There will be some mentions of blood, death, and self-doctoring wounds. But that's all at the very beginning. So feel free to skip to the next section after the section breaker (that's this thing ...::-::...). Also there will be angst, some mild physical violence, and some humour. So fluffy stuff to warm the heart. A cup of your favourite tea (or any other warm beverage) is recommended to enjoy whilst reading this.

~TSA

Based off this photo from chantokita's tumblr: post/58948608698

Three years.

Three very long, very tiring, very bloody years.

Sherlock had been beaten, burnt, trampled, stabbed, and shot so many times during those three years that he'd lost count. But he'd finally managed to track down the final section of Moriarty's web and had taken them down. Though not without injury. He received two different gunshot wounds, a stab wound to his left shoulder, and he was pretty sure he had some cracked ribs, if not completely broken ones. He hobbled off to an empty alley and began digging the bullets out of his body. Thankfully neither one was very deep or close to any vital organs or arteries. The shooters had terrible aim under duress. And they had all died because of their incompetencies.

Sherlock broke into an empty house and doctored his wounds, sanitising them before sewing them shut and bandaging them. He couldn't do anything about his ribs yet, but he imagined once he got back to London Mycroft could do something about it. He was fairly sure Mycroft knew he was alive. The fat git had probably figured it out ages ago. He stayed in the house for the night, raiding the kitchen for food and anything he could pack with him on the trip back to London. He found a safe in the sitting room behind a portrait of someone's mother and broke into it, taking cash to pay for transportation. He ate a meagre supper of toast and jam before settling down for the night, his ribs protesting throughout.

...::-::...

He was right. Mycroft knew he was alive. One of his cars was waiting for him at Heathrow Airport and took him right to the manor house. A medical team was waiting there to tend to his ribs. Mycroft was waiting for him in the sitting room of the large manor, nursing a glass of brandy as he sat in front of a fire.

'I'm surprised it took you this long to return,' he said as Sherlock entered, bandages around his ribs and doped up on painkillers. 'Though it would have been longer had I not helped you along toward the end.'

'I didn't want or need your help,' Sherlock growled, collapsing into a chair. He waved off a butler who offered him a glass of water and slumped further into the chair, staring at his brother.

'Don't be like that, Sherlock. I saved your life multiple times. And you're welcome for the medical attention. Your ribs will heal in a few weeks.'

Sherlock merely huffed in response. Mycroft rolled his eyes and allowed his brother his silence. He probably needed it after his years away.

'How's John?' Sherlock asked as much to his own surprise as well as his brother's. Mycroft blinked.

'Coping,' he finally said. 'Though the first year and a half was very rough.'

'What happened?' Sherlock said to his glass of water. He recalled refusing it but it seemed the waiter had left it anyway.

'He didn't leave the flat for weeks at a time, kept himself locked in his room because everywhere else reminded him too much of you. Then there was the drinking which lead to the fights which lead to the court dates which lead to some brief jail time, which I bailed him out of. Then the smoking started, the limp came back, and he finally went back to therapy.'

'John started smoking?' Sherlock said to his glass once again.

'He's since quit,' Mycroft assured him. 'As has the drinking and the fights... Most of the time.'

'And you got all this from his file, yes? Because John would never tell you this himself.'

'From his file, yes,' Mycroft nodded. 'He still goes out with Gregory occasionally and they reminisce about cases and your unusual but effective methods of detective work.'

'And Lestrade tells you those bits,' Sherlock said, finally sucumbing and sipping the water.

'Yes, though they haven't gone out in quite some time. John's attentions have been... elsewhere.'

Sherlock looked up at that. 'Where has he been if not out with Lestrade?'

'He's started dating again and he seems to have found a nice young woman. A kindergarten teacher no less.'

Sherlock scowled down at his glass and took a somewhat angry gulp from it. 'Good. John deserves to be happy after all the shit I put him through.'

'He still visits your grave on a monthly basis,' Mycroft said as if it would make the situation better. 'He brings flowers, sometimes tea, and he'll talk to your headstone. He always salutes you before he leaves too.'

'He shouldn't do that,' Sherlock huffed. 'I don't deserve his respect. He's going to hate me after I approach him.'

'You're planning on telling him you're still alive? In person? Are you sure that's wise?'

'It's the only option in which he'll believe it,' Sherlock sighed. 'And, knowing John, he'll probably punch me.'

Mycroft laughed and nodded. 'Yes, he probably will. So, when do you plan on doing it?'

'After my ribs heal. I don't want him making that injury worse. Plus it will give me time to do some reconnaissance on him and the woman. Does he still live at Baker Street?'

'No. He moved out ages ago, but Mrs Hudson refuses to rent the place out again. I'll give you his new address.'

Sherlock hummed and nodded. 'I'll start tomorrow. Right now I need to get to bed before I fall asleep in this chair.'

'As you wish,' Mycroft said as Sherlock slowly stood up, one arm wrapping around his middle as if to hold his ribs in place. 'I'll see you in the morning.'

'More like the afternoon,' Sherlock grumbled. 'Pain medication has the tendency to make me sleep for longer periods of time than I deem necessary.'

Mycroft chuckled and waved Sherlock off. The younger Holmes made his way back to his room with the help of a servant. He was tucked into bed and another glass of water was placed on the nightstand. He grumbled something about all the hovering being unnecessary but the medication soon pulled him toward sleep and he was snoring loudly in minutes.

...::-::...

Sherlock surveyed John and the woman for weeks, taking note of their favourite restaurants, walking routes, and places to shop. He came to learn the woman's name was Mary Morstan, and she was five years younger than John. This didn't come as much of a surprise. John always leaned toward younger women, though this new one was the oldest women he'd dated. She was petite, small, and short; she fit John well. Much better than Sherlock could. She made him smile and laugh. She filled him with life. She made him happy.

Sherlock could tell John was happy with her, that he was thinking about spending the rest of his life with her. But something was holding him back. But what? It couldn't be his parents; they were both dead. Was it his struggle with his sexuality? No. he seemed to be relatively at ease about that. Could he still possibly be upset about The Fall? Of course he would be. It was John after all. But could it be what was holding him back from proposing?

Yes. Yes, it could.

Sherlock sighed and looked away. He needed to tell John he was alive, and soon. He just didn't know how or when. But it had to be soon before John found his courage and popped the question.

He found his opportunity when John had a rare day off. Mary was still teaching and John visited her at lunch, but he took the rest of the day to walk around downtown London. Sherlock followed him for the better part of the afternoon until he realised where John was headed. He was going back to Baker Street.

It was perfect! John would stand outside the flat, maybe chat with Mrs Hudson, and then when he came out he'd come face-to-face with his old partner. It was genius! He waited until John was invited inside and then positioned himself at the edge of the kerb right in front of the door.

Unfortunately, John and Mrs Hudson talked for much longer than Sherlock had anticipated, and by the time John finally left he was stiff and exhausted from standing in one spot for so long. But the look of utter shock on John's face was almost worth it. The shorter man froze, his eyes wide and unblinking as he took in the figure of Sherlock Holmes, the man who had been dead for three years. But here he was, clearly not dead, and he still had that same smug look he always wore when he felt he'd done something brilliant.

'Hello, John,' Sherlock uttered softly, his deep baritone the same as John remembered. John finally blinked and swallowed thickly to get some moisture back in his now very dry throat. Sherlock watched him with a look of concerned curiosity, like he was waiting for something. John blinked again and took a step down the stairs that lead into 221 Baker Street. When he made it down to the pavement, he stopped again but still kept a firm grip on the railing. He blinked again and Sherlock took that as his cue to move forward. John blinked up at him as he approached, swallowing thickly again. He quickly closed his eyes, muttering that it was all a dream and he was going to wake up very soon.

'This isn't a dream,' Sherlock said softly. He reached out and touched John's hand. John's eyes flew open and he stared at Sherlock wide eyed.

'Oh my god,' he whispered. Sherlock grinned smugly down at him again. That smug grin was soon replaced with a grimace as John's fist collided with his nose and they both grunted in pain. Blood flowed out of Sherlock's nose in a steady but light stream and John's knuckles throbbed. He shook out his hand and walked a few paces away. Sherlock grabbed a handkerchief and held it under his nose, trying to catch the blood before it could get on his great coat.

'You bastard!' John growled. 'You fucking bastard! Three bloody years you kept me in the dark and you decide to show up now?! Right when I'm thinking about proposing and moving on with my life?!'

'John,' Sherlock choked out, his nose bleeding heavily.

'Shut up!' John growled. 'You don't get to speak! Because there is nothing for you to say! You lied to me! You made me believe you killed yourself! You were dead! I visited your grave every day for a year! I had three mental breakdowns! I was institutionalised for eight months! And now, now that I'm finally beginning to put my life back together, you finally listen to me and stop being dead.'

'John,' Sherlock tried again. 'I'm sorry.'

'You're sorry?' John laughed but it held no mirth. 'You're sorry? Fuck you.'

'What's all this ruckus?' Mrs Hudson asked, poking her head out of the door. She gasped when she laid eyes on Sherlock and she rushed over to him, pressing her handkerchief under his nose to soak up the blood. John stalked off without an explanation, heading back to Mary's classroom to vent once the kids were either too preoccupied or out of earshot. Mrs Hudson helped Sherlock up and took him inside. Her flat was exactly as he remembered it, though she had a new tea set that was probably from John.

'He'll come round, dear,' Mrs Hudson told Sherlock, dabbing at the blood on his upper lip with a warm cloth. 'He just needs time to accept your return.'

'You accepted my return rather quickly,' Sherlock grumbled, wincing when Mrs Hudson began cleaning a rather sore area of his nose.

'I never believed that you would just kill yourself like that,' she explained. 'And when the papers came out saying that woman's article was a fake, I just knew. You were out there somewhere and you "died" to keep us safe.'

'You clever woman,' Sherlock chuckled, grinning at his landlady. She smiled back and cleaned the last of the blood, his nose having stopped bleeding a little bit ago.

'Tea?' she asked after she binned the cloth.

'Please,' he grinned. 'And some biscuits too.'

'Just this once, dear. I'm not your housekeeper,' she chuckled. She put the kettle on the stove and got out two teacups and saucers, putting a lump of sugar in hers. She grabbed a few biscuits out of the cupboard and put them on the tray between the two cups. Sherlock prodded and pinched his nose while he waited for the tea, coming to the conclusion that it was merely bruised and not broken. A cup of tea and some biscuits now sat on the table in front of him and he accepted them gratefully, the two of them drinking in silence until the second cup was poured.

'Mrs Hudson?' Sherlock said, reaching out and touching her arm to stop her from leaving.

'Yes, dear?' she answered, setting the kettle down.

'I would like to move back into 221 B as soon as possible.'

'Of course,' she grinned. 'The key's still on the hook where John put it when he moved out. Most of your things are still there, though I believe your science equipment was donated to a school.'

'It's alright,' Sherlock assured her. 'I can easily buy more. Thank you.' He pressed a kiss to her cheek and she shooed away his fussing. He chuckled and picked up his cup of tea, sipping it slowly as it cooled. Mrs Hudson ruffled his hair playfully before sitting down and pouring herself more tea. They chatted off and on into the night until Mrs Hudson had to get ready for bed. Sherlock hugged her and kissed her cheek again, wishing her pleasant dreams. She wished him the same and left for bed. Sherlock put the teacups and saucers in the sink and ate the lone remaining biscuit before grabbing the key to 221 B and heading out into the night. He had some packing to do.

...::-::...

Sherlock moved back into 221 B a few days later. It was exactly the same, right down to the skull on the mantle. He opened the windows, a cool breeze entering the stuffy room and airing it out. He went into his bedroom and smiled softly when he saw the bed had been made and the room cleaned and dusted.

'Oh Mrs Hudson,' he chuckled, shaking his head. 'You wonderful woman.' He opened his bedroom window as well and put his clothes in his wardrobe before heading back out to the kitchen. He had a few items from Bart's that he'd gotten from Molly and he set them up the way they had been before he'd left. All he needed now was some body parts in the fridge and it would be relatively back to normal. Though he would need to purchase food. That much was obvious. He couldn't survive on air for long, and John would truly hate him if he died of starvation. He went into the sitting room and plopped down on the sofa, looking at the opposite wall and making another mental note to buy a television. He looked up at the ceiling and a glint of yellow caught his eye. He looked to his left and a part of him softened slightly at the sight of the smiley face still upon the wall. Neither John nor Mrs Hudson had covered it up or replaced the wallpaper. Sentiment.

He groaned and covered his face with his hands, rubbing at his temples. What was he supposed to do about John? Be honest? Tell him about his ridiculous dream and his even more ridiculous feelings he still wasn't sure were real? He cared for John, yes, but was it really more than that? John was a great friend, his only real friend in the world, and John cared for him too. If he didn't Sherlock wouldn't be alive today. He would have died long ago either from an overdose, starvation, or shooting himself due to increasing boredom. But John, he brilliant, smart, illuminating doctor kept him from doing all that. Kept him alive. And what had he done in return? He'd lied about his death for three years and when he'd come back he'd been so... so detached. No wonder John had punched him. It was like he hadn't changed at all. But he had. Why couldn't John see that? He groaned again and made to stand up but froze when he saw John and his lady friend lingering in the doorway.

'I'm only here because Mary wanted to meet you,' John grumbled. Mary lightly batted his good shoulder and stepped into the sitting room.

'Hello,' she said politely. Her voice was much more confident than Sherlock had expected, not a hint of nerves in the single word or the hand that was extended toward him. He slowly took the offered hand and shook it firmly.

'Hello,' he replied. John blinked. 'Mary, correct?'

'Yes,' she grinned. 'John told you about me?'

'No. My brother has been keeping an eye on John since I "died,"' Sherlock explained. 'He told me all about you.'

This time Mary blinked. 'Oh. OK. Um... What all do you know?'

'That isn't important,' Sherlock sighed, waving a dismissive hand. 'What I want to know is, how did you know I was here?'

'I still know you, Sherlock,' John sighed. 'And I know you wouldn't be able to stand living anywhere else now that you've returned.'

Sherlock chuckled and stood up, striding over to the windows and looking out at Baker Street.

'I missed this place,' he said softly, pushing the curtain out of the way to let more sunlight in. He looked at John out of the corner of his eye, gaging his reaction. 'The traffic, the bustling crowds, even the rain.' He huffed a laugh. 'Especially the rain. But do you know what I missed most?' He turned to John to look at him fully, ignoring Mary's presence in his peripheral vision. 'You.'

John's breath caught in his throat and he froze to the spot. He'd actually dared to approach his old armchair, stroking the blanket still draped over it fondly, and now he was stuck there like a moron. Sherlock had actually admitted that he missed him. Jesus Christ. That was a huge deal for him. He swallowed thickly and went to open his mouth but Sherlock continued speaking, almost like he couldn't stop now that he'd started.

'It wasn't Mycroft keeping tabs on you. It was me. I have my own contacts, Molly among them. She helped me fake my death. She wrote up fake autopsy papers, was the one to decorate my face with blood, was the one to hide me in her flat until I was able to get a new passport and identity. I was actually blonde for quite a while until my natural hair colour began to grow back. Her cat hates me by the way. I don't understand how it could like Moriarty but not me. Cats are stupid creatures. But I had people here checking on you who would text me about how you were doing. And while I was dead I was tracking down and taking down Moriarty's web of crime. It was hard work, though it got easier once Mycroft figured out I'd faked my death and began offering me assistance without my permission. Just don't tell him I was grateful for it because it really helped during the more difficult task of hunting down Sebastian Moran. I believe you served with him. Dishonorable discharge, mental breakdown, nearly shot down the entire camp. He was Moriarty's number one guy. But I got him. He was the one who was going to shoot you if you didn't see me fall and believe I was dead. I... I'm sorry for not telling you, but if I had I would have put your life in danger and I couldn't do that. You... You're... When I was in Russia I got mobbed by the homeless and they took all my stuff, including my drugs and cigarettes and what little money I had. When I went to sleep that night I had this ridiculous dream that the Doctor and the Lake people-'

'The Ponds,' John corrected him in a small voice.

'Right. Them,' Sherlock nodded. 'Well, they came to visit me in my dream and they made me realise something.' He looked at John who was significantly closer than he was before, Mary watching apprehensively from the corner. 'I... I care for you a lot and... you're my best friend and the best thing to ever happen to me and I... I'm so sorry for what I put you through and I can only hope you'll forgive me one day but I'll understand if you don't just... please don't punch me again. It was bad enough during the Irene case. But this time hurt like the Devil. My nose is still sore.' He reached up and tenderly stroked his nose almost absently. John sighed, his cold heart softening at Sherlock's words. He cared about him and said he was his best friend. Today was full of surprises and admissions wasn't it?

'Is that the truth?' he asked, just wanting to be sure. 'You aren't telling me this just to get me to forgive you and possibly move back in with you are you?'

'No,' Sherlock scoffed, appalled John would even ask such a thing. 'Though if you want to move back in, by all means do so. I just... I wanted to let you know that I appreciate you as a friend and I'm sorry I never told you before three years ago. Because I should have told you. I apologise.'

John laughed softly and moved forward, clapping Sherlock on the shoulder and squeezing gently. 'Thank you,' he said softly. 'Thank you for telling me. It was definitely something I wanted and needed to hear. But I won't be moving back in. Not yet at least. Maybe sometime in the next few weeks or months. I just have to wrap my head around you being back. So... Thank you. And... you're my best friend too, even if you are a pretentious git sometimes.' The two men both chuckled and John removed his hand from Sherlock's shoulder.

'You have to go,' Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

'Yeah. We were going to do some window shopping at the local shops downtown, see what there is to see. I haven't been in a while.' Mary stepped next to John and took hold of his hand almost possessively, like she was telling Sherlock John belonged to her. Sherlock frowned and scowled at her. She stood her ground. He growled under his breath. She was going to be a problem.

'Fine,' he said nonchalantly. 'You two go have fun. John, if you ever want to... what do friends do? Go out for lunch? If you ever want to go out for lunch you have my number. It hasn't changed over the past three years.'

'Yeah. Sure.' John nodded softly and straightened up slightly, almost out of habit. 'I'll see you later.'

'Yeah. Goodbye.' Sherlock waved as John and Mary took their leave, glaring at the woman one last time as they descended the stairs.

...::-::...

John ended up moving back in a few weeks later. He and Mary had never gotten to the exchanging keys stage of their relationship even though John had been considering proposing. Mary stopped by every now and again, though she didn't like being in their flat. Sherlock could see the distaste radiating off her in waves. Soon though she stopped coming by at all and John left the flat less and less to meet with her on dates or to spend the night or weekend at her place. She never stayed over at Baker Street. Not since she discovered the ears in the fridge. One evening John trudged up the stairs earlier than usual for a date night. Sherlock was reading in his chair and looked up in mild surprise at his presence.

'So... Mary and I decided to break up,' John said as he entered the sitting room. His hands were shoved in his pockets, his head was hung low, his shoulders slumped, and he scraped the toe of one of his shoes against the floor absently. He was slightly torn up about it but not a lot. Somehow this pleased Sherlock, a flutter of what felt like triumph bubbling in his chest.

'Oh?' he said calmly, putting his book down on his lap to give John his undivided attention.

'Yeah,' John shrugged, scraping his shoe along the floor. 'We've been drifting apart for a while, and it just kinda seemed polite to end it.'

'Oh,' Sherlock said again. 'I'm sorry.' John looked up at that, his face creased with doubt.

'You are?'

'Of course I am,' Sherlock sighed. 'You two were together a long time. I almost feel guilty for your splitting up. I was the reason for it yet again, was I not?'

'Um... Well...'

'I was,' Sherlock stated definitively. 'She didn't like you being around me. I could read it on her when you two first came to visit all those weeks ago. She didn't like me. Saw me as a threat.'

'A threat?'

'That I was going to take you away from her,' Sherlock explained. 'That I was going to come between your relationship. And I did. Again. As I do with all of your girlfriends. I do apologise for that. I don't always mean to. But this time I didn't. She was good for you, John. Much better than I ever was.'

'Yeah, well, she wasn't nearly as exciting as you were,' John said, a small grin on his face. 'And I kinda missed the body parts in the fridge and always having to buy milk. So, while I'll miss her, I almost won't, you know?'

'No,' Sherlock said, a smirk creeping onto his features. John huffed a laugh and stopped scraping his shoe along the floor. Sherlock closed his book and stood up, straightening his jacket before striding over to John, ignoring his look of surprise. He clapped him on the shoulder the same as John had all those weeks ago and smiled.

'Welcome back, John,' he said. 'And welcome home.' John grinned and squeezed Sherlock's shoulder in return.

'Thanks. It's good to be home.' They dropped their hands at the same time, their fingers brushing briefly as they returned to their respective sides. John ignored the small flutter in his stomach and opted to take his coat off and enter the kitchen.

'So, is there anything in? I'm starving.' Sherlock laughed aloud when John let out a loud 'Fucking hell!' at the sight of the fake head in the fridge. He slammed the door shut and rounded on Sherlock, who was still laughing. They tousled on the floor for a good long while, Sherlock allowing John to win in the spirit of his homecoming. When they pulled apart to sit in their respective chairs John couldn't help but chuckle.

'You're an utter git, you know that?'

'Yes, but you tolerate me anyway,' Sherlock smirked.

'Yeah. I do.' John shook his head and picked up the paper. 'So, I was thinking we should go visit Lestrade and see about getting some more cases.'

'My thoughts exactly,' Sherlock agreed. 'Let's go catch some criminals.'

'Hat-man and Robin together again,' John smirked, laughing when Sherlock threw a pillow at his head.