The only audible things he recalled were crying his name as he plummeted towards the ground, and the sickening thud that followed. He eventually shook his head ever so slightly, and Sherlock continued.

"I remember every single one." He leaned back and allowed his eyes to wander towards the fireplace. "It's all a magic trick." Each word stung John like a thorn as he remembered each one echoing through his phone.

"I..." John sighed, clasping his hands together and hanging his head.

"Don't worry." Sherlock stood, adjusting his scarlet scarf the matched the blood recently marring John's thoughts. "I do not expect you to forgive me. I have done you wrong." He began heading towards the door, and the the next few seconds were tortuous for John. His mind threw about every reason whether he should forgive him or not. There had been so much pain, but in the end, Sherlock had done it for him. He jumped up and met Sherlock at the door, catching his arm before he could go. Sherlock watched with intense, focused eyes as John placed a key to the flat in his hands, the same one Molly had given him off of Sherlock's 'corpse'.

"Welcome back, Sherlock Holmes."

A/N: Hey, whoever is reading this, could you leave a comment so I know? Thanks!