A/N: Essentially, my take on Reichenbach, and after.

Disclaimer: They're not mine, I'm just playing (and maybe gluing back together a bit). Characters belong to Moffat, Gatiss, Conan Doyle, and the BBC, no matter what awful, awful things they may choose to do with them.

The day he walked into his sister's house and found Sherlock Holmes sitting at the kitchen table, John wasn't even surprised.

Harry was out at the pub, again. There was no question of verifying what he was seeing.

"I've been expecting this for some time," John said aloud, smirking mirthlessly at the chance to say one of the melodramatic things Sherlock had so appreciated. Had. Because he was dead.

The apparition smirked back. "Then you're cleverer than I thought, or more of an idiot. Denial, after all, isn't to be applauded."

"What?" said John. "I'm not in denial-" a clipped Sherlock was almost out of his mouth, but he bit down on it. This wasn't his friend, it was his tormented imagination. The nightmares weren't of Afghanistan anymore, or if they were it was Sherlock who was shot. Sherlock with blood running down his face. Sherlock broken on the sidewalk. "I know you're dead, and I know I'm crazy."

"Wrong, and wrong again, I hope." The ghost rose and stood facing John. The eyes he had last seen emptied of life scanned him up and down and came to rest on his face again, somber. "You haven't been sleeping. More nightmares. My fault, I'm sure. I'm sorry for that." A quick glance at his hands. "And you haven't been working. Shame. You're a good doctor, much better than most of the idiots they let cut into people."

John's lip twitched. "Of course you know that," he said tightly.

Sherlock's ghost tilted its head and regarded him with a curious quirk of the eyebrow. "Oh?"

"You're a figment of my imagination. Mine. Of course you know I'm not sleeping."

"Mmm. I was wrong. You are in denial. Just not the way I anticipated, which would have made this much simpler."

John gave the ghost the irritated stare he had so often leveled at the living man.

"Your limp is still gone, and your hand tremor's nonexistent. You've been under constant stress, then. I told Mycroft to make sure the media and Scotland Yard let you alone. I hope I shan't have to be even more disappointed in him."

"In Mycroft," John said slowly. He bothered to notice that the figure of Sherlock cast a shadow, the kitchen lamp behind him framing the tall shape against the door. He looked more carefully at the apparition. The hair was longer than it had been when he died, shaggy over the ears. There was a cut on the left cheekbone not mentioned in the autopsy report. And—was that a faint sunburn on his nose and forehead? He hadn't had that when he died.

"Yes," said Sherlock. "I've been in Switzerland, in the Alps. Didn't bother with sunblock; forgot about the elevation. As to the cut, well, Mycroft's security detail was displeased with how I chose to enter his house and convey my displeasure, although I daresay his black eye was slightly more difficult to explain to Her Majesty at tea the next day." Sherlock scowled. "And he told me to cut my hair."

"So you didn't," John said faintly.

"Naturally," said Sherlock.

"So you aren't dead," John said, in the same flat tone.

"Not in the least." Sherlock extended a hand. "Feel, if that'll prove it."

"Alright," said John, and he punched Sherlock in the face.

…

"Now you'll match your brother," John said ten minutes later, having sat himself down with a large whiskey and handed Sherlock a bag of frozen carrots that had probably been sitting in Harry's fridge since 2003.

"Delightful." Sherlock pressed the carrots over his left eye. "You have a terrific right hook, John, really smashing."

"Was that a joke? Don't joke."

"Are you still angry?"

"Sher—am I—of course I'm still bloody angry, you great twit, it's been a year."

"I thought that's what punching me in the face was for, and it was necessary, John, I wouldn't have done it otherwise."

"Necessary? Was it necessary to make me watch? To tell me our entire life was a lie?"

"Yes. It was. If you hadn't seen it, there would have been no chance of you believing me dead. If you hadn't believed me dead, you would without doubt have tried contacting me, and you might just have succeeded."

"So what if I had? You might have saved yourself the trouble and told me!"

"I didn't plan this, John. I had minutes. I had a few precautions in place on the ground, for several eventualities. This was not intended to be one of them, but I was able to improvise."

John gawped. "Improvise? Improvise what, a wax double of yourself with glass eyes and blood in? I saw you, Sherlock, you were dead, bleeding out your head all over the fucking sidewalk! I think I know your face!"

"Ah, John," Sherlock smiled. "You saw what you expected to see."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Do you recall Mr. Knight's case—what did you call it—the Hounds of Baskerville?"

"Yeah," said John tightly. "What about it?"

"I saw a giant, red-eyed hound where there was none, because I expected to see one. Why?"

"Because…because of the drug. In the fog. The minefield." John's brow furrowed. "But how—are you saying I was drugged? How?"

"You fell running to my body, John, you were knocked over and hit your head."

"So?"

"The man who knocked you down was one of my associates. He had, among other things, a small amount of the drug, which I had synthesized myself, in an aerosol up his sleeve. When he hit you, he released it, and you breathed it in. You'll recall that it's very quick. When you collected yourself from your own fall, you saw what you expected to see: my body, my face bleeding on the ground."

"Whose face was it, then?"

"You'll remember also another case, Miss Adler's case. More profoundly you will remember Miss Adler's corpse, or what we were led to believe was her corpse. You will recall, in a similar vein, that my brother and his confederates had been stealing away corpses for quite some time in order to pull off their James Bond caper with the aeroplane. I had an idea that I might need to do something like what Miss Adler and my brother did. A murder without a killing, as it were. So I took Molly into my confidence; she had a body ready for the investigation."

"But you can't have gotten it up to the roof that quickly!"

"Ah, and I didn't; that was for the investigation. As it happened, I was quite lucky; Jim Moriarty blew his brains out minutes before I appeared to leap to my death."

"You threw his body down?"

"Yes. But you saw me standing there, you expected to see me dead below, and with the drug and the disorientation from hitting your head, well, that's exactly what you did see."

"And no one noticed a gunshot wound?"

"Mr. Moriarty was considerate enough to shoot himself through the mouth. Given the amount of additional head trauma sustained to his corpse in the fall, it went unnoticed until Molly could switch his body with the more convincing double, which is the corpse Lestrade and the others saw."

"And they didn't see the fall, how you—it—landed on the back, so Molly-"

"Smashed in the face. Just like Miss Adler's trick. Quite so."

John was, for a moment, speechless. "You bloody bastard," he said after a long pause. "Absolute bloody bastard."

"Yes, I suppose I am." Sherlock chuckled a little.

"But why did you do it, though?" said John. "I mean, why fake your own death at all? Moriarty shot himself. Mycroft owed you. You could've cleared your name."

"Er. Well. I-"

"Sherlock."

"John."

"You owe me the truth, Sherlock."

A sigh. "He was going to shoot you. You, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. That's why he shot himself; so I couldn't get the code to stop the gunmen out of him instead. He meant to trap me into suicide, just to finish his story."

"You should have let him shoot Lestrade," John muttered.

Sherlock, sensing a softening in John, smiled a little. "Did you punch him, too?"

"No, but I did punch Anderson."

Sherlock's smile grew into a grin. "You did?"

"Yes. It was right after—when we were all in the hospital waiting for them to come out and say DOA, officially, or they were, and I was just hoping somehow you'd have a broken leg and a concussion-"

"And a life sentence, John, don't forget that."

"Shut up, Mycroft could've saved you even if you couldn't prove how ridiculous those accusations were."

"Well, that was the beauty of it, wasn't it? I couldn't prove it even if I could, because it was me saying it."

"You didn't exactly go out of your way to clear your name, you know. Hundreds of cases, obviously you couldn't have faked all of them, that's patently absurd."

"All of London believed it. I told you it was true. Why didn't you believe me?"

John glared at him. "First, because you're my friend, and I know you."

"That's not evidence."

"I said first, didn't I? Second, because you're my flatmate, and, thank you, I'm not that dull. I'd have noticed something was up if you were playing both sides and running a consulting criminal business with Moriarty on the side. Third, because of what you said on the roof. You wanted me as a flatmate so badly you specifically hired a friend of mine to seek me out so you could impress me into taking a flat with you? Which leads me to four, that wasn't a fantastic move, was it? Ivery nearly didn't meet you there, you seemed a madman. And to five, which is casting Mike, of all people, as on your consulting mafia payroll. That proved it was utter rubbish—and how could he possibly have known I'd take a stroll in that park at that time? I'm a soldier, Sherlock, I know when I'm being followed. Mycroft's done it often enough since."

Sherlock, hands templed at his chin, grinned again. "Very good," he said. "Not conclusive by any means, but-"

"Excuse me, Mr. Zombie, I am not finished. Sixth and finally," John said, "I know because of the pool. I know because of the way your face went when you thought I was Moriarty and then when you realized I was strapped to a bomb instead. I know because I've lived with you, Sherlock, I've studied you for clues, and I've seen you fake emotion before, and I've seen you hide real emotion before, something at which you are, by the way, complete crap. That was real, and that meant you were never Moriarty, and that was never an actor. People died, Sherlock, and that hurt you, that did upset you, if only because Moriarty broke the rules. Irene humiliated you, and her fake death broke you, but of course if you were behind it all you'd have known all along! And for God's sake Sherlock, how many times have you told and shown me that you don't give a toss about fame or being known as a genius just so long as you can prove to yourself that you're right? If you knew all the answers, you'd have got bored—you manipulate the Yard anyway, and we both know it's not a huge challenge! Look how easily Moriarty made them turn on you, on the flimsiest of notions! It just—it didn't make sense!"

Sherlock was still for a moment. Then, he began to laugh, light and surprised.

"Thank you, John," he said. There was not a hint of sarcasm in it. "If I had gone to trial, you would have surely convinced the jury of my innocence."

"I'd rather have convinced Lestrade with my fists," John opined.

"You wouldn't. Facts are far better at changing minds, except perhaps in the wilds of America. No, John, you must forgive Detective Inspector Lestrade for his error in judgment. We cannot all see the world as clearly as we do from Baker Street."

"Six years he knew you, Sherlock, and in a day he turned on you. That's not lack of clarity, that's complete blindness."

"He has apologized."

"You've spoken to him?"

"This morning I did. I had a small matter to arrange, of little consequence. Mycroft had also spoken to him, a few days after the incident. He did not, of course, reveal that I still lived, but I gather that some quite harsh words were exchanged on the subjects of proper evidence, probable cause, and hiring policies which allowed dull-witted zealots such free rein. I believe that my brother, for once in agreement with me, opined that perhaps the disparity between my forensic capabilities and the Yard's was down to the crass incompetency of a certain Chief Forensic Officer."

John chortled, and then began to laugh uncontrollably, despairingly, shoulders shaking, until he found that instead, he was crying.

"How would you like to leave Miss Harriet to her own devices and return to Baker Street?" proposed Sherlock, once John had calmed himself sufficiently.

"Baker Street? But I thought—"

"Mycroft has rented it, and maintained it for us. This morning he went to your storage facility and retrieved those belongings you could not transport here. If, of course, you do not wish to resume our prior arrangement, they will-"

"Sherlock."

Sherlock continued, his voice stiff and awkward as always when he ventured an interpersonal vulnerability. "Be returned to the-"

"Sherlock."

"Facility immediately, gratis. What?"

"Sherlock, you bloody imbecile." John let him suffer for a beat. "Of course I'll come back to Baker Street with you, you idiot."

Relief emerged through the cracks in Sherlock's well-worn mask.

"Good. That is—I mean, that is most convenient."

"Couldn't do without me, could you?"

"Of course I could." Sherlock left it a moment. "It would, however, have been most miserable."

John knew that, besides being technically accurate, it was as good as he'd get.

"Well, I can do without you, too, Sherlock Holmes," he declared. "But you bloody brilliant, ignorant, irritating, befuddling man, don't you dare ever do that again or I will make sure your death becomes very realistic. Are we clear?"

Sherlock grinned. "We're clear." He moved toward the door of John's bedroom, coat swishing. "Oh, and John?"

"What?"

"Miss Adler sends her regards from New Jersey. She says it is a good deal more hellish than Karachi, and hopes you won't take offense. By the way, I agree, it unquestionably is. There were terrorists in Karachi. New Jersey was boring in the extreme."

John's jaw dropped so far he was sure he'd permanently stretched the joints.

"Sherlock?" he called. "What the hell are you talking about?"

And so it began again.