Epilogue

He didn't know how long he had stared at the text, but he found himself sitting on the couch without remembering sitting, Susie no longer in his trembling arms, and a familiar face looking down at him.

"Are you okay, John?" Sherlock asked, head tilting to one side as Susie gurgled happily in his arms. Gladstone lifted his head up off John's leg to look at him before closing his eyes. "You look like you're about to pass out."

"How..." he said, not caring that he was gaping. "How did you... How..." Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Really, John, I thought the amount of time we spent together would have enhanced your literacy."

While it hadn't necessarily helped his language skills, John had found that observing had been ingrained into his mind, constantly looking at the details, the little parts of a bigger picture, and he took the silence as an opportunity to take in his friend's appearance.

Well, certainly not dead, to start with. Still tall, same near-omniscient silver eyes. He was wearing an old sweater that hung limply on his thin frame; well, Sherlock had always been rather skinny, but he seemed closer to emaciated than thin. His cheekbones stood out even more prominently, his hands looked almost skeletal, but he was still Sherlock. And alive.

"How are you here?" he said after a few moments of silence. "You were dead. I went to your funeral."

"Simple, John," the detective replied, flopping onto the couch next to John. "I wasn't dead to begin with." John shook his head slowly. "Isn't this what you wanted, John? Another miracle?"

John froze, then slowly turned to look at Sherlock with a cold glare.

"You were watching?" he hissed, keeping his voice down in order not to scare Susie. He didn't want to scare his daughter, even if he was itching to send his fist flying towards Sherlock's face. "You were watching me? You made me watch you jump off a building and then you have the audacity to come to your own funeral and watch me cry over your grave!" Sherlock flinched.

"John," he said, then paused. "John, I- John. I'm sorry. Do you want to know why I did it?" John continued to glare. "There were snipers. Armed snipers, and their targets were you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. Moriarty made me jump or he would have shot you. Don't you see, John? Don't observe this time, just look. I did this to save you, and you weren't supposed to see it. I taught you too well, you figured out something was wrong too quickly. John, please, you have to believe me."

Another pause in which nothing was said, Sherlock anxiously watching his friend while John tried to process Sherlock was alive. Alive and... apologizing. Begging. Pleading.

Oh, he desperately wanted to scream at him, to rant and shout and yell and beat him senseless, but that wouldn't help anything. He knew the world would need to come to terms with everything and that would just be so incredibly aggravating and he also knew that after this initial euphoria had died down he and Sherlock would need to sit down and talk, but-

John couldn't help it; he laughed and wrapped his friend in a hug. Sherlock made no move to return the motion, but he didn't expect that. It was Sherlock. He was alive.

"I have your coat and scarf, if you want them back," he said when he had pulled back, then frowned and took Susie from Sherlock's arms. "And your skull, and your violin, if you want them." Sherlock smiled.

"You kept my coat?" he asked.

"And your scarf. And your violin. And the skull." Sherlock's smile grew wider. "But- Hold on. You responded to my text."

"Yes, I did," Sherlock agreed. "My bad habits must have rubbed off on you. Talking to a skull and a dog more than actual people?"

"You wrote those messages?"

"It started to get a bit tedious, writing the same thing."

"Never known you to make a typo."

"You did just say you hated me."

"...I'll go and get your coat now."

"You do that."

He came back a few moments later to find Sherlock standing in front of the fireplace, turning the skull over in his hands. Susie was happily sitting next to Gladstone, playing with his ear.

"Consider that a Christmas present, although it might be missing a few teeth." John said.

"Why would it be missing teeth?" Sherlock ask, putting the skull down.

"...It ran into a wall."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but didn't respond. John tossed him the scarf and coat.

"Consider these presents as well." Sherlock caught the articles of clothing, pulled them on and deftly tied the scarf around his neck.

"Molly helped me fake my death. She was working in the morgue and Moriarty wasn't watching her, so it was easier to ask for her help. After that, I was traveling," he said as he smoothed out the black jacket. "I had to take out the rest of Moriarty's web before coming back to London. Couldn't wear the coat, or the scarf, because they were too distinctive. There's still pieces left, but it's safe enough that I could come back. I'll explain specifics later. Also-" Sherlock suddenly paused, sniffing his sleeve. "John, why does my coat smell like your deodorant?"

John flushed crimson, but met Sherlock's eyes.

"Probably the same reason your 'disguise' looks remarkably similar to my favorite jumper," he replied with a straight face. Sherlock's cheeks turned faintly pink, and he cleared his throat and looked away awkwardly. John laughed again. "Come on, Sherlock. Have you told anyone else you're alive? It's Christmas, they deserve to know, especially Mycroft, he was distraught-"

"John-"

"No, no protests. I know you don't like your brother, I don't really like him much either, especially with what he did but that doesn't matter, and we're going to see Mrs. Hudson, she's spending Christmas alone this year since her sister's away, and you should give your brother a call, even though you probably don't want to-"

"John-"

"-and you're going to call Lestrade as well, and while I would love to see Donovan and Anderson's faces, would be amusing to leave them in the dark for a bit, and you should see Molly too because even though she knew, er, knows, she'd still want to know you're back and-"

"John."

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"First of all, you aren't wearing shoes." John paused and glanced down at his feet. "Second, you might want to bring Gladstone and Susie instead of leaving them on the couch asleep. Third-"

He paused.

John looked at Sherlock as the consulting detective struggled for words.

"...Happy Christmas, John."

"Happy Christmas, Sherlock."

And we're done. Merry Christmas, all.

EDIT: The sequel to this story has now been posted and can be found on my profile page, titled A Study in Reaction.