The letter, barely a note, really, arrived with the truck. John had finally stopped jumping up every time the truck delivered supplies. It was foolish and, though the others didn't tease, somewhat embarrassing. But he'd always jumped up for Sherlock, didn't he? Only Sherlock was gone and left in his wake was Holmes-induced neurosis.

One of the nurses, the pretty one with a bouncy ponytail and a young and un-jaded attitude despite her experience, handed him the envelope. John might have tried for her once, when he was ten years younger, back before his injury and discharge, back when he was a flirtatious army surgeon. And of course, long before Sherlock.

Not that she'd look at him quite that way, anyway. Not since Sig.

John smiled as she handed him the unexpected mail. "Ta, Megs."

The postmark was from London, more than two weeks ago. Harry, he thought immediately, though he tossed that thought aside just as quickly. Harry might respond to his calls when he was back in London, but she'd never gone out of her way to contact him out here. Not to mention, written correspondence was hardly her style. Mrs. Hudson, perhaps, though his name on the envelope didn't appear to be her elegant, old-fashioned penmanship. No return address, just John Watson in typed, capital letters, and his direction.

John slipped a fingertip under the edge of the flap and broke the envelope open.

He drew out a single slip of paper, cut to precisely the size of the interior of the envelope. John always imagined this was what a telegram would look like. Short. Simple. Stop.

The typed message contained was exactly that.

Baker St. Come at once if convenient.

If inconvenient, come anyway.

Could be dangerous.

John didn't know if he ought to laugh or cry. He settled for something in between, with a few pained gasps rounding out the mix. He couldn't know whether this was Sherlock or some hideously cruel prank. Still, had he ever told anyone what Sherlock had texted him that night, that first night? Mycroft Holmes probably knew; he knew nearly everything. But after all that had happened, would he do something like this? It would be incredibly evil even for a man known for his skills in manipulation.

What was John supposed to do? Go? Jump again for Sherlock Holmes? Not go? Prove he lied when he said he believed? Risk that he was refusing his friend? His lover?

Jesus, and what the hell had that all been about? Was that how it was going to be if he went to Baker Street? If Sherlock was actually alive? Was that what John wanted? Would Sherlock Holmes mend him yet again? Or would he break him? John had made his own life, finally pulling out of the hideous misery he'd felt when Sherlock fell. Was Sig Sherlock's way of easing the shock, of testing the waters for his return? Of testing John's feelings for the detective?

All John could really know was that none of his questions would be answered here. And if it was all a hoax, well, his heart had already shattered into a million pieces. It couldn't break any more. He went to put in a request with his mission head to leave as soon as a replacement could be assigned.

There was a taste of Mycroft in this after all. John's replacement had also arrived on the truck that day. He could leave the following morning. The head of the mission had also been told to inform John that a private plane would be waiting for him to take him directly back to London. He relayed this with a worried sort of awe, as if not sure whether good old John was up to something nefarious, or if he was being summoned home for a (wealthy) family emergency.

John kept it to himself and simply nodded in his military standard fashion and by the next evening, he was on a London-bound private jet.

London was loud and unfamiliar after two and a half years outposted in the far, violent reaches of the Earth. Everything moved so fast and was so crowded; John could barely comprehend the vast amount of life pressing in on him. He had missed this. When he'd chosen his school so long ago, he'd picked London for the never-ending rush. When he was discharged from the army, he'd wanted to stay in London for this reason, though it would have been much cheaper for him in some cozy hamlet somewhere.

He wondered if this was how Sherlock felt all of the time. He saw so much; every second his brain processed more than John's could in ten minutes. If he was constantly overwhelmed like this, it might explain a few things about the man.

John realized he was talking to himself as if Sherlock was still alive, as if it was a certainty and not just a calculated message mailed to him in an envelope for who knows what purpose. As if it were not some crazy grief fantasy John had twisted in his mind coupled with a steamy night with a stranger.

But John was a betting man, and he'd laid his wager on that slip of paper. And that was how, nearly three years after Sherlock's fall, he was standing on the doorstep of 221B Baker Street, finger on the bell.

"John, dear, what a surprise! It's been ages!" Mrs. Hudson opened the door and wrapped John in arms just a little more frail than they used to be. She still smelled the same, though, like baking and tea roses. "Come in for a spot of tea." She ushered him in and closed the door firmly behind. John dropped his duffle bag in the foyer. "Now, you go straight up," she said in a wholly different voice, one full of intrigue and secrecy. "He's expecting you."

Her final words made John's heart jump around in his chest as if it was a bird trying to escape a cage.

"Go on, dear, it's alright." Mrs. Hudson patted his arm.

John took the stairs two at a time. If he was out of breath by the seventeenth step, it was hardly due to the exertion of a simple staircase. If he opened the door with such force that it slammed into the wall and left a mark, that was only because he was wound to the point of desperation. And if he crumpled to the floor for a minute when he saw that familiar form sitting in a familiar chair, plucking strings on a very familiar violin, well, John could be excused for fainting; he'd had a very long day.

The pale, thin face surrounded by short, uncontrollable hair hovered over John's when he opened his eyes.

"I do hope you did not contract some horrible disease in whatever third world clinic you've been working at these past years." The pompous tone, that wonderful, egotistical voice, held only a small hint of concern but it was enough. "Honestly, John, if I suspected you would faint, I would have laid out pillows. Now do try to sit in a chair like a civilized person."

Sherlock lent his arm to help John rise and get to his armchair.

"Is everything all right up there? I heard a thump!"

"It's fine, Mrs. Hudson. John fainted but he's alright, now," Sherlock called down the stairs before shutting the lounge door. He opened it again briefly to call down, "I do think he could use a cup of tea."

"Not your housekeeper," came the familiar refrain.

"I expect she'll be up shortly despite that." Sherlock gave John a small, awkward smile, settling across from him in his black leather chair.

John's head ached as he gazed at Sherlock Holmes, alive and in the flesh seated not three feet from him. He hoped that Mrs. Hudson braved the stairs with her dodgy hip because if ever he could use a cup of tea, it was this very minute.

"You're very quiet, John. Did you knock your head when you fell?" Sherlock stood enough so that he could lean towards John and examine the back of his skull with those long, thin fingers. Fingers that John dreamed about; fingers that had touched him so intimately just the once before disappearing again.

"Do you need a blanket?"

The best John could do was look quizzical. Sherlock smiled and fetched an orange shock blanket from the sofa.

I have to be hallucinating. Where would he even have gotten that? What did I do with that when I packed up his things? I hadn't kept it.

John could only stare and Sherlock's smile faltered. He knelt before John and took his wrist in his hand, peering into John's eyes to judge the dilation of his pupils.

"John, please, say something. Anything."

"I don't know what to say," John managed finally. His throat felt wrapped with wire and he practically had to choke out the words. "And I can't decide whether to punch you or shag you into the floor."

"Oh, do try to hold off on both, for my sake!" Mrs. Hudson chose that moment to enter the flat with a tea tray. Sherlock retreated into his chair, holding the shock blanket in his lap as if he couldn't quite decide if he needed it himself. Mrs. Hudson poured out the tea for John, balancing the cup and saucer on the arm of his chair. She left the pot for Sherlock.

"Now, do try and remember, he's had quite a shock. Perhaps you'd better explain a few things while you can, before the shouting begins."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said firmly, more a dismissal than proper gratitude.

"I'll be off to Mrs. Turner's if you need anything," she said as she closed the door to the stairs behind her. They could faintly hear her add, "Two bedrooms, indeed," as her footsteps descended the stairs.