John froze. Was this it? Was he finally hallucinating. Wanting so hard that his brain finally gave in and showed him what he wanted. "Sh-sherlock...?

"John. I've come back."

The voice. The same. That face. The same. The stance. The coat. And then it was too much. John squeezed his eyes shut. But when he opened them, Sherlock was still there. "You..." And punched Sherlock in the face, wincing as Sherlock flew backwards, falling over the ottoman in a messy tangle of long limbs. "Oh God! Sorry! I'm sorry! No. Wait. No. No, I'm not sorry, you bastard—how could you!"

"John..." Sherlock's voice rasped. "John. I'm bleeding. You made me bleed."

"Serves you right! I'm only sorry I almost called you a machine!" John said, throwing his hands up, half-hysterical.

"It's fine. It's all fine. I deserved it. I just didn't think you'd hit me that hard." Sherlock grunted as he pulled himself together and got to his feet.

John choked out, "Idiot." And tried to get his feelings under control.

"John. John! You're not...crying? John!" Sherlock darted forward, grabbing John's shoulders.

"Why?" he breathed.

Sherlock gave him a wrecked half smile. "Death was the only place to which you would not follow me."

"And how do you know that?" He flinched away from Sherlock's hands.

"Because you had to keep defending me. And I imagine that was a full time occupation."

He choked, head dropping into his hands.

"John..." Sherlock pulled him close and then the words poured out, explanations of why and how and what for and what he'd done what he had to do and what it meant.

And at the end of almost three hours, John was ready to forgive, Sherlock thinner in his arms, dark circles under his eyes.

The next day, John called Mycroft and invited him over to tea, feeling only a little vindictively pleased when the man sank into a chair, almost as thin and weary as his brother. John gave him a flat smile and offered him tea and biscuits.

"Why, John."

He blinked at Mycroft. "I..." Then shrugged. "I figured I was ready."

Mycroft only stared at him.

"Ready to see you."

Again, Mycroft made no move of having heard him, folding his hands neatly over his knee.

John sighed. "And forgive you." He met Mycroft's gaze as the bug he planted on Sherlock relayed his voice quietly through the flat. Mycroft's eyes widened imperceptibly, but his eyes made a quick circuit through the room. John thought Sherlock was mumbling something about having been made to get the shopping. He pinched his side with the hand hidden beneath his crossed arms.

"Forgive me, John?" Mycroft nearly drawled.

"You miss him. I see that."

"Don't presume to tell me what you see, John Watson. This is my brother we're talking about, and I distinctly recall asking you to take care of him!"

"Don't make me take back my decision," John threatened lowly. "He's your brother. And while we may have been friends and flatmates, there was absolutely nothing I could have done to control him. You know that. And don't forget that this was mostly your doing in the first place!"

Face darkening, Mycroft's eyes were searching as Sherlock's muted voice carried through the second half of John's spiel. "Don't tell me you invited me over to cast blame again, John."

"Don't tell me you came to toss it right back," he snapped, carrying on the charade of not hearing.

"What do you have to say, John. I came out of respect. But I have business to attend to," Mycroft said tiredly, stress pulling at his features.

"You look tired."

"Don't tell me I—what is that?" His fingers twitched in irritation.

"What's what? Don't change the subject."

"His voice," Mycroft hissed. "I can hear it."

John frowned at him. "Who's voice?"

"Don't play an idiot, John; you're anything but!" Mycroft looked around, Sherlock's voice clearly saying, "Fuck. Mycroft."

"I don't know what you're talking about?"

"Are you deaf? Can't you hear it?" He stood.

Making a face at him like he was clearly crazy, John stood as well. "Are you okay? Are you sure you've been getting enough sleep?" He bit back the smile as Mycroft turned, searching.

"What are you playing? What's playing in the background?"

"I said I don't know what you're talking about!" John shouted to cover the opening of the door downstairs. He rattled the teacups as he picked them up, stomping to the kitchen to cover the tread on the stairs. He does make sure he's in line of sight with Mycroft's face when Sherlock pushed the door open and stopped short at the sight of his brother, face going through some complicated emotions. Mycroft's, however, is much more entertaining. If John had to describe it, it might be something akin to dumb shock. Stupid awe. Dumbfounded. Stricken disbelief.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and gave John a 'look.' "I assume you can do something about my status of being dead, Mycroft?" And then breezed past him to the kitchen.

Mycroft's head turned slowly to follow his brother before lighting on John. "You..." And took three very purposeful strides towards John, stopping short of laying hands on him. "You bastard."

John smiled. "Consider this my retribution. For everything."

"Oh John," Sherlock said at his shoulder. "You didn't..."

John snorted and folded his arms, didn't feel sorry, and raised his chin. "Good to see you, Mycroft. Thank you for coming."

To Mycroft's credit, he regained his composure well, save for the distinct whiteness to his face and red tightness about the eyes.

"John, that was a cruel thing to do." But Sherlock didn't sound so worried. So John wasn't.

"I believe that ends any arguments about fault," John said flatly. He looked up over his shoulder at Sherlock and then back at Mycroft. "I imagine you'll get everything to sorts for Sherlock."

Mycroft shook his head. "Very well, John. Well played. Yes, everything will be taken care of."

"Good. Right. Good." John leaned back into Sherlock's hand on his shoulder and gave Mycroft a tight smile. "Thank you for coming for tea. You should come again soon."

Mycroft stood stiffly a moment and then gave a conceding nod of his head and extended a hand to John. "I will take care of everything."

John shook his hand and then stepped aside for Mycroft to grip Sherlock's.

"Brother. It is good to see you."

Sherlock cracked a smile briefly. "Yes, Mycroft."

"You'll come and see me?"

"I will pick up my paperwork from you."

Mycroft hesitated and then pulled Sherlock in for an embrace from which Sherlock quickly pulled back.

"Good to see you, Mycroft," John said cheerfully.

"I will see myself out," Mycroft said. "Well done, John." And then he was gone.

Sherlock arched a brow at John when John turned to him. "That is unlike you, John."

"I've not been like me for three years, Sherlock."

Sherlock hummed and quirked his lips. "I see."

"So I suppose we're in business again then?"

"Only if you should like it, John."

John smirked. "I think I 'should like it' very much."

Sherlock regarded him a moment, eyes narrowed before he grinned. "Excellent. Now. I hear there are crimes at New Scotland Yard that they're having problems with. Shall we astound them?"

Smirk turning to a grin, John nodded. "I can't wait to see the look on Lestrade's face..." he said, grabbing his jacket on the way out the door.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock shouted. "We're going out!"

"Of course dear!" she called back as they passed her door. "See you boys later!"

John flicked an appalled glance at Sherlock. "Mrs. Hudson knew?"

Sherlock grinned, held up a finger and then nodded once at the crash of china before continuing down the stairs.

"Sherlock! Sherlock Holmes?" she wailed, coming to the door just as they were leaving. "You will be explaining everything to me!"

As they burst onto the street, John laughed loud and hard next to Sherlock as they leaned on one another to wait for a taxi, and felt everything fall a little back into place.