A/N: So yeah, this is my first fanfic, pretty much the only thing i've written in a long time and i'm no writer, so i'm pretty anxious about it. A review would be oh-so-much appreciated, but please be nice. Also, the title is what it is, because i got lazy. ~

I'm not dead. SH

Sherlock's finger hovered over the send button for the fifth time that day. He never thought it would be this difficult to keep the truth from someone. Then again, it wasn't just anyone, it was John, his one and only true friend.

It had been two years since 'The Fall' and it was getting harder to concentrate on his mission; taking down Moriarty's criminal web with John constantly on his mind. One second unfocused had gotten him stabbed. Sure, it wasn't his worst injury, two years of running around chasing and killing Moriarty's men had taken its toll, him getting beaten up, shot nearly fatally four times, four times of almost dying; each of those times John was the only thing running through his head. And every day it got harder to concentrate on anything else but him.

He told himself this was the only way of keeping his friend safe. If even one of Moriarty's men found out Sherlock was alive, they might go and hurt John. And Sherlock couldn't let that happen.

He was almost done with his mission, with only a few contacts left to take down. Soon he could go back home, back to Baker Street, back to John.

But there was a doubt on Sherlock's mind; what if he came back to find no one, to find that John had moved on after Sherlock's death. Maybe he should be happy for John, doing better without the consulting detective. The thought made him sad. Sad. A strange emotion. Emotions were still new to him, they were locked away as something that makes you weak and vulnerable. He had kept himself from emotions and feelings his whole life, however, that started to change the day he met the ex-army doctor.

Caring is not an advantage.

But caring had saved his life many times, most of those times the person saving him was his best friend. He had come to accept the fact that he cared for John, had feelings for the man, feelings beyond a normal friendship. Then again, nothing about their relationship was normal. No one could ever explain how deeply he cared about John. He was willing to risk his life for him, and apparently John was willing to do the same for him. When John shot that cabbie to save Sherlock's life, when he told him how amazing his deductions were, when he offered his life to save Sherlock's, and how right before Sherlock jumped from Bart's he told him he would never doubt that the detective was for real, Sherlock saw loyalty, friendship and trust deeper than anything else.

He never wanted to hurt John, but he had to hurt him to save him, John's grief had to be authentic, to convince everyone about Sherlock's death.

Sometimes he thought he shouldn't go back, to keep John in the dark, after all; he had gotten John into trouble, even life threatening situations, maybe it was safer for him to stay as far away from John as possible. Still, there he was, wondering if he should let John know that his best friend- well, at least the man who used to be his best friend, was alive.

Of course, he didn't know exactly how John was doing and how he would react. He had updates from Mycroft on a regular basis, but nothing specific. He knew for a fact that John still lived in their flat, which gave Sherlock a little bit of hope about the doctor still caring about him.

Sherlock eliminated the last few contacts with no difficulty, and finally it was safe for him to return to 221b Baker Street.

It was a few days after Christmas when he returned to London. It was snowing slightly, just so the ground was covered with light grey snow. God, it was good to be back. He devoured the scene with his eyes and let out a sigh. He was ready, and he only hoped everyone else was too.

He had already seen Mycroft, as shortly as possible, he had no time to listen to his big brother prattle on about stuff Sherlock absolutely had no interest in. He found out that John was in the flat at the time, from his brother, and he soon rushed out to hail a cab.

Sitting silently in the cab taking him to the flat, with his fingers steepled under his chin, hands like a prayer, he thought it was probably a good idea to give John a warning by sending him a text, since he didn't know how the man would react. He didn't exactly want to be punched in the face the first thing when he came in. Though he wouldn't blame John. He had some knowledge about things that are socially acceptable, and faking your death and lying to your friends for over two years wasn't one of them.

He had been waiting for this moment since the day of his 'death'. Having absolutely no idea about what he was walking into, he was nervous.

With every breath he grew more anxious, while trying to come up with something to write. He fiddled with his mobile almost through the cab drive, when finally he wrote:

John. I am coming home. SH

He hit send and hoped for the best.