John closed the front door behind him with great care and a muffled bang. Mrs Hudson was probably asleep; he didn't want to wake her. He had, in all honesty, been eager to escape Lestrade and his happiness and his fireworks – as soon as the (admittedly impressive) display had finished he had made his excuses and rushed back in the direction of 221B. Greg had given him a concerned look, but he had assured him that it was only because it had been a long day and he was tired. It was the truth, too. This was without mentioning all that excitement with the homeless woman and the note. John cringed internally at the thought as he shuffled through the main hallway, heading for the stairs to his flat. What an idiot. The poor woman must have thought him insane, asking her to send a note to a man that was long dead. Why she had even obliged, allowed him to live out his ridiculous fantasy, was beyond him. She likely just didn't have the heart to say no.

He continued to give himself a stern internal talking-to as he climbed the stairs slowly, trying to be as quiet as possible. The facts were clear. No matter how he had tried to deny it, it had been pretty much a year since Sherlock had disappeared from his life. Life had moved on without the detective. There were still strange cases, but there was no Sherlock Holmes to take one look at the unfortunate victim and deduce exactly what had gone on. Why couldn't he move on, too? It was, quite frankly, pathetic. He was a Captain in the Army. He was a surgeon. He had dealt with death every day of his working life – striving to save it, even aiming to take it away. He held the metaphorical scales of life in his hands every time he stepped into work. So why was it that this one man could so efficiently take away all that training, all the learned detachment?

It still pained him. John wondered if it would ever really go away; the dull ache in his chest at the very mention of his name. But it was time for him to move on, he told himself. A New Year's Resolution of sorts. Sherlock Holmes was dead. The sooner he accepted that fact – ripped the plaster off, so to speak – the better it would be for everybody. His mourning period was over. The Consulting Detective would always be remembered by the doctor, but it was time for him to take his first tentative steps towards moving on.

The pounding sound of each footstep John took towards the front door of 221B reverberated like a drum beat inside Sherlock's ear. His own heartbeat thrummed apprehensively as his blueish eyes stared straight ahead into the darkness. His hands were steepled in front of his face, elbows resting on the arms of the armchair that he had claimed as his own all that time ago. He was faced away from the door, staring ahead into nothing and relying purely on his sense of hearing to gage when John had entered the room. And while he waited, he thought. A million ideas all clambering for attention. Truly an engine, racing out of control. Racing towards what, he wondered.

The front door groaned open, spreading a sliver of light from the hallway into the darkened front room. Sherlock froze in his seat, almost forgetting to breathe. He stayed as still as possible, his full focus instead on the owner of the silhouette who reached for the lightswitch and flicked it on, illuminating the room.

John became immediately and acutely aware of another presence in the living area. Army training kicked in automatically and he moved into an attack stance instinctively. "Who's there?" he intoned, voice gravelly and hard. Sherlock was surprised by the voice – hard and metallic, and most definitely not the warm tone of the John Watson that he had left behind a year previously. It hit him very quickly that for all his planning and mounting tension about this very moment, he had no idea what to do next.

"I got your note."

John's heart skipped a beat. His feet abruptly rooted to the spot, completely frozen. He knew that voice. It was impossible. He was imagining things. But his mind reached to replay the four words that the intruder had spoken over again. It was said softly, but in the baritone of a man who was definitely, positively dead. Okay, John. Focus. Just seconds ago he had told himself that it was time to move on from the owner of that voice. But now?

This absolutely could not be happening.

At this moment, Sherlock turned to face his shellshocked companion, getting to his feet slowly. This was it. There was definitely no turning back now. He looked John over with a hint of desperacy in his expression, extracting every bit of information he could from the doctor. From a distance, whilst he had been keeping tabs on the other man, he had seen the thinned cheeks and the return to the walking stick. He was not prepared for the lack of light in his companions eyes. It denoted a pain such that nobody else had ever felt. It appeared almost to be an apathy from the normally vibrant man. John's jaw had slackened ever so slightly open, and had abruptly lost all colour from his face.

This wasn't happening.

This wasn't happening.

This could not be happening.

It couldn't, right?

Had he finally lost it?

"Sh- Sherlock?" he managed to breathe, barely audible.

"Yes, John. It's me." Sherlock nodded once in reply, unable to tear his gaze away from the blond.

He took a step towards John: slow, methodical, like he was handling a spooked animal that was at immediate risk of bolting at any second. John remained rooted to the floor, struggling to create any logical trains of thought. He could perceive no chain of events that could lead to a dead detective walking towards him, and yet—

It had to be fake. It was the only explanation of all the facts, the only conclusion that made any sense. Sherlock would have been proud of his attempt at logical thinking.

"You sick bastard." He murmured, sounding dazed and impossibly weary, like he was suddenly the oldest man on the planet. "Why would you do this to me?"

Sherlock paused, heart sinking. The uncensored hurt in John's voice singlehandedly made him feel awful. It was almost sickening to think. This was a man who had detached himself from emotion for years on end, believing it to be nothing but a distraction. Pointless. So to be attacked so swiftly and so viciously almost took his breath away.

"I get it. Let's all antagonise John Watson, that crazy bloke who still believes in Sherlock Holmes, right? Who sent you, the papers?" John's tone was heating, but the emotion was also building and threatening to show in the water pooling in his eyes. "I've already said no interviews, okay? It's one thing to write an article, but to send a fake dressed up as—"

Sherlock understood immediately, though it did nothing to negate the tension in the room that was tangible, cloying.

"You misunderstand, it's really m—"

"Sherlock Holmes is dead!" John yelled, the first tear escaping and running down his cheek, flecked with anger and sorrow. "There, is that what you want to hear? I saw it! I saw him—" his voice cracked and the sentence died in his throat. Sherlock felt completely helpless. How could he fix this? Take the pain away. This had never been his intention. He took another step towards the doctor, who glared at the floor, shoulders slumped in defeat. "Get out. Before I call the police."

Sherlock was undeterred though. He had to make this right. "John, look at me." He murmured when they were almost touching. John shook his head in reply, defiantly continuing to look to the floor. Sherlock softly ghosted his hand by the doctor's cheek and guided his head upwards. They locked eyes: Sherlock cool blueish ones and John's green, that widened in disbelief. There followed a moment of absolute silence. It seemed that even the clock dared not to disturb them.

"I'm so sorry."

John shook his head, moving away from Sherlock's hand and taking a step backwards. His cheeks were stained with tear tracks.

"You're alive." He whispered weakly, surprised even at himself for saying the words.

And then his knees gave way.

Sherlock darted forward to catch him, hooking his arms under the other man's shoulders and lowering him gently to the floor. John, who was semi-conscious, made no effort to fight against the movement. It was as if his brain had completely short-circuited, leaving him unable to form any but the simplest thoughts. I am on the floor. Why am I on the floor? I am moving. Somebody is moving me. My arm is wrapped around their shoulder. Now I am being sat down. In a chair? No, the sofa. I am leaning back into the cushions. Sherlock is staring at me.

Sherlock is alive.

Sherlock looked across at John from the other side of the sofa with a look of concern on his features. It was yet more proof that John had been a lot more affected by his 'death' than he could ever have imagined. He had collapsed. As in, not-in-the-room fainted as what he had said sank in. Even now, his breathing rate was increased, as if he had just sprinted a mile, yet his face was ghostly, drained of all colour.

He had to press on, though.

"John, I need to apologise to you. There was no pleasant way to do this. I never thought for a second that the situation would upset you so much."

John snapped his head up to face the detective.

"Sherlock, you jumped off a building and forced me to watch. What part of that wasn't going to upset me? Jesus…" John gave a deep sigh, exhausted both physically and mentally by the days events, and the sudden turn things had taken. He protested but his brain was replaying the terrible scene from a year ago. He blinked hard, shook his head to stop the video from playing again, but it continued regardless. He focused his gaze on the floor once more, leaning slightly forward in his seat – a recovery position, letting all the blood flow to his head. It was impossible. Even Sherlock Holmes couldn't cheat death.

"Why didn't you just tell me?" John asked weakly after an extended silence, turning to face the detective and looking him over. Sherlock frowned.

"Moriarty. He.." he paused. Was now an appropriate time to really go into the details? Could John really handle the naked truth right now? John stared. "He what?"

"He threatened to… kill you." Sherlock replied, as delicately as possible. John blinked, any colour that had slowly started to reappear in his cheeks quickly draining again.

"But he's dead too—oh, don't tell me. He's alive as well."

"No." Sherlock shook his head quickly with a grimace, also casting his mind back to that day. The austere expression in his archenemy's eyes as they shook hands for the first and last time. It was, inexplicably, one of genuine gratitude. No tricks, no lies – just a man who had lived a life with boredom so stifling that he was willing to take his own life to play a game through to the end. "No, he's really gone."

"Okay…" John said with uncertainty. "So why didn't you come back sooner? Or – or told me what you were going to do, at least! I could have helped—"

"No." Sherlock interrupted, a touch more strength in his tone. "This was my fight, John. My problem. For me to deal with – alone. I could not allow you to come under any more danger on my behalf." John opened his mouth to answer, but Sherlock shot him an intense gaze that caused his argument to wither in his throat. "He threatened your life, John. There was a sniper rifle trained on your head the whole time you were there." John frowned, but with the bizarre night he was having and the revelations that were coming out, he wasn't surprised.

"But… he shot himself, didn't he? He was already dead by the time you… well, you know. Why carry on playing?"

"He was dead, but the sniper was not."

John digested this.

"But you… you could have died. You did that to save me?"

There was another silence between the two. Sherlock nodded once, silent. John sighed, sinking back into the cushions of the sofa again.

"How did you do it?" John breathed, after at least two minutes of both parties remaining in silent thought. Sherlock blinked, looking over to lock eyes with John's curious gaze. The warmth was already beginning to reappear in the doctor's eyes. It was going to take time, as Mrs Hudson had warned him. There was a wall in his companion's expression – one that was going to take a very long time to come down, if it ever did. But it was a start.

"You don't want to know, really." Sherlock said, but John shook his head.

"I do, Sherlock. It… it would help me. Y'know, to understand."

Sherlock frowned.

"Well…"

A/N: Hello again, guys – it's been a while! I'm sorry that this took so long. My muse died because the reunion is such a critical moment and I wasn't sure how to play it properly. But there it is. Apologies if it sucks.

Favourites/follows/reviews are much appreciated, as always. Thank you!