NOTE: I had planned on ending this with chapter 13—and, in fact, still think it's a practically perfect ending—except … as a reader, I'm always wanting more, and I find as a writer I often have trouble stopping while there are still questions. So I decided to write one extra chapter to tie up a few loose ends and … well, here it is. A 3,000-plus word behemoth of a chapter which hopefully you'll appreciate. If not, just go back and re-read those last few paragraphs of chapter 13 and stop there. Really, that works, too.

#

John followed Sherlock inside and up the stairs to an elegant, sun-filled office. He barely glanced around the room, noting the two comfortable chairs and the tea tray set and waiting.

All his attention was on Sherlock.

He'd already noted the man was thinner, but there were other changes, too. His hair was lighter, almost ginger, and brushed straight instead of falling in his eyes in a curly mop. There was a small scar on one cheekbone—barely noticeable—but also a small limp that hadn't been there before.

The essentials, though … those had not changed. This was Sherlock Holmes, back from the dead against all odds.

John inhaled sharply, overwhelmed by, well, everything. Relief that Sherlock had survived. Anger that he had jumped anyway. Disbelief. Affection. Exhaustion. Joy. All of it poured out of his beleaguered heart and pooled briefly in his stomach before flowing down to wash away the strength in his knees. He sat heavily in one of the chairs and leaned forward, head in his hands.

"John? Are you all right?"

"Just give me a minute, Sherlock. It's not every day your best friend returns from the dead."

"Of course," Sherlock said softly.

John just sat and listened as Sherlock moved away. He registered the click of an electric kettle. "I thought you wanted me to make the tea?"

"Only if you're feeling up to it. It's the company that matters, after all, and it's not like I'm incapable…"

John drew in one more deep breath. "Not so long as you don't get distracted, at any rate, by a case or a serial killer … and as long as you haven't started any experiments in the kettle."

"Now, John," Sherlock's voice was edged with amused protest. "I only ever did that once. You made it quite clear afterward that the kettle was only to be used for clean, unsalted water for potable beverages. Did I ever make that mistake again?"

"Well, no," John said, heaving himself to his feet and walking over to the table. "Luckily, considering we practically lived on tea. That lesson, at least, you seem to have learned."

They stared at each other for a few minutes and John wondered how many changes Sherlock saw in him. When the kettle clicked itself off, John reached over and poured the water into the waiting pot. "The good tea?"

"I try to make every day a special occasion, John," Sherlock told him with a smile, but his eyes were serious. "And this one is."

John nodded. "It is."

And as tea-scented steam began to wisp up from the pot, John finally started to feel himself relax.

#

Sherlock was concerned, watching John. There was nothing overtly wrong, nothing obvious for a casual observer, but to one who knew him well … he'd lost weight and, from the color of his skin, had barely seen the sun in months. That was unlike the John he knew, who went for regular walks. ("I need some air!") He hadn't been sleeping well, either. Still … physically, mostly, he looked well enough.

It was the emotional toll that worried him. Mycroft had been right (damn it). John had spent too much time being invisible. His skin almost had a transparent look to it which had nothing to do with exposure to sunlight and everything to do with the fact that nobody had seen him—as if his very cells were encouraging people to look away. It was like the print of an old book, fading away in the archives, unseen and unmissed.

The thought was unbearable. John Watson should always be missed. And so Sherlock watched his friend, eyes boring into every inch of him as if he could pull him back into the world by sheer will.

John handed him a cup and Sherlock's eyes briefly closed as the scent wafted into his nose, reminding him of home in a way no other cup of tea had in the last three months.

"I'm not going to disappear, you know," John told him after they'd sat down. "There's no need to stare. I can't have changed that much. At least my hair is still the same color."

Sherlock just blinked at the reference to his dyed hair and continued to watch, absorbing every new line, every subtle change—but mostly, just reveling at the sheer, delicious comfort of sitting and drinking tea with John Watson.

When he didn't say anything, John just gave a half-smile and leaned back in the chair and sipped his tea, as if he were comfortable with Sherlock's stare—which nobody else ever was. It was just part of what made John so extraordinary. They sat and sipped in companionable silence for a few (endless, perfect) minutes, but Sherlock saw the lines of strain reappearing on John's face as his expression began to close in, shut down. "I am sorry, John."

"What?"

"I said I was sorry, do pay attention, John," Sherlock said, but without any of his usual snap. "It's not like the situation is likely to arise again."

"Christ, I hope not," John said.

"Indeed. Which makes this a red letter day for you to note in your calendar, because I am actually apologizing, and it does not happen often." ("Ever," John said with a mutter.)

Sherlock leaned forward and put down his cup. "But I am sorry, John. I didn't give you a chance to explain, and I should have. I didn't think we had time, though. I didn't know that Mycroft had moved on the other snipers already, and I certainly didn't know you'd managed to hide Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson—which is truly remarkable, by the way. Apparently the idiots at the Yard were quite frantic looking for Lestrade before Mycroft's people showed up. You did the impossible and I didn't even give you a chance to tell me. I am truly sorry."

For a long moment, John didn't move. Then, a small ripple appeared on the surface of his tea as he heaved in a long, deep, cleansing breath. Sherlock braced himself, expecting recriminations to follow, accusations … but all John said was, "Thank you."

Relieved though he was, Sherlock had expected more emotion than that. Shouting, in fact. Maybe John hadn't heard him?

He was considering that when John asked, "So … are you back from the dead, then? Done hunting down potential snipers?"

"Not exactly." John just lifted his eyebrows, so after a moment, Sherlock continued, "I'm here for two reasons, John. The first and most important was you. When Mycroft said he couldn't find you, that you had literally disappeared … I dropped everything and practically ran all the way from Prague."

John's eyes widened slightly, but all he said was, "And the other?"

"You've probably already guessed—as long as Moriarty's network is in place, you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade are still in danger."

"And that's what you've been doing? Chasing down his network on the sly while everyone thinks you're dead?"

Sherlock nodded.

"And you didn't think that wasn't something I might be able to help with?"

"Of course I did, John, but I needed you to be here to divert attention."

Another sigh from John as he reached for the teapot and poured fresh tea, gesturing for Sherlock's cup. He didn't say anything until they were both leaning back again, drinking. The absurdity of British custom had never been more obvious to Sherlock than at this highly-charged moment when, instead of yelling, his friend was pouring tea.

Finally, John said, "So You just went off gallivanting and left me home like a grieving widow?"

"Hardly a widow, John," Sherlock said, a taste of asperity in his mouth reminding him he'd forgotten the biscuits. "But if we had both disappeared, there would have been questions. I was relying on you to hold down the fort."

John pressed his lips together. "So, leaving me behind was your great plan then, Sherlock?"

Ah, there was the anger he'd been expecting. What on earth had Mycroft said to him? "I don't know what Mycroft told you yesterday, John, but…"

"Yesterday?" John snorted and shook his head. "I've known you had a 'plan' for months, Sherlock, since before … That is, I knew you and Mycroft were working on something. I didn't know any of the details—just that there was a plan. Mycroft told me you didn't trust my acting abilities and, fine, I can accept that. But when did you stop trusting me?"

Sherlock was stunned. "John, I never stopped trusting you. Quite the contrary—my plan depended on you."

"What? The plan that would keep me completely in the dark, left behind and alone, while you went and risked your life day after day without me? That's a shit plan, Sherlock."

"I know!" The words burst out of Sherlock, startling both of them. "I know it was, but I didn't know what Moriarty was planning. All I knew was that he wanted your gift and he thought it was mine. I was terrified he was going to kill you, and all I wanted to do was keep you safe. I thought by putting some distance between us, I would. I never realized that faking my death would last so long. I didn't realize …"

"Didn't realize what?" John's voice was calm, but Sherlock was not deceived. It was the same calm that infused John's voice when he pointed his gun. He was in control, but violence was there, just beneath the surface, ready to explode.

"I didn't realize how bad a plan it was," Sherlock said softly. "Especially after your actions on the roof, John."

"So this is my fault, now?"

"Not at all. But my plan depended on my facing Moriarty alone—nobody would have known what happened."

John had closed his eyes now and covered them with one hand, as if he'd just heard unbearable news. Then he stood. "Yes, well, I'm sorry I ruined your perfect Plan, Sherlock. Thanks for the tea."

Wait. No. This was going all wrong, and John was standing now as if he was going to leave.

"That's not what I meant, John," Sherlock said, quickly moving between John and the door. "I meant that—I thought I was going to be alone on the roof, but I wasn't, because you were there. You were. You have no idea … I was terrified you were all going to die, and it was all because of me. But when you spoke to me, and I knew you were there …"

Sherlock frantically searched his brain for the right words, remembering the relief, desperate to find the ones that would keep John from walking out the door and leaving him alone again. He barely noticed the way John's weight had shifted back on his heels, or the slightly stunned expression. He just kept talking, letting the words pour from his mouth as fast as he could, anything to keep john from leaving.

"I was so relieved, John. Just having you there made everything better, and then we were winning and Moriarty was losing, but then he shot himself and I realized that you would never be safe, none of us would be safe, as long as Moriarty's men were still out there."

He drew in a stuttering breath. "It was why I had to jump. Moriarty was smart. He had layers upon layers of plans, and he said outright that only my jumping would stop the snipers. Don't you see? There was no way he wouldn't have contingency plans, second-string assassins waiting in the wings in case the first lot failed. And then third- and fourth-level teams. Even with your gift, nothing would stop all those other killers, and they weren't even in place yet. I had to jump to buy us the time to take them down—without them knowing we were coming."

John looked thoughtful, lips pursed as he absorbed this new information. "Okay, I can see that," he finally said. "So you really did feel you needed to jump."

"Despite knowing what it would do to you, yes," Sherlock said. "I'm sorry. I couldn't afford to let you know that my death had been faked, either. Not right away. Your actions over the first weeks—while the press was watching, while Moriarty's people were watching—were crucial. If you had looked even the slightest bit relieved, any less shocked or hurt, it would have ruined everything."

John had sunk back down in the chair now. "Were you planning on telling me?"

Sherlock nodded. "But, see, that's where we ran into trouble. Thanks to you and your video, Mycroft had already cleared my name, but that just made some of Moriarty's people … angry. Especially about his suicide. That made everything … harder. Mycroft increased the security for Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and gave me extra men to help, but … you had disappeared."

A tiny smile. "You know me. I've never liked unnecessary attention, after all."

"Indeed, but it made it that much more urgent to stop Moriarty's men. And then, right after the … the funeral, you were gone. You weren't answering your phone or responding to emails …" Sherlock looked at his friend. "I know you're good at hiding, John, but this was … worryingly good. Where did you go?"

"An army buddy's unused flat," John told him. "He's still overseas and wasn't using it. They do get YouTube in Afghanistan, you know, and he wanted to help." His expression tightened.

Sherlock nodded, mentally filing the data. "Mycroft was frantic—well, for him. You weren't even reading his messages, much less responding. It drove him mad—which I generally applaud, of course, but which was distressing this time. By then, I needed to leave—the leads I had were growing cold and I couldn't afford to wait while we tried to hunt you down."

John's face was in his hand now and Sherlock watched with concern as his shoulders began to shake. This had all been so much harder on John than he'd expected, and he fought again with the unfamiliar swelling of guilt at having caused such pain to his best friend. Then he realized John was laughing.

"Isn't that just like us? Moriarty was right about one thing, Sherlock—you do like things complicated!"

Sherlock couldn't help it. He was chuckling, too, and oh, it felt so good.

#

"So, now what?" John asked once they had caught their breath.

"Well, you've made things more difficult, John," Sherlock told him. "You were meant to be noticeably here to divert attention, but instead, you effectively disappeared."

John shrugged. "I'm surprised you didn't see that coming, frankly, a genius like you. What did you think I was going to do when the press descended and I was left on my own again? Hold a press conference? With my gift? Of course I disappeared."

Sherlock blinked as if he hadn't thought of that at all, and John felt a surge of satisfaction. It was so seldom he was able to catch Sherlock out.

"On the other hand," John said, "That means that, since nobody knows where I am, anyway, I can come along and help, right?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No. I said things were more difficult. Moriarty's people know he is dead, and they think that I am … but they don't know about you. So when I started moving against them …"

"They thought it was me," John finished.

"Yes, because they don't know where you are, and you've got the perfect motive for hunting them. So they're watching everything."

John leaned his head back against the cushions. Of course. "So you need me to stay here so they'll relax their guard."

"Here in plain sight," Sherlock clarified. "Yes."

John closed his eyes, holding back the pain of being left behind again. "For how long?" he finally asked.

"I don't know. It could be a while."

There was a long moment while John just sat and breathed. Then, without opening his eyes, he said, "I'm sure Mrs. Hudson'll be thrilled to hear I'll be coming back."

He could hear the relief in Sherlock's voice when he said, "You got my help with the rent, right?"

"You mean that cheque with all the zeros you left me in your will? Yeah." Now he looked at Sherlock and smiled. "Why did you need a flatmate, again?"

"Mycroft, of course. He was withholding my trust fund because, well, he's Mycroft. I really only planned on sharing the flat for a few months at most until I was in his good graces again, but…" Sherlock looked almost sheepish as he glanced at John.

"You couldn't resist my sterling tea-making abilities," John suggested.

"Something like that," Sherlock said. "All I really know is that it's not the same without you. I really do wish you could come, John."

"There are always holidays," John said. "I might get a yen for some travel to ease my loneliness. You'd be amazed at how discreetly I can travel—if you ever thought you wanted some back-up."

"I'd like that."

It was quiet for a minute as the two friends sat in the sun-filled window, just enjoying each other's company.

"When do you need to go back?" John asked after a time.

"Tomorrow."

John heaved another long, deep breath. "Right. Well, I'll make some more tea, and then you can tell me how you survived that jump, yeah? Don't leave anything out."

"If you tell me how on earth you affected that video. I had no idea you could do that."

John frowned. "Mycroft said something about that, too, but I think it's just that the video is compelling."

"You tried though, didn't you?" Sherlock's eyes were sharp. "You wanted people to believe in me."

"I might have thought something like that when I started recording, but it's ludicrous. My gift only affects people, Sherlock. I can't affect a recording. It's absurd."

"Maybe so, but I watched that video and couldn't tear my eyes away—and believe me, I wanted to," Sherlock told him. "You could make a fortune in Hollywood with that gift, Dr. Watson."

John laughed. "I don't think I could bring myself to care that much about a film. Luckily, I inherited your trust fund, so I really don't need any more money at the moment. Thanks for that, by the way. I hope you're not expecting me to give it back."

"Well, really, John, who else would I leave it to?"

#

The two friends talked for hours. They had Chinese delivered at some point and brewed dozens of pots of tea. It wasn't until late that night that their fatigue and the long, stressful months finally caught up with both of them.

John woke the next morning on the surprisingly comfortable office couch, covered in an orange shock blanket of all things. He blinked at the table and saw the tea service thoughtfully laid out, ready to go, along with a bag of cinnamon rolls from his favorite bakery.

And a note.

"Until soon, John."

He just smiled at the sun-drenched table and then stretched, feeling rested and more like himself than he had in three months. Turning the kettle on, he reached for his phone, powering it up for the first time in weeks.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson? I was hoping you still had my room available."

##

THE END

(Note: And that's it for this series—at least until S3 begins. Thanks so much for reading!)