John awoke on the sofa, sometime later, and winced because the back of his head hurt.

It didn't take him long to remember what had happened when he saw Sherlock Holmes sat across from him, sipping tea from a cup and saucer.

"I took the liberty of removing your shoes, John," He said, "You know what Mrs Hudson's like – she hates mud on the carpet. And I can only presume you took the scenic route on the way to the shop. On the way, rather than on the way back, because who wants to be seen in the park with four bags of shopping? Not many people, I believe."

John sat up sharply, ignoring the pain in his head, and simply sat there staring with wide eyes.

It wasn't possible.

"No!" He yelled, scrambling up and backing away as far as the wall would let him, "No! No! No! You were –! I watched you jump! I saw with my own eyes!"

"John," Sherlock sighed, in a bored tone, "It's alright –"

"NO IT'S NOT ALRIGHT!" John pressed his hand against his mouth. It was clear he was struggling to accept this. His senses had betrayed him at some point – they had to have done. Either now or ten months ago. There was no other explanation. Sherlock couldn't be here.

"You were dead! You..." He gulped back a sob, "You had no pulse! I watched you hit the concrete –"

"No you didn't. You were knocked over by a man on a bike – tea?"

"Wait – how do you know about that?"

Sherlock poured tea from the teapot into a cup, "You don't take sugar, do you?"

"SHERLOCK!"

"Yes?"

"The man – on the bike – how did you know about him?"

"What's that phrase..." He stared off in deep thought whilst continuing to stir his tea, "A wizard never reveals the truth behind his greatest tricks."

"So you're not going to tell me how you just so happened to fall from the top of a multi-storey building and then managed to SHOW UP AT THE FLAT TEN MONTHS LATER?"

"Ah," He chuckled, "That would be telling."

John ran his hands over his face in desperation and annoyance; "Ten months," He finally said, "Ten bloody months, Sherlock, of me thinking you were dead. And then you show up here as if none of it ever happened. As if I can just forget what you put me and Mrs Hudson through –"

"Yes, where is she?"

"–and continue on like that day never happened. How can you even think, in the depth of that stupid big head of yours, that I would be okay with that? You were dead. You had a grave –"

"Doesn't necessarily mean there was a body buried underneath it though, does it?" Sherlock remarked. His tone of voice was far different from John's; who was struggling to get each word out of his throat whilst trying to decide whether he felt happy, sad or angry about Sherlock's return. When his friend spoke, John heard that bored tone of his – the tone that showed Sherlock saw no problem with returning from the dead after nearly a year – and the doctor had an unusual, but understandable, urge to grab the man by the throat and return him to where he was supposed to be: St Woolos Cemetery. That would surely teach him that, this time, Sherlock's tricks had gone too far...

"Okay," John finally said after a deep calming breath. Sherlock noticed he was standing up perfectly straight now: shoulders back, arms by his sides, fists clenched to suppress his underlying anger. The soldier had returned, "What exactly can you tell me about..." He gulped, "...that day?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

"ARE YOU KIDDING ME?"

Sherlock took a long sip of his tea, "I do hope you do know John that anger issues can lead to serious health problems. Especially if said anger appears to be...unexplainable."

"UNEXPLAINABLE? Are you trying to piss me off today, Sherlock? 'Cause if you are it's working!"

Sherlock ignored him. He took another long sip of his tea and continued to gaze at the wall opposite him.

"Sherlock?" John said again, finding it incredibly difficult now to control his aggravation.

"Hmm. It seems she was wrong," Sherlock murmured, "she said you'd be thrilled to see me..."

"She? Who's 'she'?"

"Molly Hooper."

"M-Molly? Molly knew?"

"Yes, of course, she knew all along," Sherlock said, frowning at John's lack of intellect, "I would have thought it would have been obvious. How else was I supposed to get a death certificate?"

"So...Molly..."

"Molly was waiting for me when they wheeled me into the morgue," Sherlock said impatiently.

"But she was here...she didn't tell –"

"She didn't tell you. Yes. I know. She wanted to. I told her not to. The end."

"Fine," He huffed, "that explains one thing. But it doesn't explain how you survived the impact – or how you had no pulse."

Sherlock put down his cup of tea and pressed his pale fingertips together.

"Harm in impact is caused by the human body's natural reaction to tense," He explained at lightning speed, "The tensing of muscles means that it's less of a shock-absorber. That's how bones are shattered and organs are crushed; leading to inevitable death. Common injuries found in people involved in car accidents."

"So? What's that got to do with anything? And what about the lack of pulse...?"

"Patience, John. I'm getting to that. I'm actually surprised you didn't pick up the clue."

"Clue?" John questioned, oblivious to what Sherlock was getting at.

"Yes. Clue," Sherlock repeated, on the verge of irritation himself, "Think, John. Think back to the case with the missing children; kidnapped from a boarding school in early June. We found the footprint – the footprint with five different types of traces on it: chalk, asphalt, brick dust, vegetation and PGPR. It led us to the disused chocolate factory in Addlestone. But what was the vegetation, John? What kind of plant?"

"How am I supposed to know?"

"Rhododendron!" Sherlock leapt up, "Honestly, John! Rhododendron!"

Sherlock looked at him with an expectant expression. John just stared right back at him.

"You do know that I have absolutely no idea where you're going with this, don't you?"

"Oh, what's happened to you?" Sherlock said, with a frown, "You used to be good at this kind of thing! Well, better than the average human mind," He sighed, "Rhododendron is a plant that contains a certain toxin. What toxin, I hear you ask? (Don't give me that look, John; we both know you were going to say it.) A toxin that causes temporary paralyses and lowered heart rate – giving the physical attributes of death for a few hours without actually killing the consumer. It requires time to take effect, so, before you ask, no I didn't administer it to myself when up on the rooftop."

John pressed his fingertips against his temples as his mind tried to make sense of it all. It was far too complicated for his mind to register at that moment in time. It was too clever. And, of course, there was no way to tell whether or not Sherlock was really telling the truth. Just a few minutes ago, he'd said he wasn't going to reveal anything about how he survived the fall – was this just a plausible theory to divert John from the real solution?

Well, quite frankly, at that current moment John didn't really care. He was still trying to get to grasps with the fact that the man he had been grieving for the past ten months was stood in his living room, plucking the dusty strings of a violin. And that, just the other day, Molly Hooper had sat in the very same room and practically lied to his face – John could only presume that the two of them had met up on regular occasions and talked about him behind his back.

"So, John, are we ready to fight crimes once again?" Sherlock asked, coming up and putting a hand on his shoulder.

John paused for a second. Then he looked up at Sherlock and it was obvious there was an idea forming in his eyes...

And that was when John punched him in the face.

"Argh!" Sherlock gasped as he stood with a hand pressed against his soon-to-be-bruised cheekbone, "What was that for?"

"Just checking," He answered, quite satisfied, "I wanted to make sure that punching you in the face was still as fulfilling as it was before."

"And?"

John nodded, "I don't know how we'll explain all this to Mrs Hudson though," He said, with a laugh, "I'd be frightened of giving the poor dear a heart attack."

Sherlock laughed too, "It's a risk we'll have to take, I'm afraid."

The two of them then sat down in their comfortable armchairs and Sherlock began to complain about how stupid the majority of the human race was, and how he hated his new haircut, and that he had had limited access to any kind of science lab for nearly a year - and it was slowly driving him insane.

"Oh, and before I forget," Sherlock said, after glancing at the kitchen, "All of my science equipment – I'm guessing it's been packed away in my room?"

John paused for a second and swallowed the bite of his digestive biscuit.

"Well, um...actually, Sherlock, Mrs Hudson decided to..."

"To what?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

"We donated it all to a local school."

"What – all of it?"

John nodded.

And for the next hour, all that could be heard from flat 221B was the sound of a man as he ranted and raved about the loss of his beloved experiments, microscope and Bunsen burner.

But John didn't mind. He couldn't care less – found it quite amusing, actually.

Sherlock, even though he had supposedly returned from the dead, hadn't changed a bit in the past ten months. He still made long and detailed analyses of things and expected everyone to follow along at exactly the same pace. He was still a child. He still complained. He was still annoying.

And John wouldn't have had it any other way.