The response I got to the last chapter was awesome!

Shout out to Dancing Eyes and ShadowQueen1996 for noticing my Doctor Who feels!

SO this one is dedicated to an anonymous reviewer, who left me a review saying this:

"Anonymousadmirer: Doctorlock, I'm excited! This is my first time reviewing(cause this is my first time reading- and not just this fic, but in this fandom altogether!), and can I say you are fantastic! I can't wait for Sign or the crossover. Also, you are a perfect human being and I love you. Very much. So congratulations on being amazing! And I also pretty please have a prompt, if you're still accepting/doing those? Can you do John who refuses to believe Sherlock is alive? Because he's imagined him coming back so many times and deducing up some pretty believable reasons for Sherlock to be alive- he thinks the real Sherlock is his hallucinations again. So let me see reassuring Sherlock doing a bunch of stuff to convince John he's real. Angst/fluff, flangst if you will(which you will, apparently, based on your authors notes:D) anyways, thanks for being awesome again!"

Flangst is catching on! Yay!

So, darling anonymous reviewer, can I just personally thank you? Because I was having an absolute rubbish day, and then you leave this review, which is probably one of the nicest reviews I've ever received for anything I've ever written. Like seriously, I was nearly in tears after reading this, because everything was just crap, and then you're there and you're saying how awesome I am and how amazing my work is, and not only that, BUT YOU'RE A NEWBIE TO REVIEWING TOO AND YOU'RE SO NICE. It's hard to try find someone who's this nice in reviews! Usually it's just people correcting things or requesting things or pointing things out and, yes, occasionally I get lovely reviews saying nice things, but I haven't had one in a while and asdfghjkl I'm sorry I'm almost crying again.

Just thank you, anon, for making my day a million times better than what it started out as.

This whole chapter is just dedicated to you and your prompt ok.

I think I did something like this before, in one of the request chapters, where Sherlock came back and John didn't believe it and stormed out and didn't return for like, three hours.

Something like that.

Anyway, anon, I'll do another one! But I'm gonna need a SWAT team ready to mobilize, street-level maps covering all of Florida, a pot of coffee, twelve Jammy Dodgers, and a fez.

Hope you enjoy it, anon, and you're the most awesome human being ever :'D

I had to listen to some depressing music to write this. Really didn't improve my mood, but it gave me a fair bit of inspiration! I suggest listening to Too Much by All Time Low, The Best Of You by Foo Fighters, I'd Come For You by Nickelback, Nuvole Bianche by Ludovico Einaudi, Everything by Lifehouse (and no, I don't mean LITERALLY everything, I mean the SONG Everything), and a few others. You can listen to some of these on YouTube (or on your iPod if you're awesome enough to have them) while reading, as it really does help. I don't own these songs, or Sherlock!

OH! By the way, the title of this chapter is inspired by the Hunger Games, so well done for you if you noticed that!

Chapter 19 - Real Or Not Real?

Sherlock shouldn't have been that surprised.

Three years he was gone. Three very long years, in which there was a lot of fighting and gun shots and wounds and coffee and stalking and Moriarty's men.

He hadn't expected it to take so long. He hadn't expected that he'd return to find John...

Well.

Like that.

He had thought about his return carefully. John would be shocked, obviously. No doubt Sherlock would be punched.

A lot.

And no doubt John would probably storm out. Or faint. Or cry. Something along those lines.

Looking up, "How to tell your flatmate that you're not actually dead," on Google, surprisingly enough, wasn't all too helpful. The majority of the results involved confusing your roommate or pranking your flatmate or, as one WikiHow result said, "How To Deal With Romantic Feelings For Your Flatmate: 9 Steps."

Needless to say, Sherlock gave up after that.

He planned his return carefully. He broke the news to Ms. Hudson, who was quite shocked and did, indeed, faint. He was there when she woke up, and he explained that he survived, how he survived, and what he was doing all those years. Along with all that, he made one very clear point.

"You mustn't tell John that I am alive," he told her, pleading, "he can't know. Not yet, and not through someone else."

"Oh," she exclaimed, eyes wide, "oh, but he's an awful mess, Sherlock!" Tears prickled her eyes again, "He has to know-"

"-and he will," he interrupted her, nodding, "I will tell him, Ms. Hudson. But not now," he shook his head, "not yet. Do you understand?"

She froze, then nodded, closing her eyes and sniffing. She tugged him into a hug and he hugged her back.

He left, after that. John wasn't supposed to see him, so staying at Baker Street that close to the time when John returned from work was dangerous.

Sherlock had organised accommodation with Mycroft. He set Sherlock up in a flat that was just around the corner from where Irene Adler used to live, which put Sherlock on edge. However, he persevered, as he planned his official return.

He decided it would happen on the following Friday.

John would return from work, find Sherlock in the flat, and they would have the entire weekend to sort out whatever needed sorting out. That way John wouldn't miss any work, and they had as much time as they would need.

He planned it carefully. He had Ms. Hudson find out what time John would be returning from work and make sure he wasn't going out anywhere that night, or over the weekend.

On Friday, an hour before John would return home, Ms. Hudson let him into the flat. She told him how his things were packed into boxes, but that John hadn't done anything with them. He kept them in the bedroom upstairs, and had moved into Sherlock's bedroom.

Sherlock had spent that hour looking around the flat carefully, deducing. John's things were practically the same as they were three years ago. Medical books on the shelves, laptop on Sherlock's desk, smiley-face spray-painted on the wall, case-files covering the coffee table-

Wait. Why did John still have the case files?

Sherlock pushed the deduction to the back of his mind, not dwelling on it for too long. He was about to look for his violin when he heard it.

The familiar footsteps on the stairs, walking painstakingly slow.

It was John, obviously. Walking with... The cane? He was using it again? Of course he was using it again, Sherlock's 'suicide' would have put John under pressure and stress, among other things.

John reached the top of the stairs, opening the door and walking through.

He noticed Sherlock, stopped, then sighed, smiling.

"You're back again!" he said, his smile slowly forming into a grin, "Fantastic. I need your help."

Well.

Sherlock wasn't expecting that.

"J-John-" he began, but John cut him off.

"-I know, I know, 'It's a simple case, John, just look at the victim's shoes!'" John froze then, and laughed. "The shoes!" he cheered, "Of course they didn't check the shoes! That's good," he pointed at Sherlock, "nice to see you're still clever." He took out his phone and sent a quick text, popping it back in his pocket when he was finished. He looked at Sherlock again, narrowed his eyes for a split second, then shook his head and walked into the kitchen.

"So how long's it been," John called out from the kitchen, "a week? For me, anyway."

Sherlock was still in shock.

A week?

What was John talking about a week for-

Oh.

Oooohh.

Of course.

"You think I'm a hallucination," Sherlock called out, watching John carefully as he walked back into the room, this time carrying a steaming cup of tea. John shook his head.

"No, I know you're a hallucination. Big difference." He took a sip of his tea, smiling as Sherlock sat down. "Anyway," he continued, "you're here just in time. Lestrade's been harking me about this case, with the girl and the locked room?" He waved his hand, "You probably know about that. The shoes, though. I'm heading to the lab on Monday, I need you there to help me identify the mud on her shoes. Should tell us where she was, which narrows down exactly where the killer took her from. We find that out, we can track him down."

Sherlock blinked. John actually believed that he was a hallucination.

He was gone for three years. He hadn't expected John to get this bad.

"John..." he began, and John looked up at his expectantly, "you know I'm real, yes?" John started shaking his head, still smiling. Sherlock continued, "I'm not a hallucination, I'm real, I'm here. I didn't die, I faked my death to take down Moriarty for good! It worked!" At this point, John looked like he was about to start laughing, but Sherlock pressed on, "John, you have to listen to me-"

"'John, you have to listen to me!'" he interrupted Sherlock, holding back the laughter, "I had Molly and Mycroft's help, I tracked Moriarty's men for three years, you would die if I didn't save you!'" He started chuckling, "Yes," he said, smiling, "I know all this. This is the fifth time you've told me!"

Sherlock froze. Was John kidding? He looked so sure of himself, though. It was like John thought he was talking to Sherlock- the real Sherlock- but wouldn't let himself believe it.

He was living in a misunderstanding. It was like, whatever John believed, was a complete lie.

The weekend carried on like that. John still believing Sherlock was a hallucination, Sherlock doing all he could to try make John believe he was real. He had handed him cups of tea, which John had accepted, but didn't drink. He would take the cup, thank Sherlock, then leave the cup on the table to go cold. Sherlock tried everything to make John believe him. He tried squirting toothpaste in his face, doing the shopping, doing more experiments, making things explode, pouring cold water down his trousers, dropping ice-cubes down his trousers, locking doors, flushing the toilet when John used the shower, breaking things, sticking a mysterious green glob of slime to the ceiling, turning the room upside down.

Nothing made him believe, though. By Sunday evening, Sherlock was wrecked, and John still thought he was a hallucination. Every time Sherlock did something, John would smile and fix it, like he didn't mind.

Sunday night had them both sitting on the living room, drinking tea.

"I don't get it," Sherlock began, and John looked at him, "why don't you believe me?"

John looked at him for a second, then sighed, putting his cup down and turning to face Sherlock. "I saw you die," he said simply, "I saw you fall. The first two years..." he took a deep breath, "...the first two years were very hard. I struggled so much, I became such a wreck." He rubbed his eyes, "Eventually I accepted it. I had to. You were gone, and sitting around here being depressed wasn't helping anyone. It was around two or three months ago that I started getting the hallucinations. I would see you in a crowded street, or I'd look out the window and see you across the road. Only for a split second, though. It's like as soon as I saw you, you would run off, or you would turn into someone else who had the same coat, or the same hair, or similar eyes." Sherlock remained silent, watching John carefully.

"You started visiting me, then," John continued, "I would see you hanging around the flat, or you would follow me around in the shops. I knew you weren't real, but it gave me a little bit of hope. So I figured," he shrugged, "what was the harm? Only I could see you. You were like my little secret. You helped me cope."

John stayed quiet after that, occasionally sipping his tea. Sherlock hadn't said a word, his mind running a mile a minute, processing everything John had told him.

"I have to admit, though," John said after a few minutes, and Sherlock looked at him, "this is the longest you've stayed. Usually I go to bed and you're gone in the morning." He chuckled, "It's like I'm slowly slipping into insanity, and you're just helping me along. Bit not good, but at this point..." he paused, then sighed, putting his cup down again. "I'm going to bed," he mumbled, standing up. "If you're still here in the morning, you'll probably be following me to the Yard, right?

Sherlock frowned. Why would John be going to the Yard? Unless...

He had said that he needed Sherlock's help. Which meant that, whenever John saw Sherlock, Sherlock would help John with his work. What work? Why was he working a case on his own?

Simple.

"You're the Yard's consultant," Sherlock said simply, and John shrugged.

"You died. Someone had to take up the job. I learned how to deduce things, from what you told me when you were still here. I expanded on it, I learned how to do it myself. I need more time to look than you did, but I'm not doing a bad job. Lestrade thinks I'm the 'new Sherlock Holmes'." He laughed, "God knows I don't want that title." He stayed silent for a moment, then tapped the back of his chair. "Anyway," he said, sighing, "I'm going to bed. Good night." He padded his way across the room into Sherlock's old bedroom, closing the door behind him, leaving Sherlock alone to think.

The following morning, John and Sherlock made their way over to New Scotland Yard. John was surprised to see Sherlock in the flat the following morning, but didn't question it, eating his breakfast quickly, grabbing a few case files off the table, and rushing out the door. He waited for Sherlock to pass him before locking the door, then rushing to the curb to stick his arm out and yell for a taxi. One pulled up to the curb swiftly, and they clambered in, Sherlock shutting the door while John told the cabbie their destination.

Sherlock had tried talking to John during the drive, but John ignored him completely, not even looking at him. When they arrived at the Yard and John paid the fare, he apologised profusely.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, not looking at Sherlock, "I can't speak to you. No-one can see you, remember, so as far as they know I'd be talking to myself. I haven't reached that level of insanity yet. I'm sorry. I can talk to you at home, just not in public."

Sherlock merely nodded, walking into the large building after John. John walked straight up to the front desk.

"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade, if he's in," he said, "tell him I want him to come with me to look at the girl's body from the Henderson case, would you?" The secretary eyed something behind John, and John frowned. She buzzed for Lestrade.

After a few moments Lestrade came out, followed closely by Donovan. They both had their heads down, looking at a case file, arguing over something. John was about to say something, when they both looked up.

Donovan screamed, jumping. Lestrade yelled something, taking a couple of steps back. John frowned, eyes wide, looking down at himself.

"What?!" he panicked, "What is it?!"

Donovan lifted a shaky hand, pointing at something behind John. "B-but," she stuttered, and Lestrade cut her off.

"YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD!" he yelled, looking behind John. John froze, still looking down at his legs, when it hit him.

You're supposed to be dead.

He turned around slowly, staring at Sherlock.

"You're supposed to be dead," he repeated, eyes wide.

Sherlock looked at him, eyes pleading. "I tried to tell you," he said simply, "you wouldn't believe me."

"You BASTARD!" John yelled, lunging forward and tackling Sherlock into a hug. He clung to the taller man, and Sherlock hugged him back. "Jesus, Sherlock!" John gasped, "This whole time you were there, and I thought you weren't bloody real! Jesus!"

"I'm sorry," Sherlock mumbled, clutching John, "I tried to tell you, I'm so sorry..."

"You're real," John gasped, tears stinging his eyes, "you're alive, you're real!"

Donovan gripped Lestrade's arm, clinging to him as they watched Sherlock and John finally reunite.

I wonder if we can get #Flangst trending on Twitter. #probablynot #CANWETRYANYWAY

I hope you enjoyed this, anon! It took my over five hours to write! :D

I don't like the ending, though.

ANYWAY.

Muchlove to you all!