This is my favorite one of the Sherlock one-shots I've written so far. I'm really proud of it. It was both a way to piece together all the things I wanted to happen when Sherlock returns to John in Season 3, and also a practice for writing in 1st person-present. I normally don't like writing in 1st person, but I really enjoyed writing this from Sherlock's POV. This includes slashy Johnlock, so if you don't ship John and Sherlock, you may not want to read this. Just a warning.

It's a breezy, autumn day, and I'm dressed in the same trenchcoat and scarf that I'm known for wearing—or at least I was, back when people thought I was still alive. When people didn't think that I was a fraud, and when I still had my job as a—no, the—Consulting Detective.

If it was back then, I would be easily recognized. No one stops or even looks twice at the man sitting on a bench in Baker Street, though, not a single person, not even the people whom I remember to have lived on the street back when I used to. And I find that both fortunate and ironic, because back when people would have recognized me, it didn't matter. Now that they wouldn't, it did.

I am fully aware, however, that I'm still running a risk of being seen and remembered by dressing the way that I used to. But my brain has already calculated it as such a small chance that it can be overlooked, and frankly, I don't even care. One of the sociopathic tendencies that has always played a large role in my life is the lack of care when I sense danger. Besides, there is a rhyme and reason to my trenchcoat and scarf. It's not necessary, but I feel the need to wear something familiar anyway.

Even when everything's calculated and planned, I run toward the danger. And while I may not be running toward any danger in particular now, I can't help but feel that I am.

The breeze pushes a few of my curls (which are rather longer than they were the last time I was with John) away from my forehead, and I blink once, staring at the door of 221B. I take one deep, yet quick breath of air, and then stand up. One foot in front of the other.

I cross the street, approaching the flat. My old flat. It's been three years—not since I've been near it, but since I've been inside it. I already know that the inside hasn't changed much, because I've watched John for some of the time he's thought I was gone (Mycroft has provided me with information as well)—oftentimes just him going about his day in and out of 221B. And I've sorely missed being a part of it.

Though it was necessary, I've hated every second that all I could do was watch my friend, especially when he's suffered. Every time, I've wanted nothing more than to climb in through the window and tell him that I'm not dead.

That's what I'm about to do, in a fashion.

Three years has been much too long. I am happier than I can ever remember being that I can finally do this without it being a danger to my (very few, but very dear) friends, but at the same time very sad. A sudden thought occurs to me, and I remember that the first time of my adult life I can remember experiencing sadness was because of John—and it was the day after I met him.

I, a cold, emotionless sociopath (or so I had thought), had only just met him and already cared about him. Perhaps it was the thrill of working on the case with him, perhaps I felt a very strong connection to him even then—whichever it was, all I knew was that, after he shot the cabbie and saved me from myself, I felt sad for him, having had to kill a man for me. Even then, I wanted to protect him.

Now, I know that I still want to protect him, but there's no need for it anymore. There's still a need to feel sad for him, though, because there's still the inevitability of more suffering. I want to say that I'm prepared for it, but I've never been good with handling emotions—both others' and my own, which I've failed to keep myself completely separate from.

I've thought about how John might react, and most of the hundreds of possibilities my brain has calculated aren't nice for me or John. I'll take whatever comes to me, though, and I'll do the best I can with it.

It takes a great deal of bravery to ascend the few stone steps leading to the front door that I haven't opened in so long. That feels odd, because a person so focused on logic rather than feelings isn't accustomed to feeling that sort of fear. It isn't the sort of fear that comes along with the thrill of chasing a criminal, and it isn't even the sort that I remember feeling from the gas from Project H.O.U.N.D., in which my senses tricked me. My senses aren't tricking me now—nothing is. I'm simply afraid of facing the pain that I know is going to be prevalent soon. This is something that I don't want to face, though I know I must do, because at the same time I've been extremely impatient for the chance to do this.

After all, bravery isn't a lack of fear. Bravery is having the strength to decide that something is more important than fear. And that thing is John.

The door is unlocked, but he isn't in the flat right now. I know he's not, because I saw him leave about ten minutes ago. He's gone to the supermarket, no doubt, considering the hard-but-not-extremely-serious look on his face, the highly casual way he was dressed, how he was walking with his left hand often going unconsciously to his pocket—clearly making sure a list of things he needed to buy was still in there, and the fact that he hasn't bought any groceries in about a month.

Going by a glimpse I caught of her in the sandwich shop a few seconds ago, I also know that Mrs. Hudson won't be in the flat for a while. Mrs. Hudson… She definitely hasn't been on my mind as much as John has, but I still feel an ache at the thought of her, and how she'll react. Most likely with a lot of tears and moderate verbal abuse, as she'll still act like a second mother to me.

It's with a flood of memories all hitting me at once that I make my way up the stairs and through the route that takes me to my old sitting room. I feel oddly casual, like nothing has changed and that I'm simply walking back up here after getting back from a successful experiment at Bart's, and John will be waiting on his armchair, and he'll look for a moment up from his newspaper (or romance novel that one of his girlfriends lent him) to say "You're back," and I'll respond with "Excellent observation, John, but if you looked just a bit more, you could have told me that I was just testing acids on skin cells of people with different afflictions." And then, because he isn't able to resist it, John'll ask me how, and I'll explain that he should have seen the crease in my sleeve where my arm was resting on the edge of the lab table, smelt the slight scent of acid on me, and remembered me having mentioned skin diseases earlier, despite not having actually been in the room when I said it.

If only I were back in that time, and it was that easy. But it's not, so I'm not walking into the past, however much it feels like it. When I step into the sitting room, I feel a sense of resignation take over me, like all I have to do now is wait.

I spend a few minutes slowly and silently walking around the flat, observing everything that I haven't noticed already from secretly keeping an eye on John (as well as everything that I have). Almost nothing has changed in the sense of the geography of the flat: Both of the chairs are in the same place, as is the couch. The only real difference is that John is neater than I am, and so there aren't any papers on the floor, and everything is nice and proper, military style. I smile inwardly at the thought.

But then there's the mantle. I already know this part, as it's easily viewable through the window, but I can't help but take several seconds (over a minute, actually) to just look at it. My skull is where it's always been, on the left edge of the mantle, and next to that is a pink phone—the pink phone, which Moriarty had sent as a major part of his first game with me. The Woman's phone isn't there, though, which should seem strange to me, because it would hold just as much sentiment for John about me as the replica of the phone from our first case together did. But I've already narrowed it down to two possibilities: John has either never been able to find it, or he hasn't bothered to move anything in my room. I briefly wonder if The Woman is even still alive, but then I assume that she must be, due to her cleverness, and my eyes move along to the third and most painful thing on the mantle.

Sometime after my faked death, when I suppose John truly came to terms with it, he had a picture of me framed. Though there were plenty of suitable and perfectly normal pictures of me from press meetings he could have used, it's the one of John and I in hats (mine being a deerstalker) that sits on the very middle of the mantle in front of me. I used to hate that picture so much, but I look fondly at it now, finding it almost hilariously ironic of him to choose that one. That's probably what he was going for.

Then, to the right of that is my microscope, something else he knew I treasured. I'm glad that he's paid attention to the scientific as well as the emotional, as that was and always will be a large part of me. Did he like that part? I remember him calling me a machine the last time we talked to each other face-to-face, and I heard him telling my tombstone that sometimes he thought I wasn't even human. I know he's admired my intelligence from the start…. But he also said that I was the most human human-being he's ever met, and while I'm still not sure if I agree with that, I can't help but be glad for it.

Finally, on the edge of the mantle opposite to my skull, is my violin and bow on its stand. This, I actually reach out to touch, just to run one finger down the bowstring, for I've missed playing it. I've missed having this thing to help me when I think—but I love that John's kept this up here, as it was always another large part of me.

There's a very small scratch near the base of the violin, which I know is from Mrs. Hudson once being careless while dusting it (something John usually did) and knocking it over. John had absolutely blown up at that, yelling at Mrs. Hudson with a murderous, yet panicked look in his eyes. The poor woman ran out crying, and John carefully examined the violin for damages. He then started crying, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't because of the scratch he found.

It increases my sadness to remember witnessing that, because I remember just how much John has suffered at my fault. Then I step back and take in the whole mantle, this shrine-like arrangement… for me. The lack of dust on any of the items prove how often John goes near them to clean them… and also his devotion. I hurt a little more.

After turning away, I go to have a look inside the kitchen, see what John's been eating—I'd be able to deduce a lot about how he's been living from the contents and arrangement of the cupboards and fridge if I didn't already know. By looking inside the fridge, though, I see that the one thing he has gotten rid of are the body parts from the morgue at Bart's that I was keeping for experiments before I… left. I don't mind; it would have been useless for him to keep them. Sentiment is one thing, but that would have both been unsanitary and impractical.

A walk down the hallway and into my room tells me that I was right about John not having moved anything. Everything is just as it was, even my sock index. It's like he's kept it ready for me, just in case I ever came back.

But this will still be entirely unexpected to him. He can't possibly be expecting this… for a dead man to come back from the grave, to come home. However much he's wished for his best friend to come back over the course of three years, he hasn't fooled himself into thinking it's actually going to happen. John's just not that kind of person. He's rational, even if he's not quite intelligent. Not compared to me, at least.

I walk back to the sitting room, and sit down in my old armchair. It feels a bit stiff, as I'm sure no one has sat in it since I last did. John hasn't let anyone. Now, I just wait. I tap my fingers on the arm of the chair—but not impatiently. I'm not impatient for John to get back; in fact I almost hope he takes a long time. I'm just anxious. Although, I do know that it'll be at least another half-hour before he's finished getting the groceries. I hope he doesn't get in another row with a pin machine.

For all the time I'm waiting, I can't calm down. I spend the half-hour letting my mind whir on to no end, just thinking and thinking and thinking. It occurs to me that perhaps this is the sort of thing that I shouldn't think about, since trying to make this scientific will probably ruin it, but I can't help it. That's just who I am, and how my brain works.

And then I hear the telltale click of a door opening and closing. My eyes automatically fly to the doorway that I know John will come through, and my heart begins to pound. It's only a matter of seconds, now. I know it's him and not Mrs. Hudson or anyone else because I hear the rustle of the plastic bags that he's carrying and the weight of his footsteps, as well as the third sound that his cane makes. It hurts to know that his psychosomatic limp has returned while I was gone.

I hold my breath as I hear his steps grow louder and louder, but I'm unable to keep my heart-rate down. Finally, when I hear the sudden change in pitch in his steps—a sign that he's reached the main level of the flat, I turn my focus to the side, unable to face being the first one to see the other. In the next few seconds, I see movement in the shape of a tacky jumper out of my peripheral vision, and hear the sound of bags hitting the floor. Swallowing, I turn my head to the doorway, where John is standing.

He looks much like I've expected: shocked, confused beyond measure, unable to believe what he's seeing. He blinks rapidly, thinking that his eyes must be playing an awfully cruel trick on him or that he's dreaming. His mouth is opening and closing, repeatedly starting to mouth the word "What?" but always stopping short. His shoulders, neck, and arms are stiff, and he's looking up and down at me for what seems like forever.

"Sherlock," he finally says, his voice cracked and incredulous, staring at me. He sounds like he hasn't talked for a long time. I stare back at him, feeling similar to him in that I feel almost completely unable to speak.

"John," I reply, gripping hard at the arms of my chair. That's all I say for now.

It's another minute or so before he says anything else. "I… I'm hallucinating, aren't I? They said this would happen, that I'd finally crack…. I mean, for a while I saw you everywhere, but this is the most realistic—"

"John," I say again, now more firmly. I sound desperate, and my eyes and shaking jaw prove it. I look at him intently from across the room, and he looks both alarmed and slightly afraid at my interruption. Hallucinations weren't supposed to interrupt, after all. "John, I'm… I'm real. I'm actually here. It's not an illusion or a dream or any of that."

With this, I stand up from the chair. I don't know whether I'm trying to emphasize my point or get closer to him. John takes a moment to think about what I said, and then his look of utter disbelief nearly becomes a smile. It's a sign of grief, though, not necessarily of happiness.

Forgetting the groceries on the floor (there's milk leaking from the bag from where the carton split, and some crisps are scattered around), John starts walking slowly toward me. I want to close the distance between us more quickly, but I stay where I am and wait. When he's a couple feet from me, he stops, and then frowns at me, searching my face. I think he's surprised to see sadness there.

Rather slowly, he takes a short step closer and reaches out a hand to touch my arm. As he does, he watches it as though he's sure it'll go right through me. But then his hand meets the fabric of my sleeve, just barely touching it. Frowning more deeply, he keeps it like that for a few seconds, and then gently grips my upper arm. His hand doesn't go through me.

He gives my arm a gentle shake, testing it. Looking sadly and hopelessly confused, he narrows his eyes and then looks up at my face, silently asking, "How?"

I look down and inhale deeply before saying this, my breath a racking one: "I faked my death, John. I knew I was going to die, and so I arranged it with Molly and Mycroft to create a fake corpse for me and make my death look real. I didn't want to, but I… I had to. I've been alive the entire time."

It hurts to explain this, both physically and emotionally. I should be hating myself for allowing myself to give in to emotions, but John has always been an exception. John is the only person who has truly gotten under the shell. My throat hurts, my head is pounding, and my feet suddenly feel like they're holding up several hundred pounds. And that's nothing compared to what John is going through underneath his shell.

"You… faked your death," is all he has to say to me at first. It sounds like a question, but he says it as a statement. He makes an odd movement with his head, like he's nodding it and looking around at the same time. After a minute, he continues in a firm, yet smaller voice, "Why did you wait so long to come back?"

I can hear the brokenness in his voice, and it brings me more pain than I've ever intended to feel in my entire life. Guilt consumes me, and I close my eyes for a moment before saying, "I had to."

John's tongue darts out of his mouth for a quick lip of his lips, which he's always had a habit of doing. "You had to," he repeats, now an edge to his voice. It's both angry and heartbroken.

His right hand, which is still gripping my arm, suddenly squeezes it much harder, and John's face looks angry now. He grabs my other arm as well, and then, squeezing both very hard, he clamps my arms to my sides and shakes me back and forth. Hard.

"Three—bloody—years—Sherlock!" he shouts at me furiously. "Three years, I thought you were dead—and you just come back, just like that?"

My upper arms are hurting, and he's shaking me pretty hard, but I let him. I know I deserve it. If he punches me, which I half-expect him to do, I'll deserve that too. I deserve everything but forgiveness.

So I don't resist being shaken, nor do I don an annoyed or angry expression like John has. I simply lean forward (because he's holding me a bit close to him) and look into his eyes, which are full of hurt.

"I came home," I tell him.

Something changes in his eyes, and he briefly squeezes my arms harder, giving me a painful shake, and pulls me into a very tight hug a moment later. I'm a little surprised by it, but I'm also glad. I need the hug just as much as he does—the closeness, the bit of pain from the tightness that makes it feel real, the feel of his heart beating against me, and his face pressed into my chest. I need it so badly.

My arms are trapped to my sides, so it's difficult for me to hug him back, but when I start tugging my arms out of his grip, he loosens it just for a second, so I can pull them out. I wrap my arms around his back and hug him as tightly as I can, then arch my neck so I can press my cheek against the top of his head. Both of our hearts are pounding wildly—but unfortunately, because of our height difference, not quite against each other. He can probably hear mine, though.

As John shifts his head so that he can breathe in, it becomes obvious that he's crying into my scarf: His nasal passage isn't clear, judging by the sound of his loud sniff, he's trembling in my arms, and I can feel his tears start to leak through my scarf. The tears I've been holding back start streaming from my eyes and into his hair, and I unconsciously let out a small noise of distress as I take a breath. I move my hands up to his neck, pulling him closer to my chest, and pay attention just to the feel of his arms around my back.

"You're… you're back," I hear him say after a while. His voice comes out in a rasp, and it's somewhat muffled because he hasn't separated his mouth from my scarf that much. He's only tilted his chin inward, pressing his forehead into my collarbone. "You're back—you're real…. You're here, actually here, Sherlock…."

"Yes, John," I say, a cry in my voice. "I'm here. John, I… I never wanted to leave you. But it was… necessary. Moriarty would have killed you. If I hadn't jumped, his snipers were going to shoot you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. I had to make them think I was dead to protect you." I say all of this slowly and carefully, trying not to let out dry sobs in between. I feel similar to the way I did during the last phone call I made to John before my "suicide."

"I'm sorry both you and I had to wait so long, John," I continue, noticing that he's purposely evening his breathing now, so as to listen to everything that I'm saying. "I needed the time to track down Moriarty's snipers after they moved out from around our flat—find them, and kill them. I needed to be absolutely sure. But… you don't have to suffer anymore."

Not entirely surprisingly, John lets out what sounds almost like a laugh. A tear-choked laugh. "There you go, being your usual arrogant self," he says, sounding a bit more normal than before, "thinking that I suffered so much because I didn't have the great Sherlock Holmes in my life anymore…. And… you're right, I did, so bloody much. You're always right."

At that, he moves his arms up to my upper back, which is somewhat of a stretch for him because of his height, and he pulls me down, at the same time standing on tiptoe to be taller. I'm sure of what he's doing as soon as he does this, as it's obvious that he's trying to get our heads at the same level. I oblige without much coercion, even though it's slightly uncomfortable for me. John, now with his arms around my shoulders, presses his cheek against mine. Just to get us closer. The wetness of our tear-streaked cheeks make them sort of stick together, and it's now easier to hear each other's breathing. It seems like a long time that neither of us say anything. I don't mind, though. And neither does he.

But then, John whispers, his voice shaking and cracking, "Sherlock… God, Sherlock…"

Without warning, he slides his cheek away from mine, as well as his hands from my neck to the back of my head. In short succession, John presses a very hard and short (though seemingly long, from my side of it) kiss to my jaw, and then one to my cheek, and then to my lips. Even though I've half-expected him to do this, that's what surprises me the most. I suppose it's because I haven't been kissed (on the lips) by anyone for an extremely long time. The reason for that is half because of my self-imposed abstinence from any sexual relationships, and half because of my lack of interest and arsehole-ish-ness turning people off. Before now, I've only ever kissed two people on the lips, both of whom were women, and simply experiments or for a case. I don't think my lack of enjoyment was because I'm naturally more attracted to men, but instead because I didn't feel anything for them. But I most definitely feel something for John; he's the only person I've ever felt anything for.

John doesn't end the kiss after a couple seconds as he did with the others, as he apparently intends to let this one last. My surprise quickly fizzles out and turns to desire mixed with extreme sadness. I can admit, in the privacy of my own mind, that I've wanted this for a very long time—since shortly after meeting him. Despite how much emphasis I usually put on logic and being uninterested in love in favor of my work, I can't deny, not to myself, at least, that there was always a strong attraction from me to him. He became my best friend—my only friend, and he's the only person whom I wouldn't change a single thing about. He's the only one who cares about me, and he's the only one I care about. Well, enough to enjoy physical contact with, to pull his neck closer so desperately, to kiss back with all the longing I have.

One hand extended around his back and gripping his side, the other in his hair, I do kiss John back. I tilt my head like I think you're supposed to and mold my lips to his. It almost seems strange that I've never known what his lips feel like until now. I can deduce from the fierceness with which he's kissing me that he's wanted this for a long time, too. The only difference is that he thought I was dead until about fifteen minutes ago.

I'm not sure whether I'm doing it right or not, but I don't care. It all feels the same to me—amazing, wonderful, fantastic… tragic. It's so tragic that we had to wait this long. Wordlessly, we convey everything that's gone unsaid so far: I've missed you, I was miserable without you, you're like a vital organ to me, I need you, I love you…

At some point in time (I really can't be sure when), John breaks the kiss slowly and looks at me. My eyes are still half-closed, my lips slightly parted. That was an experience I wasn't quite ready for, but thoroughly enjoyed all the same. He looks a little amused, probably aware that that was my first time doing anything of that sort, and even gives me a small smile.

I wait for it, but the warmth in my chest from that kiss doesn't go away. I actually like it, though, so I don't ignore it as I speak again.

"You're not the only one who's suffered, John," I assure him. "It was horrible for me. I hated having to abandon you—more than I hated to abandon my work. Some things… are more important than the work, though, however much I hate to say it. You, for example. And beating Moriarty."

John frowns, suddenly serious. I would feel like we were back in the old times, discussing what we were going to do about our favorite psychopath—if it wasn't for the fact that John and I are still wrapped very tightly around each other.

"Is he dead?" he asks. "Wait—what even happened up on the roof of St. Bart's that day? Was Moriarty there?"

I half-grimace. It's only half because I'm also resisting the urge to smile at John's questions, at how quickly he's been able to accept this, and at how much of a soldier he truly is. He's my soldier.

Reluctantly, I loosen my hold on him, letting my arms slide off of his back and giving him no choice but to do the same. He seems reluctant as well, but like he knows it had to happen eventually. Hardly a moment later, I take hold of his hand and lead (practically drag, with how quickly I walk) him to the couch, sitting down and pulling him down with me. Neither of us sit properly; we're sitting with one leg off the couch, and the other folded in as though we're sitting half-cross-legged, so we can face each other easily and still be close. I might have taken him to the armchair instead, so he could have sat on my lap, but I decided against it.

"No, Moriarty's not dead," I say to John's expectant look. The light in his eyes fade, and he furrows his brow. "He faked his own death as well, though I'm the only person who knows he 'died' in the first place—he faked his death to get me to fake mine. I knew it once the article about me being a fraud came out, and there was nothing about another dead man being found at the top of Bart's."

And so I tell John the entire story, starting from when I left the lab to get to the roof, explaining my conversation with Moriarty, how I thought for a second that I wouldn't have to fake my death after all, how Moriarty seemingly shot himself through the mouth, and how, exactly, I was able to manage it all. Then I tell him all that I've been doing for the past three years in more detail. He listens with rapt attention the whole way through, unconsciously squeezing my hand at some parts.

"So… if you haven't actually seen Moriarty since then," John says, "how do you know that one of his men didn't just drag the body away?"

I smirk. "I'm glad you asked that, John; it seems I've rubbed off on you…. Moriarty can't possibly be dead, because his hitmen didn't disperse. If he had truly gone, they would have known, and they wouldn't have kept their positions. Besides, Moriarty wouldn't kill himself just to undo me. No, he was buying himself more time, prolonging the game, setting the stage for a sequel to his fairytale. He said it himself: 'Every fairytale needs a good villain.' But I'm also sure that he knows I've survived, too—he's just waiting for me to come out into the open. He's expecting both of us."

"Have any idea what he's been doing for the past three years, then?" John asks, looking grim.

"About six of them," I say, and John smirks at that. "But if any of them are true, he's been very patient. Then again, he doesn't have anyone who's waiting for him or cares about him. He can wait, as long as he has his dramatic ending eventually."

A few seconds of silence goes by. Sighing, John leans forward and rests his forehead on my shoulder, still holding my hand. I understand that my arrival and the sudden news about Moriarty is a lot of stress on him, so I don't question it.

"I'm so glad you're back, Sherlock," he says, sounding tired. In a metaphorical sense, of course.

"I'm glad to be back," I say quietly, rubbing his back hopefully comfortingly.

"I've missed you. I've missed your experiments that nearly blow up the flat, I've missed you dragging me off to some place for a case without a minute's warning, I've missed your three-a.m. violin concertos… and I've missed your deductions. So much. I've developed a habit of thinking about every little thing I do and say and wear, wondering what you would say about it. It's ridiculous."

That makes me smile, and I think of how I never expected to be smiling this much when I returned. Like a computer, my mind automatically grabs the information it's stored since I've entered the flat, and I start talking very fast, just like I used to:

"Well, you haven't eaten much in about two days, judging by the lack of food in the kitchen but also the lack of food wrappings in the rubbish bin. You haven't been busy on anything, so it's just the prospect of putting yourself out there with people that you didn't like—which you haven't liked since I faked my death. But, of course—Murphy's Law—you happened to meet Stamford on the way back. He invited you to grab a bite to eat with him, and you're too polite to say no, so obviously you agreed, but then you gave some excuse for needing to leave. You still ate the rest of that tart, though."

John leans back and looks up at me, grinning. "Alright," he says, "explain the second half of that. Starting with Stamford. How did you know it was him and not someone else?"

"That's the easiest part. I have watched you a bit, and I know that he's one of the few people who don't think you're insane for believing in me and will still talk to you. I also know both of your daily routes, so it's highly unlikely that it would be anyone else. That milk over there on the floor hasn't run as far as it should have, which means it's gotten warmer, so you were out longer than you intended—ergo, you went somewhere with Stamford. It was someplace nearby, most likely a street vendor, because—well, where else would Stamford take you?"

"And the tart?"

I left that out on purpose, simply so I could have the chance to say this on its own: "You taste like jam."

For a moment, John just looks at me. And then we both break into breathy giggles, as though we've gone back in time to getting back from our first chase together, or to Buckingham Palace and all I'm wearing is a sheet.

"Thank you," John says when he calms down. He leans forward and kisses me again, but this time it's relatively quick.

"You're welcome," I smirk. "But thank you, as well, John, for… believing in me. It's not so bad to know that I've died in both a figurative and literal sense to most of England as long as you never changed your mind about me."

His smile remains for another second or so, but then his expression becomes rather serious. "You're about to come back to life, though, aren't you? And reenter the game?"

"Yes," I sigh.

"That's really what it all is, isn't it? Just a game. Moriarty started it, and you and I have got no choice but to finish it. There's no backing out…. If we do that, we lose."

"Just a game," I confirm, nodding solemnly. "A rather graphic, deadly, and thrilling game, though. It's been my turn for a long time…. Are you ready to make the next move with me?"

"Oh God, yes."

Well, what did you think? PLEASE leave a review and tell me-I live off of reviews. Also, feel free to read my other Sherlock one-shots.