Having finally taken apart the last of Moriarty's web, Sherlock has returned to London. The sight, the smell, the noise- it all is wonderful. But, he doesn't pay it much mind. Rather, he hurries back to 221B, where he knows John is. After all, much as he loves London, he loves John more.

Walking into the apartment, he's surprised to see how little it has changed. Though it's not quite as cluttered, what with Mrs. Hudson having removed his experiments and much of his equipment, little else has changed. However, when he walks into his room to set down his bag, he realizes that something HAS changed. Now, it would appear that John sleeps in Sherlock's room instead of his own. There he is, sleeping atop the covers. He's lost weight, and, judging by the bags under his eyes, this is the first time it's happened in a while. So, desperate though he is to have John know that he's alive, Sherlock lets him sleep. He can content himself with just sitting here and watching John breathe. After all, keeping John breathing is why he left in the first place.

A few hours pass, and Sherlock is beginning to feel as though he might doze off himself, when John awakes. He does so slowly and quietly. The only real indication that he's awake is his breathing, but of course Sherlock notices right away, drowsy though he is.

"John?"

At the sound of his name, John jumps as though he's been shot. He whips around, and the look of shock on his face makes Sherlock smirk, just a bit.

"Sh-Sherlock?"

He sounds so hesitant.

"Yes, John. It's me."

For a moment, John looks confused. Then, a grin spreads across his face before he throws himself at Sherlock.

"Finally!"

At this, Sherlock is confused.

"You knew?"

John loosens his arms from around Sherlock's neck enough that he can look him in the eyes before replying, "I didn't know so much as hope. I just couldn't imagine that I would never see you again." He smiles for another moment before the grin fades a bit. "Of course, this'll break Mrs. Hudson's heart. She was broken up after you . . . well . . . jumped."

Confusion deepening, Sherlock asks, "Why on Earth would this break her heart?"

John got that look that meant Sherlock had missed something having to do with sentiment. "Well, Sherlock, people are usually rather sad when someone they care for dies."

"Yes, I know that. But why would my renewed presence make her sad? Should it not alleviate that sorrow?"

Now, John looks a bit annoyed. "Sherlock, it isn't about you haunting the flat. It's about my having died!"

Taken aback, Sherlock just stares at John for a moment. Mycroft had told him that John was displaying the classic symptoms of depression, but Sherlock had never imagined that John was this far gone, that he would think himself dead and visiting with another ghost, nor that said imagining would cause John to smile and shout 'finally'.

"John, you have not died. Neither of us have died."

"What? Do we not call it death? Do we call it change or transcended or something like that?"

"When one dies, it is called death. But, neither of us have. We are both still living, and breathing. Our hearts are still beating, though yours seems to be beating a bit faster than it used to. Really, John, I thought I was the one who never slept."

"After you died, I couldn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw you lying bloody on the pavement. 'Course, doesn't really matter now."

Sherlock is relieved, thinking John has given up on them both being dead, until . . .

"I imagine we don't really need sleep now, do we?"

Damn. He still believes it. Sherlock jumps up, spins around, and, grabbing John's shoulders, shouts, "WE ARE NOT DEAD."

John sits for a moment after this before looking up at Sherlock with tears in his eyes and asks, "Then how the hell are you here?"

Sherlock could extol his brilliance in faking his death, and the ensuing hunt he went on to ensure it would be safe to return. But, all he said was, "You asked for one more miracle."