This is part of a series of five different versions of how Sherlock's and John's reunion could go. Eventually, there will be something before and after, but right now it's just these five little scenes. Please also read other versions (1.2, 2.1, 2.2 and 3.1)! I'd love to know which one YOU find the most realistic. :)

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Reunion(s) Version 1.1 (– has Mycroft)

John's phone vibrated in the pocket of his lab coat. Just once. So it had to be a text. John so rarely received texts these days,

He finished signing the chart and dismissing his patient before looking at the screen. It said "John. Please come at once. Transport has been arranged. MH."

John frowned. His contact with his late flatmates' brother had dwindled almost into none-existence in the past 3 years, apart from the occasional polite enquiry after his wellbeing. His assistance on criminal problems had also been called upon less and less frequently once people had realized that he was not, in fact, his friend and neither had the extraordinary abilities migrated to him upon said friend's demise. Why would Mycroft call on him in now?

John had half a mind to ignore the message, but the curiosity – among other things – that had kept him so firmly in Sherlock Holmes' orbit had not quite died with the detective, so he excused himself at the front desk, hung up his coat in his office and left work early.

A black limousine was already waiting for him on the other side of the road. He did not hesitate to get in. Whomever it belonged to would probably force him to come along otherwise, anyway. The familiar face of Anthea - or whatever her name was – greeted him. She gave him a genuine smile. He nodded at her, not nearly as glad to see her as she apparently was. He knew it was no use asking her what was going on.

They did not have a long way to go. Afternoon traffic was still very quiet at this time and John got out of the car barely half an hour later.

He was led straight to Mycroft's office.

No one offered him tea.

He was not required to sit and wait.

Anthea just smiled enigmatically at him before pushing open the heavy oak door and gesturing for John to step inside.

The office was rather dimly lit by the light sneaking through the gap in the half-closed curtains. He could see the silhouettes of two people, heads stuck together and talking quietly. The one standing was obviously Mycroft. The other sitting down in an arm chair… Both looked up as John entered, but backlit by the window's expanse it was hard to see their faces clearly – until the second person stood up when he saw John, the hurried motion betraying an underlying nervousness.

Silence permeated the room, falling so quickly and completely that it felt like going deaf from one moment to the next. There, in the low light of an overcast London sky falling into the room, stood…

"Sherlock," John whispered.

"John." Sherlock nodded at him, looking uncertain even from a distance.

"You're alive."

"So it would seem."

"But how…?" John blinked hard as if to clear his vision from the hallucination he was clearly suffering from. It was just like Sherlock, the stubborn bastard, to remain firmly standing in his field of vision, refusing to dissolve.

"This is going to take a while to explain. We might as well sit." Sherlock gestured jerkily, indicating the pair of armchairs by the window next to which he was standing.

"Shall I procure some tea for the two of you?" John had almost forgotten Mycroft was in the room with them the instant he had laid eyes on Sherlock. His voice reminded him forcefully of that fact. It also seemed to jolt his mind back into motion.

"Wait," he turned to the older Holmes brother. "You knew about this?" John could feel anger building in his gut.

"Obviously."

"How long?"

"John, really, don't be dense," Sherlock cut in. "Do you honestly think I could have faked my own death without my brother knowing?"

"You knew about this the whole bloody time?" John's voice was rising with every word, his fury mounting.

"John, please calm down. I asked him not to tell you. It was the only way." Sherlock cut in.

"You asked…?"

"Please don't repeat things back to me. It is most annoying." The blasé way Sherlock said it, like nothing out of the ordinary was happening, like John and he had not just spent 3 years apart, one of them thinking the other was dead, made John explode, eroding the last shred of control he might have held on to.

The expanse of floor between the two former flatmates vanished as John sunk his fist into Sherlock's face as deep as it would go.

"You bloody fucking BASTARD!" There was no scream loud enough to express his outrage so John resorted to a harsh whisper. "You utter bastard."

Panting with fury, he stared into Sherlock's sky-grey eyes, only peripherally noting the bruise already forming on his cheek bone. Sherlock blinked, standing his ground even though John was crowding into his personal space like an avalanche.

Sherlock's face did not change from the aloof, unconcerned look he had displayed moments ago, but something seemed to soften in his expression and it drained all the anger out of John just to look into those eyes again.

Close up Sherlock looked haggard, tired and worn.

"I thought you were dead," John repeated, his voice suddenly small and trembling in remembered pain. He could feel tears welling up from a place deep inside his chest.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said quietly, all sternness and detachment gone from his voice. "Will you please let me explain now?"

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Part of a series of 5 stories. Please also read other versions (1.2, 2.1, 2.2 and 3.1)! I'd love to know which one YOU find the most realistic. :)