John looked up and across to where Mary was staring. He saw a body turn and nearly run out the door. The body was as tall as him. It was thinner than him, but everything was the same. John was to his feet before Mary could stop him.
"Sherlock Holmes!" John yelled as he ran after the man and left Mary sitting there.
Sherlock grabbed his trench coat off the rack and tried to get out of the building before John caught up with him. He made it to the door before John jumped him and put him into a choke hold.
"You bloody bastard. I thought you were dead. I buried you."
Sherlock was unable to speak.
A hand on John's shoulder stopped him from continuing to choke Sherlock. However once Sherlock was released, the shorter man punched his formally dead friend in the face and stormed back to his table. Mary on the other hand stood by Sherlock and helped him to his feet. She escorted him out of the building and handed him her handkerchief.
"Give him time, Sherlock," she said gently, "I need to go back in there but he'll meet you at Baker Street soon."
Sherlock was speechless as the woman left him. He made his way over to the main road to catch a cab.

It was two days twelve hours and several odd minutes before John walked into 221 B Baker Street. Sherlock was sitting in his chair when he heard the door open. He didn't speak as John walked over to him.
"Sherlock Holmes. You are a right bloody bastard," he whispered.
"I'm sorry John. I'm terribly terribly sorry. I..."
John cut him off by placing a kiss on Sherlock's lips. Sherlock was caught off guard for a few brief seconds. Then he wrapped his arms around John's neck to pull him closer. The kiss was everything John couldn't say to Sherlock. Once the need for air became too strong, John pulled away and rested his forehead against Sherlock's.
"John, what about Mary?" Sherlock whispered.
John paused, "We have called it quits for now. It was her idea. I..."
Sherlock nodded but he couldn't find the words to say what he was meaning. John pulled his face away and he stared at Sherlock's face and he could see the bruise and cut he had left on his lovers face.
"Shit Sherlock. I apologize I shouldn't have."
Sherlock shook his head, "I deserved it. I left you alone for three years. I bloody well deserved it. And besides I suffered worse."
John stared, "How much worse?"
Sherlock sighed knowing the doctor in his friend and lover was slowly coming out, "John it's nothing to worry about."
"Like Hell it's not. Now tell me."
"Sixteen knife wounds, three gunshot wounds, multiple beatings, and all of my ribs have been fractured at some point."
John gasped and frowned, "I'm guessing you didn't eat much either?"
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "I was working cases. I don't eat."
John's frown grew, "Ok Sherlock. I... Let me see. "
Sherlock nodded and he quickly unbuttoned his shirt. John stared at the sight in front of him. Scars and bruises covered the mans chest and stomach. His arms were covered with what almost looked like tattoos. He did not realize how badly Sherlock was until he saw the markings that gave away how far Sherlock had slipped. He could count the man's ribs and he felt himself slipping into Doctor mode.
"Christ Sherlock."
John lifted his hand tentatively to exam his friend. Sherlock nodded and he felt Johns warm hand glide across his scars and to the drug induced markings on his left arm.
"It was only for a short period. I have once again been sober for one year and three months."
John looked up and he could see other scars lining the mans face. They were barely noticeable from the mans pale complexion.
"Have you eaten since I punched you?"
Sherlock shook his head, "No I have not. I never got around to it."
John shook his head and closed his eyes, "Damn it Sherlock," he whispered before placing his lips to the largest scar on the man's arm.
Sherlock closed his eyes, "John," the word escaped as a breath.
The lips traveled to each scar on his body. However, they saved one for last. It was a faint scar on his left pec. Just above where the man's heart was positioned. When John placed his lips there, Sherlock could feel the tears falling down John's face.
"John. I... Let me explain."
John looked up at him and shook his head, "No. It's best if I don't know why or how. I just want to know who the hell did this to you?" Johns index finger brushed the most terrifying of scars.
"Sebastian Moran."
"I'll kill the bastard."
Sherlock smiled sadly and cupped the man's face, "too late. He's dead John."
John searched his friend's eyes and he could see the Hell the man had been through over the past three years. He could see the pain and the fear. Sherlock closed his eyes and the connection was lost.
John wasn't hurt by it. He merely nodded and stood up, "Got anything in? I for one am starving," he said and crossed to the fridge.
When Sherlock didn't respond, John paused, "You don't have another head in here do you?"
Sherlock turned his head to the man and chuckled softly, "No Molly's banned me from the morgue until further notice."
John laughed, "Well serves you right for doing that to her."
"Not to her, she knew. She just said it was punishment for not telling..." Sherlock froze as he was in the process of standing when he realized what he had said. Johns hand was frozen on the door handle and he turned.
"You told Molly?"
"I had to. She was the only one who could help me stage it. I could t..."
"You could what Sherlock? Trust her. Well newsflash Sherlock, I know enough to stage a bloody suicide. I trust you with my life. Every single time I was in danger I knew you would be there to help me. It's great to know you felt the same way about me."
John passed Sherlock and stormed to the steps.
"John where are you going?"
"Out I need some air."
Sherlock frowned as he grabbed his coat and followed him down the stairs as he put it on"John," he called.
John ignored him as he called a cab and headed toward his own flat. Sherlock felt his heart break as he hopped into the next one that would take him. He hurried to tell the driver where to go hoping he'd be there in time. And he was. John was standing by the gate to the building holding onto the railings trying to hold back the tears when Sherlock reached him and he wrapped his arms around him.
"I'm sorry John. But Moriarty had it so there was no other option. You had to be real. You had to be truly grieving for me or else you and everyone else I truly cared for were going to die. I wanted to tell you. God I wanted to scream it to the world. I wanted to hold you in my arms and apologize as soon as you saw me lying on the ground. But I couldn't and it killed me. Please John. You know I don't bear my soul often. But I am now. So I'm begging you, please forgive me. Please?" The last word was choked as Sherlock held back the tears that were surely to come if John was not to accept his apology.
"You Bloody Dunderheaded Ignorant PaleFaced Blessed with the most Gorgeous set of Eye and Bloody Mysterious Cheekbones Fool." John pulled the man closer, "I should Hate you. But Dammit if I don't fuckin love you. You lucky I love you so much or else you'd really be bloodied on the pavement."
Sherlock sighed, "I know."
John pulled away and reality hit him, "Are you wearing a shirt?"
"No."
John looked away for a moment and then caught Sherlock's eyes. It was instantaneous. The two broke out into a fit of giggles.
Sherlock felt a warmth in his chest for the first time in years. It felt almost the same as it did the first night John saved his life; however, much stronger.
When they finally got their composure, Sherlock bit his lip.
"Dinner?"
"Starving."
Sherlock took the man's hand and squeezed it tightly. The two walked a few blocks before Sherlock cleared his throat.
"John there is one thing that has been bothering me."
"What's that Sherlock?"
"What the bloody hell have you got growing on your face John?"
Johns face flushed, "Leave it Sherlock."
"It looks like a squirrel."
"Sherlock."
"What do you feed it in the mornings John?"
John paused smirked and brought Sherlock's ear down to his lips to avoid scaring the young child walking with its mother. John whispered the answer and Sherlock's face flushed a deep red. His pupils dilated and his pulse raced. When John pulled away, Sherlock gripped them man's hand and he nearly dragged the man back to 221 B taking the path that would miss all restaurants in the area.
When asked later about it, John would always reply with the same answer, "You tell me. What food to Squirrels prefer?"