To Sherlock's relief, John looked very much himself. He wasn't sitting huddled in a chair or wanly tucked under an afghan on the couch. Except for the tended cuts at his temple, he looked altogether well, sitting at a desk with his laptop, just as he should be.

He wondered if seeing that should really feel so very reassuring.

"Weren't sure of your reception?" John asked him, smile reassuringly warm as he stood to greet him.

"What makes you ask that?

"Mary said you were wearing a hole in the pavement."

Sherlock shot Mary a glance, recognizing the phrase. She had crossed to a small chair by the window and picked up the book lying there. Clearly, she had been there some time—probably watching the entire time he'd vacillated in front of their door, like a jilted lover who both did and did not want to know their lover's indiscretions.

Mary was smiling at him, now. "I ordered some tea."

Sherlock glanced at John, still trying to adjust to the idea of John sitting still and letting someone else wait on him. He was so used to the mental image of John making the tea. His mouth watered at the thought. John made excellent tea.

"Believe it or not," John said, waving him toward a cosy arrangement of chairs, "Mrs McTavish makes excellent tea."

Sherlock blinked. When had John started to deduce?

His friend laughed. "It was obvious, Sherlock. You always liked when I made tea. Admit it, you were looking forward to it."

"Maybe," Sherlock mumbled.

An uneasy silence fell as the three of them sat and watched each other. Sherlock was relieved to see John seeming so much more himself than the other night in the hallway. He was calmer now, relaxed—and the idiotic moustache was gone.

"You shaved it, then?"

"What? Oh. Yeah. It wasn't working for me," John said with a glimmer of his old humour. "Just as well, really. I didn't need anything else flammable on my face last night."

"If it had been longer, you might have been able to use it to filter some of the smoke—it might have made breathing easier."

John's eyebrows lifted. "Let's not test that theory."

"No. Best not. Too late now in any case."

Sherlock wasn't sure how to follow that up. What was the correct balance between small talk and apologies? He was never sure, and so the silence lengthened.

Finally, John said, "Thank you for coming, last night. For helping Mary … and me."

Sherlock looked up from his examination of the carpet pile. "Of course I helped," he said, stung. "I didn't spend two years trying to keep you alive just for you to be murdered in a ridiculously melodramatic fashion the day after I returned to London."

John blinked. "Keeping me alive?"

"Well, of course, John. Why else would I have left?"

"It's not exactly something we had time to discuss the last two times we met, Sherlock," John said. "Both times, there were…"

"Too many people around?"

John huffed a laugh. "Yes, let's go with that." He paused a moment, then said, "I was on my way to see you. You know, yesterday. When I was grabbed."

"You were?"

Sherlock might have said more—though exactly what he was unsure—but it was that moment the door opened and a doughty tartar of a cook entered with a tea tray roughly the size of the Isle of Wight. He sat quietly while John thanked her and then mysteriously found his eyes rather itchy as John prepared a cup exactly the way Sherlock liked it. He had remembered, then, and that made Sherlock feel hopeful that this situation might still be salvaged.

He barely managed to wait until they were all sipping tea. He even took a biscuit from the overflowing platter and took a time-passing bite before repeating his question, still wondering whether he had heard correctly. "You were coming to see me?"

John's face showed a flash of … compassion? … as he said, "Of course I was."

"I … I just thought you'd be … that you'd still be …"

"Angry? Furious? Generally pissed off?" Sherlock nodded. "Well, I was all those things, Sherlock. I still am, to tell the truth and give fair warning, but in addition to making me furious and lying to me for two years—you also saved my life last night. Without wanting to encourage you to arrange similar situations every time we have a row, I will say it's a remarkably effective means of softening some of the sharper, angrier emotions."

Sherlock gave the smallest of smiles, barely a twitch of the lip, unsure if he was supposed to be amused or not. "I'll make a note of it."

"Since you're here, though … who was that, last night? And why did they come after me?"

"I don't know." It was the question Sherlock had been asking himself ever since. "I hate not knowing."

"Think how I feel," John said with a laugh. "Though from the sounds of it, I've been under something of a death sentence for the last two years without knowing it."

Sherlock met his gaze, feeling unusually tongue-tied. Should he tell him how he survived the jump? He had mentally rehearsed that so many times, but he hadn't planned on it coming after an actual life-threatening event for John. Perhaps that would make it more traumatic for him? Or, knowing John, less traumatic? And then, maybe it was the reasons that he had jumped that mattered more than how he had done it. John was much likelier to forgive him if he knew the reasons, wouldn't he?

John's expression was looking somewhat frozen now, and Sherlock realized that his brain had carried on for too long, he'd sat without responding for too long a pause.

"I didn't expect…" He began the sentence, and then stalled, completely, uncharacteristically uncertain of what to say next. He was probably as surprised as John was when the next words he said were, "I'm sorry."

He was surprised because they even felt different on his tongue, tasted different, more bitter and yet more sweet than they had before. Odd. How had he never noticed that words had flavour? He'd heard the expression "weighted words" before, but had never experienced it. Words had always been light, cutting—tools at his disposal, to be used according to his will. When had they developed these new characteristics that made two simple words so much harder to move past his teeth, as if the sheer mass would make them fall from his lips to crash to the floor, punching a hole in the floor as they fell?

Oh. Too much silence again. He looked up at John and noted an unusual expression on his face. It was a blend of the familiar disbelief and incomprehension Sherlock had often seen there, but it was softened by … appreciation? Some kind of acknowledgement, he thought. Respect, maybe, except that John had just said how angry he was.

Finally, after a long, somewhat incomprehensible moment, John said, "Right. So, is that why you came today?"

It was a good question, Sherlock thought. He had had such a myriad of reasons, he still wasn't sure which was paramount. Making sure John was well after his ordeal? Trying to make amends for having lied to save John's life two years ago?

Those things and more, but what he said was, "I need your help."

#

Sherlock hadn't expected it to work, not really.

To be honest, it hadn't even been a plan, so much as the first words that came out of his mouth. He had not expected John to volunteer his help.

He should have, though, he mused as they walked the dark Tube tunnel. If there was one thing he knew about John Watson, it was that the man couldn't resist providing aid and succour when they were needed. A terrorist threat against London? Of course John was going to help, no matter how battered and bruised from his own kidnapping and near-death the day before.

What had been new had been John's insistence on calling his assistant to make schedule changes before they left the house. Since when had John had an assistant?

Oh, right. The Earl thing that they hadn't talked about yet. Sherlock admitted to being … unsure … how to approach that. He had been ready to confront John about withholding information. He had been angry, even. But then John got himself kidnapped and nearly roasted to death in a fire and … well, yelling didn't quite seem appropriate anymore.

Especially since John had greeted him so graciously.

Really, such friendly openness might as well be a dirty trick, the way it cut his metaphoric legs out from under him.

No, "smoked" or not, John had leapt to Sherlock's aid just like he had countless times and if he had delayed long enough for a couple phone calls? It was no doubt the mature and correct thing to accept that he had other obligations. Not that Sherlock was happy about that. He had wanted things to remain the same. He had expected that—after a week or so of awkwardness—everything would have been back to normal. Him. John. Mrs Hudson. 221B. Annoying Mycroft. All of it.

He hadn't counted on an Earldom. And, really, how had John kept that from him all this time. Why had John kept it from him?

But that wasn't the point, now. Now, what mattered was that he and John were together, chasing down a terrorist, just like God planned, if He existed at all, which Sherlock had always doubted but with the serendipitous way things were working out, he was suddenly almost willing to believe in a benevolent Higher Power.

Hmm. He was having the oddest trouble, today, keeping his brain on track … particularly ironic considering his current location, really. He could see John's torchlight bobbing up and down as the man walked and marvelled again at John Watson's loyalty. He wasn't sure whether John was here for him, or because this was a matter of national security, but in the end, did that matter? He was here. They were together.

There was no doubt, though, that saving John's life last night had helped. Well, of course it had. John couldn't very well be walking with him now if he were dead, now, could he? But if he had died, he would still have been angry with Sherlock and wouldn't have come anyway. That is, naturally, of course he would have been angry. Sherlock wouldn't have saved him. But luckily he had, so John had forgiven him …enough to come with him, at any rate.

Good grief, was this endless tunnel ever going to end? His mind was running amok without any real input. It was John who thrived on adrenalin, after all. Sherlock did best with puzzles, and this was just … train track, endless and boringly the same.

No … wait. Up ahead. That was a train car. He glanced over at John, meeting his friend's gaze with a nod.

The game was on.

#

"No, I'm sorry, I've got nothing."

"You don't … Jesus…"

John's breathing had intensified in the last few minutes, as if he were consciously trying to control his inhalations. Sherlock supposed that was a fair response. John's army career had very clearly shown him exactly what a bomb could do to the human body, and of course, he had been all too close to one himself at The Pool.

No, John's reaction to standing on top of a bomb big enough to destroy the Houses of Parliament was reasonable enough. Just this side of panicking, but not frightened enough to run.

Which was a mystery, really. Why wasn't he running? Was it because he knew it was hopeless? That if a bomb this size went off, he would still be too close to the blast? Or was it a sense of duty, to do his best for England and her people? And he had a fiancée now, didn't he?

Or was it a sense of loyalty to Sherlock himself?

Before he'd been forced to jump off Barts, Sherlock would have been sure it was would have been his friendship with Sherlock.

Now, though?

How much of that loyalty was still there, after a two year absence? How much could have survived, after the lies Sherlock had told? Because one thing he knew about John Watson, the man abhorred liars. Oh, not innocent lies, to help solve a case, or to save someone's "feelings." John was realistic and could lie fairly convincingly for a good cause. But the big ones? Like those between best friends who've depended on each other, saved each other's lives? Apparently a lie on that scale was something different.

John was a realist, though, and it was that realism that gave Sherlock hope for their friendship—because no matter how painful Sherlock's lie had been, it had been for the ultimate Good Cause of saving not only John's life, but Lestrade and Mrs Hudson's as well. He was sure that John would forgive him for that. Eventually.

Besides, Sherlock's oh-so-very necessary deception wasn't the only big elephant of a lie in the room, was it? Yes, Sherlock had hid the truth of his survival for two years, but it had been to save John's life. What about John? He was an Earl. Not a new one, elevated for exceptional bravery or some such nonsense (if that was even possible). Mycroft hadn't pulled strings to honour Sherlock's friend as some obscure means of apology. This wasn't some inconsequential, unimportant little knighthood. Oh, no. This title was hereditary, which meant (1) John's family was and had been noble for longer than Sherlock had known him.

Which therefore meant (2) that John had lied to him.

It was a lie of omission, it was true, which is marginally less hurtful than a flat out lie to his face. (Though hadn't John said he needed a flat share? Clearly not true—look at the house he was currently living in.) And anyway, wasn't his own lie of similar nature? He hadn't actually told John he was dead, after all. He'd simply jumped from a building in front of him and then let him draw his own conclusions….

Though he supposed that might have been more emotionally damaging than he'd intended. Not that he'd had much time to make arrangements, after all. And John was still alive, wasn't he? Nor had he said a single word of apology or explanation as to his own deception.

For a fleeting moment, Sherlock was reminded again why he didn't usually "do" friends.

Except, of course, that was before he'd met John. Or Lestrade or Mrs Hudson, for that matter. And he found that having them in his life added savour. Having John in his life made all the difference. Sherlock had spent the last two years being truly alone and …. It was not an experience he had enjoyed. (Not even counting that torturous imprisonment there at the end which had been really very much not enjoyable.)

So, since John was a friend—and there was no doubt he was—why had he not shared this information with Sherlock? Had Sherlock offended him when he'd scoffed at Mycroft's threatened knighthoods? Did John seem like the type of man who would be sensitive about that sort of thing?

There was only one way to find out.

"I'm sorry, John," he said, forcing his tear ducts to moisten, "I don't know how to turn it off. You should go. Go now!"

"There's no point" John gritted out, even as his breathing grew even harsher, more laboured. "Jesus. I never thought I'd die this way."

"You weren't supposed to die at all," Sherlock told him. "That was the whole point. And now you'll never forgive me."

"Forgive…?" John stared at him. "Sherlock, you're the most infuriating man I've ever known, but you're also the greatest—and my best friend. Of course I forgive you."

Sherlock didn't want to admit how his heart warmed at those words. He was on a mission. "Best friend? You couldn't even trust me with your secret."

"You lied about being dead for two years, Sherlock, and you're saying that I had secrets?"

"The Earl of Undershaw?" Sherlock said, voice clipped.

"I wasn't an Earl when you jumped off that bloody building," John shot back. "You're not the only person I lost, these last two years. My father and my grandfather both died while you were 'away," leaving me more alone than ever—you don't think I couldn't have used my best friend then? And, anyway, I did tell you—it's just not my fault your grave was empty at the time!"

"Ah, so you don't forgive me."

"Forgiving you doesn't mean it stops hurting, Sherlock." John looked at him with eyes filled with regret, now. "It's just … this is really terrible timing."

"Terrorists aren't exactly known for their consideration," Sherlock said.

"No. For what it's worth, though, I'm sorry I never told you about the title," John said. "But really, how was I to know you didn't already know? That you hadn't observed it yourself?"

"I don't know everything, John," Sherlock said. "Obviously."

"Obviously," John repeated, eyes drifting down to the bomb … and then stopping, staring at the paused timer. "Sherlock…?"

And, inappropriate as it probably was, Sherlock couldn't help but laugh. Laugh at the stunned look on John's face. (He'd missed that so much.) Laugh at the sheer relief that they'd made up. Laugh at the realization that he was home.

John was yelling at him, calling him names—furious, again—but Sherlock didn't care. This flavour of John's anger was all too familiar, resonant on the tongue, on the ears, as he yelled at Sherlock for being a berk, for being inconsiderate—all things Sherlock had longed to hear for the two years he'd been gone. He had no illusions about his tactfulness or consideration—if anything, they were probably worse now than they had been when he and John still shared a roof—but this? It was like having his conscience back.

"There's an off-switch, John," he finally said, reining in the laugh enough to speak. "There's always an off-switch. Terrorists can make far too many mistakes unless there's an off-switch."

"You…" John couldn't even find the words he wanted to use now.

"If it helps," Sherlock told him, feeling almost giddy as he wiped away his tears, "I have absolutely no idea how to turn any of these funny little lights off."

And there it was. Almost against his will, John smiled then, and it felt as if the sun had come out.

They were back.

#

THE END