A/N: Sorry for the delay, but life - or rather, my school project - got in the way...

Reese rode his motorbike, which he'd luckily left close behind, hoping that he would get to the swimming pool in time, because if he didn't, he was pretty sure John Watson would be utterly destroyed, at least emotionally speaking. The man had thought his best friend was dead for a year, now he'd been proved otherwise; if the detective was taken from him again, Reese wasn't sure he'd be able to cope with it.

So he travelled as fast as he dared, without speeding since he couldn't waste any time avoiding police cars, and mentally went through his arsenal of weapons, which was perfectly complete. He knew he'd have to kill Moran and quickly too; they couldn't afford to let him escape. The henchmen would undoubtedly be nearby, so he'd have to make sure to get rid of them before getting the criminal, or they might distract him. He continued imagining all the possible scenarios while he went towards his destination.

Meanwhile, John and Finch were travelling towards the school as well, only John was driving the luxury car without any regard for speeding regulations or traffic lights whatsoever. There was, yet again, a maniac after his best friend who he'd thought had died because of another maniac; he wasn't going to let anyone do anything to Sherlock again, and a stupid traffic light wasn't going to stop him. On the seat next to him, Finch, despite having his seatbelt on, was holding on to his seat tightly; not even Reese drove so quickly.

"Hum, Dr. Watson, not that I don't trust your driving abilities, but do you think you could slow down?"

"No time." The answer was sharp and Finch knew it would be better to let him be.

Sherlock put his hand in his pocket, feeling the trigger of the gun inside it; the weapon only gave him a slight feeling of security. He was quite certain Moran wasn't going to face him on his own; he wasn't the kind to leave matters unattended, after all, and if he had to have someone shoot the detective from behind to make sure he was finished off, he would without minding that some might call it a cowardly thing to do.

He looked up at the large building in front of him: the swimming pool of the Gallows school. He'd known this had been the place as soon as Moran had mentioned that "it would end then where it had begun in the past"; he remembered having read about this crime, and the evidence obviously pointed to one of the man's youngest colleagues (the victim had been a teacher); after all, the way in which he had been choked clearly suggested some expertise on the matter, and the suspect worked in a chicken farm, where he obviously did that to the animals. Besides, when they had appeared on television, it had been clear that the man and the victim's daughter were having an affair, which explained why they might want to get rid of him.

However, the New York police had never figured it out, and all of that was irrelevant now anyway. As he approached the door, he closed his fingers around the gun and prepared himself for what was about to come. When he pushed it open, he saw several things at once: the main one he noticed was Moran standing on the far end of the pool, but he also saw a few cigarette smudges near a dark corner, as well as traces of mud in a ladder that lead to a second floor, all of which made it evident that Moriarty's right hand wasn't alone. Not that that would stop him, of course.

"Well, look who's here" said the criminal. "We finally meet… personally. It's almost like the day you met him. Though I imagine I won't make such an impression on you."

Sherlock wasn't one to pointlessly chatter, much less with a man who had caused him so much trouble and who he was planning on killing. "You can save it. We both know why I'm here."

"Oh, yes – you want to kill me! You didn't want that with Moriarty, though, did you? He gave you what no one else could. He challenged you, made you part of the game. The great game. Well, I think I have at least created some difficulties for you. Maybe not in the way you enjoy it, but problems nevertheless."

"Whether I enjoyed it or not is none of your business" said the detective. He was slowly pulling the gun from the trigger, unwilling to give Moran what he wanted. "I've had enough of these games for a while." He pointed it at him. "Goodbye, Moran."

At that moment, a loud bang came from the second floor, just before Sherlock shot, and he looked up. The spy who had been following him around was there. He'd thought he'd lost him at the alley, after the man had impressively rid himself of Moran's henchmen (leading Sherlock to conclude, judging by his skill, that he'd been trained in the Army), but clearly he had still found him somehow. However, the important thing was that the man had hit the sniper who'd undoubtedly tried to shoot Sherlock, going by the angle of his rifle, in the back of the head, effectively knocking him unconscious. Almost without thinking, Sherlock looked back down, moved his gun to the dark corner where he'd seen the cigarette smudges and shot.

Just as he expected, he heard a cry of pain and the noise of metal hitting the ground, which obviously meant he was temporarily safe from gunshots. Of course, though, this only lasted for a moment, because then he heard the click of the safety being removed from a gun, and he found Moran aiming right at him, a look of pure hatred in his eyes. For a second it seemed he wanted to say something, and then he appeared to change his mind.

A gunshot was heard.

Nonetheless, Sherlock was perfectly fine, and blood was dripping from Moran's chest, where a bullet had visibly pierced his heart. He appeared to try to aim at the detective, but then he simply fell on the floor, clutching his chest. Sherlock looked up, but the spy, who looked quite relieved (he still didn't know why he was protecting him), had nothing in his hands, so he hadn't been the shooter. But then who…?

A door that was slightly ajar opened completely now, and then a man stepped out, lowering his gun. A man with sandy blond hair, holding himself perfectly steadily, with a steely look in his blue-grey eyes.

"John." The word came out in a mix of wonder, surprise and relief. He remembered, as if it had been yesterday, the night John had shot the taxi driver to stop him from taking the pill that could mean his death. The first time John had killed for him, even though he barely knew him, without hesitation. John, who always came at the exact moment, and who never faltered before any situation, no matter how dangerous. Once more, he had come in time to save his life.

The doctor turned to face him; he looked as if he wanted to say something but could not. He slowly put his gun away and began walking towards him. Several emotions could be read in his eyes: anger, betrayal, hurt, happiness, wonder, all of them at once. Finch, who had come in through another side door, watched the two of them, just like Reese above him.

When John was finally standing in front of Sherlock, he opened and closed his mouth a few times, but no words came out. Then, quite unexpectedly for their audience (but not for Sherlock, who'd anticipated such a reaction), he punched him in the face. This time, unlike when they had been close to Irene Adler's house, he held nothing in reserve and went straight for his nose, breaking it. Sherlock could barely feel any pain, or the blood that was starting to run down his nose; he was too busy trying to gauge John's feelings at the moment. What worried him the most was that he wasn't sure if John could forgive him, and in that case… he didn't know what he'd do; to be honest, he hadn't even considered the possibility until now, and doubt wormed into his mind.

And then, all of a sudden, the doctor's arms were wrapped around his tall frame, embracing him with all the force he had. John let the tears roam his face freely now, not caring about who might be watching him, because all that mattered was the man he was hugging. He was alive, very much alive, and John felt angry and betrayed that his best friend hadn't deemed it necessary to tell him he wasn't dead, hence the punch. Yet he was also full of joy, because life without Sherlock had been dull, boring, and there had been nothing to hold on to.

"You should've told me", he said. "I could've helped you". He hadn't let go of him.

"Your life was in danger. I couldn't tell you." Sherlock didn't let go either.

"It doesn't matter. You know you can count on me – why didn't you even leave some kind of clue?!" Now the anger was kicking in again, and though he was trying to keep it in check, he simply couldn't. "I was completely broken, Sherlock! How could you do that to me?" He realised maybe he was revealing a bit too much, but oh well.

"John." Sherlock took a step back now and looked at him, a serious expression on his face. At least, as serious as it could be, considering his broken, bleeding nose. "If I'd told you, you would've been killed and wouldn't be here with me now. I knew you would have wanted to help me, that's why I didn't say anything. I haven't exactly had the best of times during this past year, and I couldn't let you be dragged into it." The detective also felt he was saying some things that were quite private, but it was vital John knew this if he wanted to have a remote chance of fixing their friendship.

"And just what do you think I've been doing this past year? I wasn't exactly overjoyed, you know. Hell, in fact maybe I wouldn't even have found you if it wasn't for –" He remembered now that Harold and Reese were watching them, and turned around; so did Sherlock. Finch decided this was an appropriate moment to speak.

"We knew you would be involved in a crime, Mr. Holmes, but I'm afraid we had no idea of your role in it, or how you were still alive in the first place. So we brought Dr. Watson here to see if he could help us find you. And he did."

"So you work for him." Sherlock stated, looking at the spy who had, during the time John punched him, come down next to the other man.

Reese smiled wryly. "I knew you'd probably figure out I was following you, from what John told me, but I suppose you couldn't guess my motives."

"There was no reason for anyone to protect me at all."

"See, that's where you're wrong, Mr. Holmes" the man with glasses said. "You were in trouble, and that was reason enough to us."

Sherlock analysed the strange looking man. Expensive suit, well cared for, so obviously the one who gave the spy his suit. The glasses are an expensive brand as well, so clearly accustomed to large sums of cash. His fingerprints, especially on his thumbs, are slightly blurred, which suggests he works with computers. Dog fur on his shoe – long hairs, so a large dog who's really obedient, probably trained, possibly by the spy. Earpiece just like the other man's one – that's their means of communication. Overall rigid posture, plus a limp, indicates some kind of accident with severe consequences.

"You give him information about people which you get from computers, talking through the earpiece you both have, and provide him anything he may need. You're some sort of software designer, which seems to be a safe job and explains the large funds, but the fact that he gave you a guard dog suggests it's not like that. Possibly, that's related to the accident you had a few years ago."

Finch looked at Sherlock in amazement. "How did you know all that?"

John spoke quickly, before his friend started showing off like he normally did. "It doesn't matter. The important thing is that you somehow knew how to find Sherlock, and I'm grateful to you for that."

"It's nothing, John – that's what we do" Reese said and smiled, while Finch nodded. The latter added, "So, now that we've found you and stopped Moran, I believe it is only right we should pay your plane tickets so you can get back to England."

"That would be convenient, given that none of us have a lot of cash." Sherlock nodded. He then noticed John glaring at him out of the corner of his eye, and reluctantly added, "Thank you."

"But first", Reese commented, "I think we should get something for your nose, Mr. Holmes."

"Attention, please. All passengers of flight 201, destination London, please board the plane now. Passengers of flight 201 to London, we're boarding the aircraft now. "

The speaker went off, and John and Sherlock looked at Reese and Finch.

"Thanks" said John. "For everything."

"Don't mention it. It's our job." Reese said.

"By the way" Sherlock interrupted, "you haven't exactly explained what that is. Helping people who will be in trouble, of course, but how can you know that?"

Finch looked at him and said, "You'll be better off if you remain ignorant of that fact, Mr. Holmes. As much as I imagine you must hate not knowing something, it'll be safer for everyone."

"I'll figure it out", Sherlock promised. "Eventually."

Finch wasn't amused by this. "You won't."

"Oh, stop it" John cut them off. "Let's go. Goodbye." The two English men shook the Americans' hands and walked towards their gate.

"By the way", John said. "You owe me a long explanation, I think."

"And you expect me to tell you on a plane, where we might be overheard?" John's face made him change his mind. "Fine, I'll explain on the flight."

The doctor nodded and looked away. He was still having a mixture of feelings regarding the whole situation, of course, the broken trust and the happiness still inside him, but he knew he was going back to his old life now. He was glad, for he'd never been able to get over Sherlock's – faked, he knew now - death, never been able to move on and leave him behind. Now that wouldn't be necessary.

Life was good again.

A/N: So, that's it. Thanks to everyone who reviewed, followed and/or favourited! BTW, I'm a Johnlock shipper, so I'm sorry if their reunion seemed a little too emotional for you (if you thought so, you can say it in a review ;) ), but I tried my best to be as neutral as possible (of course there had to be a punch in the face, though xD).

Thanks for reading!