Reunion

Irene stood out on Baker Street. She'd knocked on the door and waited for it to be opened.
She heard John stumbling down the stairs. His limp had returned after Sherlock's fall. The cheerful, happy John, was now always grumpy, depressed, never once smiling. He was very stubborn, always complaining that everyone worried too much about him and he stated that he was fine each and every time. We all knew that wasn't true. John had lost his best friend, maybe they were more than that, Irene had always known that. They were more, although they'd never acknowledge that themselves. She braced herself for John's reaction, John was still under the impression that she was dead, like Mycroft had told him.

Mycroft should've known better. He was a smart man, almost as smart as his younger brother. He should've known that Sherlock wouldn't let her down, that he'd save her. It wasn't entirely fair. She hadn't known that Sherlock was coming for her either. And Mycroft should've known that she'd get out of there alive. She'd always find a way.

She heard John unlock the door. She clenched her fists, just to control her nerves. Her hands were almost white by the time John opened the door. He opened it, looked at her, dropped his jaw, and stuttered.

"What… Who… How.. You were… You… You can't…"

"Hello John. Good to see you. May I come in?"

John thought it over. Then, he replied:

"How can I know that you're not going to sedate me, kidnap me, drug me, strip me naked and tie me to a post, do you want me to go on?"

"Oh yes, you're list was just getting interesting." Irene said with a sly smile. John laughed a little nervous, although it was genuine, she believed. It was a start.

"Come in, before we both catch a cold." John let Irene climb the stairs first, eyed it suspiciously, then he climbed it as well. It took him great effort, each and every time.

"How's your leg?" Irene asked, once he had reached the living room.

"Fine. Oh wait, it's not. I'm a bloody cripple! I can't do anything, it's bloody awful. Does that answer your question?" Then he slapped a hand across his mouth.

"Oh god, I'm sorry. That was really, really rude. I'm so sorry."

"It's okay John, I understand. Now, how about some tea?"

"Yes, yes of course!" John hurried to the kitchen.

"So, what have you been up to?" Irene called from the living room.

"Oh, not that much. I've taken up a writing course, I was planning to write…" John stopped. His hands clamped around the edge of the kitchen table. He squeezed his eyes shut. Irene saw him, and ran to him. She slid a hand across his lower back and stroked him.

"Are you okay?" She whispered.

John didn't answer, he was too concentrated.

"Yes, fine." John replied, finally.

"What were you saying. About writing. Tell me, John."

"I… I'm going to write about… him. And me. And you. And Mycroft. The Chinese drugs. The pink lady. The cabbie. M… Mor… That other…. And more. I'm going to write it all. People will read it and know how remarkable he was. How special. So amazing. Everyone will know. It's my duty. The last thing I can do for him."

"That's amazing, John. Here, just, sit down and I'll get the tea, okay?"

John nodded. He seemed dazed. He sat down in Sherlock's favourite chair. Irene returned to him, setting down the tea on the table.

"So, miss Adler…"

"Irene." She interrupted.

"Irene. So, why are you here?"

"I'll explain that in a minute. First things first. What happened? Just now, in the kitchen?"

John flinched. He shrugged it off, quickly, got himself back together.

"Nothing, just, sometimes I get flashbacks, and I can't seem to control it. About him. And it's so, overwhelming, I can't do anything. My mind is controlled by it. If I'm holding something, I drop it, and try to find something I can hold on to. Sometimes it takes five minutes, other times it takes only five second. It depends. I'm sorry, if I scared you."

"No, no, that's quite all right."

"Good."

"Now, about your book. Is there anything I can do for you? I mean, you can borrow Kate anytime, and if you call me, on this number…" She got a small paper out of her pocket, a phone number was scribbled on it. She handed it to John.
"… I can always make time for you. Anytime. Whatever I can do to help, anytime, anywhere, just, call me. Okay?"

"Thank you. I will."

"Now, you're wondering why I'm here, right? You wouldn't believe me if I said that it's been a while and I just wanted to catch up with you."

"No, I wouldn't. Spill the beans, Irene. Please."

"It… It's him. It's him, John. He's… not…"

"Who? Mori…?"

"No, no, he's gone. He's not a problem, not anymore. No, it's Sherlock. He's…"

"Don't say it."

"John, he's alive."

"That's not possible. I would know. He'd let me know. He wouldn't do this to me." John started to breath heavy. He looked around, perhaps trying to concentrate on something else, perhaps he tried to spot Sherlock, expecting to find him in the apartment. Little did John know.

"John, you must understand, he did this for you. There are a lot of things you don't know, for your own good, for everyone."

"How can he possibly have done this for me? No, you mean he has done this to me! Look at me! I have been a mess, a complete and utter mess for so long. That's typical. So typical Sherlock. Or, it's you. Are you playing tricks on me? Are you manipulating me? Don't pretend to be innocent, it's not like you haven't done that before. Look at you, so stunned. Do my suspicions come as a surprise for you. Tough luck. You're lying. Everyone's always lying. I can't trust anyone. Look at me. The only one I ever trusted with everything was Sherlock Holmes, the one who played most tricks on me, more than anyone's ever done. The man I think, or thought, is dead, and now I'm doubting whether he's alive or not. Is this just some part of a sick joke? No, you want to rub it in, you loved him too, you loved him like I did, and now you're back for revenge on me. That's great. I almost, almost, believed your little act. With the help on the book, the tea, the concern, the sudden visit, yes, all very good. Not quite good enough, though. I'm on to you. I know what you're doing."

John eyes watered. He was angry, upset, all kinds of emotions running through him. He didn't know what to think. He wasn't actually going to believe the woman who'd sedated his best friend, a fugitive sex-worker, the one who can't be trusted. Still, he wanted it to be true. Right? He wanted his best friend back. John looked at Irene. Tears were rolling down her face. He wanted to hold her close, offer her his comfort, but some part of him told him to stay strong, if he ever wanted to find out the truth about Sherlock.

"Why are you crying? Of all people. You don't do emotions, right? Is this also part of it?" he demanded. He crossed his arms.

"John." An all too familiar voice sounded through 221b. All the walls John had carefully built, tumbled down. That man. It wasn't possible, it wasn't, John was hallucinating, he was sure of it.

"John, it's me. I'm here, I'm not some fantasy."

"Hallucination."

"What?"

"I thought you were a hallucination. You should've known that. You would know if you were my imagination. So…" John didn't dare turn around. He heard the slow, careful footsteps of his best, dead, friend. He felt the long, slender hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, John. It had to be done."

"Why?" John squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't want to see him. He couldn't see him.

"Moriarty."

"That's not a reason."

"It is. He offered me a deal."

"What was it? If you can drag John through hell, and get him back, deliver him the final blow and you will be rewarded with tons of gold? Something like that?"

"Not even close, John. Awful deduction. No, it was either I jump, or you, Irene, Mrs Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, and everyone dear to me die."

Silence.

It took John a few moments to get it all sunk in.

"You… You absolute fucking bastard." He turned around, and lifted his fist.

"No John, you don't want to do that. Please."

"How could you know what I want? You left me!" Johns fist landed weakly on Sherlock's chest. That was Sherlock's queue. His arms wrapped around John, pulling him close. John sobbed in his shoulder, Sherlock squeezed him tighter.

"I'm so sorry John. I am. Please, could you ever forgive me?"

"Seriously, Sherlock. You owe me big time. But I've never let anyone in your room, so it's still yours, if you want it."

"Of course I want it. Leaving you was the hardest thing I've ever done."

"Well. That was interesting. My job is done, I'll leave you alone. I'll be hearing for you. Oh, and one last thing: I was so right! You were obviously gay!" She almost squealed. John rolled his eyes.

"Just because we hugged, doesn't immediately mean…" Sherlock interrupted him by pressing his lips onto John's. John's arms found their way to his neck, pulling him closer.

"John." Sherlock said, once he pulled away, after some time. Irene left a little while ago, they hadn't noticed.

"What? Not good?"

"Perfect, but there's just one thing. You are gay. How long have you been wanting to do that?"

"Not that long…"

"Honestly?"

"About two, three years." Sherlock chuckled, John laughed heartily.

"How about you?" John asked him.

"Same." Now they both laughed, Sherlock more laughing because John's laugh was funny. He was very cute when he did that."

"How about some tea? Irene hasn't touched hers."

"Sure."

Over tea, they discussed everything. Where they'd been, what they've done, the true story behind Moriarty, literally everything. Sherlock told one story about how he carefully either put Moriarty's men behind bars or slid their throat. Then John told him about an interesting soccer match, or about how he'd watched a movie with Stamford. They talked all night, until about three AM. Both of them were tired, so John suggested that they should get changed.

"Can I sleep with you, tonight?" Sherlock asked, reluctantly, although direct.

"Sure. Why not? We're a couple now, aren't we?" John replied. Sherlock smiled.

"Which bed?"

"Mine's not dusty." Sherlock chuckled.

"Yours, then."