John walks into the flat and looks around. Something seems off. Not anything obvious. Not anything someone who didn't live here would notice. But there was. It had something to do with atmosphere rather than concrete evidence.

Of course it could just be him projecting. The day had started off bad and gotten worse from there. Sarah had to send him home eventually. It was clearly one of his bad days.

He use to have a lot of those. Right after Sherlock jumped three years ago, every day was a bad day. He had to take some time off to get himself together. Eventually he went back to work, but still had to go home sometimes. But in the last year it rarely happened.

John doesn't know why today was bad. There hadn't been any nightmares, no memories too hard to remember, no significant dates. But there was something. John just doesn't know what.

He goes up to his room to change. And freezes. There was someone in his room. Slowly he opens the door and looks in.

He lets out a strangled noise.

His eyes widen.

His breath stops.

Sherlock.

Sherlock bloody Holmes is in his bedroom. The same Sherlock he saw jump off St Bart's three bloody years ago.

Sherlock obviously hears him and turns.

John amends his statement. It's Sherlock alright. But it's not the same Sherlock he remembers. His Sherlock was skinny, but not skin and bones. His Sherlock didn't sleep as much as he should but didn't have too dark shadows under his eyes. His Sherlock's hair was black and curly, not ginger and short. But most of all his Sherlock had a spark in his eyes, a glint of mischief. The man before him doesn't.

But it is still the same man.

"Sherlock." John chokes out.

"John." His voice is the same, deep and steady as always.

"You... you..." John is at a lose. Three years. Three years and he's still alive. He's bloody alive and he didn't tell him. Even the obvious signs of exhaustion and malnutrition can't overcome his anger right now. "You bastard!" He marches over and punches the man right in the face.

Sherlock staggers back as if he didn't brace himself at all. He hits the back of the wardrobe with a thud and winces. John grabs him and hauls him down to his level. "You absolute git! How could you?! For three years I have mourned you. And now you show up in my bedroom! What gives you the right?!"

"As you said before, rather accurately I believe, I am a machine."

"Oh no! You do not get to throw those words back into my face. I have been regretting those words for three years so you do not get to repeat them to me like that."

"There is no harm in stating the truth."

"Except they aren't and you know it as well as I do."

"Do remind me John, what it is you are yelling at me about? I believe they qualify as this is an excellent example."

John is hard out not to punch the bastard again. He is the only one John has ever known to argue that he is heartless. Everyone else would be falling over themselves to dispute it.

Then he notices what Sherlock has in his hand. One of John's jumpers. And not just any one. It is the one he was wearing when he first met Sherlock. "And what were you doing with this?"

Sherlock's face, which had been unreadable until then, makes a slight shift. It's gone so quickly that John can't identify it, but at least it's something.

"Well?"

"It is being repurposed."

"For what exactly?"

Sherlock is silent.

John realizes he still has Sherlock's shirt in a death grip. He lets go and crosses his arms. "Alright, let's hear it."

"Hear what?"

"Obvious. My explanation. Even you must know you can't just come waltzing back into my life as if nothing happened and expect everything to go back to normal. So what is your explanation?"

Sherlock is silent for a moment. "It was the end game. Moriarty planned it well. No way out, only two options, or so it seemed. I was lucky enough to find a third."

"What, that's it?! No elaborate narratives? No grand account of your cleverness? No bragging about outsmarting the obviously inferior genius? No bragging about how you won?!" John's voice is growing louder with each question, but he doesn't care. He is just thankful Mrs Hudson is out right now.

"Because I didn't."

"Didn't what?"

"Win."

"Of course you did. You're still alive!"

"No. I won the battle but not the war."

"What does that even mean?" John is growing more frustrated with each answer Sherlock gives. None of it makes sense. All he wants are some straight answers. Answers to understand. Answers to help let go of this hot red anger.

But of course Sherlock has to be a stubborn git about it. "Fine. We can just stand here until you give a clear answer. Maybe that will be better anyways. You can tell Mrs Hudson at the same time. Only have to say it once."

Another flash of emotion crosses Sherlock's face too fast to read. "Fine." He says, voice hard. "I was given two choices. Either I jump and three people live or I live and three people die. I chose to fake my death and take out his web instead. Happy?" He snaps.

"Three..." John doesn't ask because he knows Sherlock. He doesn't like to be forced to do anything, which is exactly what John is doing. So he needs to not ask any obvious questions. So three people. Three people Sherlock would care about...

"Oh Sherlock." Of course. It is obvious. It's not like Sherlock holds that many people in high esteem. "How did you do it?"

"Molly helped."

"Molly." John can feel his anger, which had been slowly disappearing, come back. Not that he had anything against Molly- besides the fact that she had been lying to him the past three years. But the fact that Sherlock turned to Molly and not him. "Molly?!"

"Yes."

"You couldn't think of someone else to help you? Like, gee I don't know, your best friend! That's me by the way. Just in case you needed a reminder."

"No I couldn't."

And that cut deep. After everything they had been through, everything that had happen in the two years they had known each other, Sherlock couldn't trust him with this? Fine. "Out."

Sherlock merely cocks his head, as if he didn't understand.

"Get out you bloody bastard! Get out of the flat and out of my life! And don't come back."

Sherlock gives a curt nod and leaves. John slams the door after him.

It takes John a couple of hours to realize Sherlock took his jumper with him.

The next day John wakes up with a massive headache. It takes him a moment to remember why.

At first he thinks it was a dream. Then he goes to his wardrobe and searches for his jumper. It's not there. "Jesus Christ." He mutters.

He goes downstairs, calls off work and puts on the kettle. His head is spinning. Sherlock is alive, has been alive, didn't trust him enough to tell him he is alive... what a mess.

He's still angry. So so angry. But he winces when he remembers what he yelled at Sherlock. He didn't mean it. Not at all. But he was feeling so betrayed that he was afraid he would do worse to the man than punch him if he stayed any longer. Then he remembers how Sherlock looked and puts his head in his hands.

He gets up and grabs his mobile. He's knows Sherlock's number is disconnected, but another Holmes' still works.

"Ah, Dr Watson. What a surprise." Mycroft says pleasantly.

"Where is he?"

"I beg your pardon."

"Sherlock. Your brother. Where is he?"

"We both know where he is Dr Watson."

"I know he's alive. He was here last night. Where is he today?"

"Was he really? Tell me, how did that go?"

"It could have gone better. Could have been worse too, but definitively better."

"Frankly I'm surprised he changed his plans at all."

"What do you mean?"

"Or did he, I wonder. Tell me, what was he doing when you arrived?"

"He was in my room."

"You arrived home early."

"Yes."

"Ah. Well that certainly explains it."

"Will you just bloody give me an answer! Christ, neither of you can lately."

"Simply put, Doctor, my brother wasn't planning on contacting you yesterday. In fact he wasn't planning on contacting you at all. So he was caught off guard when he saw you yesterday."

"Wasn't planning... Why?!"

"Because my brother has grown rather sentimental in the past few years. I believe when he told me his exact words were 'It is better for John to mourn me and move on with fond memories than live with the feeling a betrayal forever'. Rather noble of him don't you think?" John can easily hear the sarcastic gibe in his voice.

"So he wasn't planning on coming back either way." John takes a deep breath. "Ok, so I assume what he told me was correct. That if he didn't jump Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and I would have been killed and that all this time he was hunting down Moriarty's web."

"Correct Doctor. I am glad you managed to get that much out of him."

"He told me when I said we could wait for Mrs Hudson."

"Ah."

"Does he really plan on never telling anyone that he's alive?"

"That was the plan. After he was finished, I would release the proof his of innocence and he would move on with his life away from London."

"Where?"

"I must ask Dr Watson, why are you so insistent on finding my brother?"

"Because he's bloody alive, that's why! He's alive and I'm not by his side and that is unacceptable. I stood by that bastard through everything else and I'll stand by him through this too."

"Even though you are still angry and feeling betrayed by him?"

"Obviously." John says mockingly. "He's my best friend. I will never not want him. Even when he is being a git and driving me bloody mad."

"Very well Doctor. I will send a car. I suggest you pack for a few days."

"And where am I going?"

"My brother has a manner home in Sussex he planned to move into after retirement. He will have gone there."

"Thank you Mycroft."

"Good day Dr Watson and good luck."

John watches as the car pulls away. In true Holmesian fashion it hadn't taken long for him to arrive, sufficient as always. He looks at the house and smiles. It's a manor alright, but not too flashy. It reminds him of something out of the Victorian era. He snickers because isn't that just the perfect image of Sherlock. He use to think sometimes that the man had been born in the wrong time.

He walks up to the door and finds it open. Pleasantly surprised he goes in for a look around. It is an odd mixture of old and new. One room has an enlarged version of what their kitchen table use to look like. On a bad day. The one with a telly is obviously the living room. Another is the parlor. His favorite is the one the fireplace. In front of the fireplace are two chairs, angled to face each other. "Oh Sherlock." He murmurs.

With that thought in mind he goes off to find the man himself. He is not in the house so obviously he's outside. John drops his bag in one of the rooms and goes to find the door.

Outside, he looks around at the garden. There are pathways that wind around different flowers. Further out the land becomes more untamed with trees scattered around. It's not hard to find Sherlock after that.

John grins. Bees. He should have known.

Sherlock always had this strange fascination with bees. John had made the mistake of insulting one when it had stung him one time. He had gotten a three hour lecture of the usefulness and intriguing qualities of all things bee.

Of course he had teased the man about this, but truthfully he always thought it was kind of adorable.

He waits, just content to watch his friend doing something he loves. And he can tell that he does even if he can't see his face. He could always read Sherlock to some degree. Of course the last three years have made him rusty. But he better get it back fast because the man in question just noticed him.

He walks briskly toward him, pulling off his beekeeping clothes on the way. He sets them gently on the ground and straightens. "John." He greets, his voice emotionless.

"Sherlock." John nods. "I see you finally got your bees. Doing well?"

"Yes."

And isn't this like talking to a brick wall. "So I may have overacted yesterday when I kicked you out."

"May have?"

"A bit. But Christ Sherlock, do you have any idea what a shock all of it was?" John shakes his head. "And then I hear- from Mycroft of all people- that you didn't plan on seeing me again. That if I hadn't come back home early I would never know that you were alive."

Silence.

"Well?"

"What do you want me to say John?" Sherlock sounds frustrated. "It's true if that's what you are wondering. I thought I had everything planned for but you were always a wild card. But now you know and you're still here so I assume it's for an apology." He looks John dead in the eye. "I'm not saying I'm sorry." He brushes past John and heads for the house.

It takes a moment for John to process that. When he does he goes after him. "Sherlock, wait." He grabs his sleeve and doesn't let go. "I didn't come here for an apology you daft bugger. I came here because you're alive and you're here. But what do you mean you aren't sorry? You aren't sorry for jumping in front of me? For making me mourn you for three years? For not asking for my help to do it? For breaking my heart?!"

Sherlock turns. "Yes!" It's clear he's finally lost control of his emotions. "Yes to all of it. Do you know why? Because you are alive to feel all of these things! You were being watched. Even after three bloody years Morgan was still watching you. I refuse to live in a world where you are not present!"

"Fine. So I was being watched! There wasn't some way you could let me know? You're smart enough to figure something out, I know you are."

"I couldn't risk it." He growls.

"Oh really. The great Sherlock Holmes can't think of a secret way to contact me? That's rich."

"Did you miss the part where there was a sniper to your head? An assassin who would not have hesitated to kill you if he thought for one second I was still alive. So what part of me telling you I was alive would be a good idea?!"

"The part that you are! The part that you took down a criminal mastermind's web by yourself. Without me to watch your back! The part that you didn't trust me enough to help you!"

"The part the I will not risk your life like that! The part that the world can lose me and still go on, but you make it better so you need to stay. Right. Here!"

"Can lose you! Well maybe the rest of the world can go on fine, but I bloody can't! You said once that you only had one friend. Did it not occur to you that it was the same for me? That you are my only friend!"

"Yes it did! I told you that Moriarty won. I may have kept you physically safe but I broke you emotionally. Do you think I am too stupid to know this?! I knew when I was on that roof I had to chose. Either I live and let you die or die and let you live- broken but still alive. Still breathing. Still able to move on. That's why I wasn't planning on telling you. For this very reason! You said yesterday that things couldn't go back to the way things were. I know! I made the decision that I would rather live in a world where you thought I was dead and remembered me fondly then know I'm alive and hate me, never fully trusting me again, damaging our friendship permanently!" Sherlock stops, breathing hard.

John stares, wide eyed at his friend. "So let me get this straight. You did this, you took down Moriarty's web, going through hell and back all to keep me safe. And during that time you thought that if I ever found out I would hate you forever?!"

"Yes."

"You idiot." John reaches up, pulling Sherlock down and kissing him.

There is nothing neat or soft or sweet about it. It is a fierce need for John to show Sherlock just how wrong he is. How much he will always need this man. How he will always be beside him. Because that is where he belongs.

"John." Sherlock breathes into the kiss. He returns it with all the fervor of drowning man breathing air. As if it will keep him alive.

John runs a hand through Sherlock's hair, resting it at the base of his hairline.

They separate through the need of air. Sherlock lets out a small whine when they do. And doesn't that make John feel smug. Not only can he get Sherlock to show emotions, he can get him react physically too. So much for 'the rest is just transportation'.

"Idiot." John repeats although this one comes out a great deal softer. "Yes I'm mad and I'll probably continue to be mad. But there is no scenario in which I won't want you."

"John." Sherlock says brokenly. That's all the warning he gets before he gets pulled into a tight hug as Sherlock starts to cry.

"Shh love. I'm here. Let it out, let all out. I'm here love. I'm not leaving. I'm not, I promise." He continues on in this tangent while he rubs Sherlock's back soothingly.

They stay like that a while, even after Sherlock stops.

"John?" Sherlock's voice is hoarse.

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

"Anything love."

A pause. "What now?"

"Right now I am going inside to make us both a cup of tea and lunch. You couldn't have had enough of either in the past few years. How you can call yourself British, but not know how to make a decent cup of tea is beyond me. Everything else can wait."

Sherlock grins, a familiar spark in his eyes.