Imagine if this was how Sherlock came back.

Imagine if this was how Sherlock came back.

Imagine if this was how Sherlock came back.

John Watson was at his desk, his chin resting on his folded arms, his eyes following the Newton’s Cradle on his desk. It was strangely relaxing. Nothing really changing. Nothing happening. Just stability. It was almost hypnotizing and John would simply watch it when he had no patients.

Newton’s first law of motion. The velocity of a body remains constant unless acted upon by external forces.

A body falling, crashing to the pavement. He was running, faster and faster…he was held back…the other people stopped him from catching Sherlock…wouldn’t let him through…they didn’t know…they couldn’t possibly know what had been lost that day.

Newton’s second law of motion. The rate of change of momentum is proportional to the imposed force and goes in the direction of the force.

John could still see him on the roof, arms outstretched as if he was about to take flight. For one small second, John had thought that he saw wings emerge from the back of the flapping black coat. But Sherlock had pushed himself down. He had fallen. His wings had been ripped off and all he could do was fall and bleed.

John was so engrossed in the swinging orbs that he didn’t notice the door swing open, nor did he notice the presence of another person until a hand flew into his line of sight, catching one of the metal balls. John blinked and looked up, his vision slightly blurred from watching the kinetic balls for so long.

“Newton’s third law of motion,” the man said, his baritone voice achingly familiar. “For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.”

John blinked again, this time several times in succession before getting up swiftly, his chair falling backward and crashing to the smooth floor of his office, and stumbled backward, falling over the chair that now lay overturned on the floor. The man immediately rushed around the desk and helped him up.

“It seems working behind a desk has slowed your reflexes.”

John pushed away from his former roommate, who looked much altered since he had last seen him at the top of St. Bart’s. For one, he wasn’t dead. He had also lost his characteristic wild black curls, his hair now a dark blonde and cut a good deal shorter. There was a long scar stretching from the side of his forehead to his cheekbone, which now stood out even more, stretching his pale skin, giving him the look of a dead man walking. But his eyes were still the same. Calm. Calculating. Watchful.


“I understand you’re shocked,” Sherlock said, setting the chair upright and gently lowering the doctor into it. “I would be surprised if you weren’t shocked and—”

“Angry?” John asked, getting back up out of the chair, ignoring the ache in his side from the chair. “Because I’m angry Sherlock. I am very angry.

“Yes, I understand that, John and I’m sorry. I—”

At this, John let out a laugh. It wasn’t a laugh that Sherlock was used to, though. This one was rough and harsh. It burned.

“Sorry? Sorry? You come waltzing back after three years…three years during which I thought my best friend was dead…and all you say is sorry?

“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” Sherlock said quickly.

John glared up at Sherlock, his hand closing around the collar of the taller man’s shirt, tugging him closer. “Good, because it’s going to take a hell of a lot more than just “sorry” for me to even consider forgiving you, you bloody tosspot,” he hissed before shoving Sherlock backward and pulling his fist back, and swinging at Sherlock’s jaw but Sherlock managed to block it.

“Newton’s first law,” Sherlock said calmly, his bony fingers clamped tightly around John’s wrist, keeping his fist well away from his face. “A body remains in motion with constant velocity unless acted upon by an external force.”

He hooked his foot around John’s ankles, sending John falling backward onto the desk.

“Newton’s second law. The rate of change of momentum is proportional to the imposed force and goes in the direction of the force.” He towered over John, eyes blazing. “Now are you going to listen to me or not?”

John could have easily thrown Sherlock off. The man looked as if the faintest breath of wind would blow him away. Sherlock knew this, too, but for some reason John did nothing, simply glaring up at Sherlock.

“Thirty seconds. I’ll give you thirty seconds to explain.”

Sherlock let go of John, letting him up before sitting down in the chair usually occupied by John’s patients. “If I didn’t jump, you would have been shot. You, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. Moriarty had snipers on all three of you. It was the only way to save you. But falling wasn’t enough. I had to get rid of the web and clean the mess Moriarty left me in and I couldn’t drag you into it. Not when it was so dangerous. Not when I could have lost you.”

“I could have helped,” John said. “I’ve been in a war.”

“You were a doctor.”

“It doesn’t mean I can’t fight,” he said, rubbing his face. “You didn’t have to do it alone. You didn’t have to leave me alone.”

Sherlock got up suddenly and began pacing, wringing his hands in an uncharacteristically nervous way. “You don’t understand. I…at the pool…when I saw you in that vest…I realized what Moriarty was capable of. I realized that he knew my one weakness. And I realized that he would use it to his advantage as many times as necessary and I couldn’t…I couldn’t allow that to happen. Not again.”

John watched Sherlock for a moment as he paced back and forth, back and forth before something clicked into place. Quietly, he got up and stood in front of Sherlock, stopping him in his tracks and wrapping his arms around him, pulling him into a hug.

Sherlock froze for a second, standing awkwardly for a second before wrapping his arms around his friend.

“Newton’s third law, action and reaction are equal and opposite,” he murmured before breaking the hug and taking a step back. “I would like to come home, John.”

“You already are.”


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