Back From the Dead, but Not Alive

It has been four years since the day John last saw his best friend, Four years since the day he jumped. Four excruciatingly long, painful years, that made John's life a living hell. He had no one, even Mycroft had stopped pestering him, there was no need. Mrs. Hudson was his only company in these dark days, every day at four P.M. She would come up the stairs and share a cup of tea with him in silence. When she would leave with the tray he would stare out the window and remember. He remembered all of the cases he had solved with Sherlock. He remembered him entering covered in blood of a pig with a harpoon in his hand, and smiling, that stupid smile is what he missed the most, along with the baritone chuckle that rarely escaped the Detective's lips. He remembered how extraordinary Sherlock was, how brilliant his mind was. And He remembered the terrible day when that brain was strewn across the sidewalk, how he looked on to that dreadful roof and saw his best friend standing looking at him. He remembered the lump form in his throat and his eyes become warm with prickling tears as he watched his best friend dive, flailing wildly and hitting the ground with a sickening crunch. He remembered the feeling of a hundred bullets in his chest as he saw the blood pooling around that curly mop of hair. He remembered looking into those icy unseeing, calculating eyes and crying over the body of his best friend.

John took a deep breath, this has been his life, everyday, for four years. And he prayed everyday it would end.

A knocking came from the door, John stood and stretched his tired old bones as he made his way to the door. It wasn't Mrs. Hudson, she went out to the shop. Is Mycroft back to bother him some more? He reached for the hand gun on the arm rest of the chair and held it out of sight behind his back, just in case. The knocking became more insistent, growing louder and faster, like a drum roll.

"What ever you are selling I am not interested!" The knocking didn't cease.

"Mycroft? What do you want?" It wouldn't stop.

"Fine! Alright! I am coming! What the Hell-" John's mouth practically unhinged as he saw the Ghost of Sherlock Holmes in the door way, it had to be a ghost.

"I bought home the milk this time, John." Sure enough, in his hands sat a bottle of milk, still dripping with condensation.

"Sh- Sher- What?! How?! What!?" John gaped and looked the man up and down.

"It's Sherlock, Don't you remember?" And there it was, that stupid smile again.

John reached out with a trembling hand and recoiled when he touched the cloth of Sherlock's shirt. It was him. He was here, alive, in front of him. Then he leaned back and with all his might punched him in the jaw, with his other hand he grabbed the Detective by the throat, bought him closer and jabbed him in the ribs over and over again until he felt a crunch against his coiled fist. And it felt good. The force of the last punch was enough to send both men tumbling backwards head over heels until they reached the bottom of the staircase with John straddling the Detective. John lifted a final fist over his head and delivered one last blow to the Detective's nose with a crunch.

"YOU STUPID BASTARD! FOUR YEARS OF HELL YOU GAVE ME! FOUR FUCKING YEARS! YOU BASTARD! DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU PUT ME THROUGH! SHUT UP DON'T ANSWER THAT! DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID TO ME! How much I've missed you!" He picked the Detective up by the collar and pulled his arms around him tightly, still sitting on the dusty floor.

"Having a bad day, Doctor?" Sherlock breathed shakily into John's hair.

"I've missed you so much." He stood and helped the wobbly Detective to his feet, still keeping a tight grip on him for fear of him falling.

"Where have you been! All these years? Where were you-" John stopped when he noticed Sherlock tense, and if he wasn't mistaken, he saw tears in the Detective's cold gaze.

"Come on, let's get you upstairs, you look terrible." John wrapped an arm around the Detective's waist and helped him up the stairs and to the couch where he left Sherlock to fetch the first aid kit.

John returned and began to dab Sherlock's bleeding nose and mouth with a damp cloth.

"Your nose is broken, I'll fix that up in a moment."John placed his thumbs on either side of the crooked nose and on a count of three gave a hard squeeze, settling the bones back in place with a pop. Sherlock squealed and jerked his head back in pain smacking it against the wall behind him.

"Ow! Fuck!" He ran a hand through his black curls and rocked himself on the couch. John chuckled lightly and put the first aid kit back inside the cabinet.

"Take off your shirt." John entered the living room smiling and still couldn't believe who sat in front of him.

"Oh, I see, you broke my ribs just so you can see me shirtless, good plan." Sherlock lay himself down and pulled the blood stained shirt up and over his head, rolling it up he placed it under his neck.

John snorted as he bent over the Detective and placed his hand on the black and purple bruise that stretched across his right side and pressed, Sherlock growled deep in his throat and bit his lip.

"A few small fractures, not much to do, just sleep on your right side tonight." John gave a rough slap on Sherlock's side, sending a wave of pain over him again.

"Glad to be home again..." Sherlock gave a weak smile at his best friend. His. Best Friend.

Please comment, review!!!! Thank you!!!! ~Lizzie