It had been a year.

John's nightmares were getting better. He was hardly waking up from some horrible flashback at two in the morning any more. Sometimes the flashbacks were from Afghanistan, sometimes they were the crack of Sherlock's bones hitting pavement. They used to be both, a horrible combination of people he couldn't save suddenly speaking to him with Sherlock's baritone and looking at him with those silvery, blood-highlighted eyes.

But they were gone now, both the nightmares and the eyes. John was slowly but surely recovering. He was smiling easier, able to take care of himself, and even caught himself humming one day.

The pain was still there. He knew it wouldn't ever completely go away. Mycroft had been surprisingly understanding, helping with the bills and even sitting John down once and asking him how he was doing. They had sat for hours, just talking about why Sherlock had done it. Neither of them had been able to hold back tears. John was constantly expecting Mycroft to suddenly up and leave for some urgent political matter, but he didn't.

Yes, his mind was healing. His limp was going away again. He was finally beginning to see a future without his best friend. As tragic as it was, John had told himself over and over that Sherlock was just as brilliant as he always was when he died. John knew that he would probably never know what outside effects caused him to step off the roof, and he had finally come to terms with it. The world would think of him as a fraud, but John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft would all know better.

And that was ok. Sherlock was a great man. He had died, for whatever reason, a good one. John had to hold onto that.

So it was understandable why he was furious at the tall, curly-haired, blue-eyed, black-coated man standing in the doorway.

John had his head in his hands. Sherlock was standing awkwardly across the room. John was more than happy to let him squirm; bastard deserved it.

"John...?" His voice was so quiet. Hoarse, as well. Maybe even a little lower, if possible. Like he hadn't talked for a long time. "I...I thought you would be happy."

"You aren't real."

Sherlock stumbled, actually stumbled backwards at this. "What?"

"I said, you're not real. You're an undigested bit of beef, a crumb of cheese, or a dream."

"You took that from A Christmas Carol."

"Aha, see? Sherlock doesn't know that. Sherlock would've deleted that a long time ago." John lifted his head, not bothering to hide the tear streaks. Of course, he would've hated for Sherlock to see him cry, but since this isn't Sherlock it doesn't matter.

Not-Sherlock's mouth was open, eyes wide. John laughed a little. It was high-pitched and crazy, but justified. It was so funny to see Not-Sherlock's face (who did look like Sherlock) in that pose.

"John, that's one of Mum's favorite stories. She doesn't let me delete it, pulls it up every damn time I see her."

"It doesn't matter. I saw Sherlock die. I saw his blood running through his hair, I went to his funeral. I visited his grave thirty-seven times."

"It wasn't thirty-seven, it was thirty-six. You didn't technically leave the graveyard before you came back the nineteenth time."

John looked up again, pulled towards believing Not-Sherlock. That did sound like something Sherlock would've said.

John reminded himself that was impossible, because Sherlock was dead. Not-Sherlock came closer to him and said, "John, it is me. I faked my death."

"That's just ridiculous. Why would Sherlock do that to me?"

Not-Sherlock dropped down, kneeling in front of John, who was seated. "I did it foryou. Moriarty is dead. He shot himself through the mouth to keep me from saving you and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. But I did, don't you see? I won!" Not-Sherlock was giving that little smile now, with the bright eyes and slight head tilt. It looked so much like Sherlock's it hurt.

Good Lord, John thought, my subconscious is messed up. Not-Sherlock swallowed. He rubbed his brow with a shaking hand. "Ok, w-what do I need to do to convince you I'm not a figment of your imagination?"

John laughed. Might as well play along. Good for therapy, I suppose. "I, uh, I expect you'd need to tell me something I didn't know about Sherlock."

Not-Sherlock adjusted his position and steepled his hands in front of him. "Mycroft and I used to have movie marathons, when he was 15 and I was 7. We'd find movies in Mum's collection and watch all the ones in a series. Usually Mum and Dad were out for the night and Mycroft didn't feel like watching me, so he'd pop in a tape and sit me down, but then he'd usually watch too." Not-Sherlock blinked and looked away for a second, almost like he was embarrassed. "I...I bet Mycroft has deleted that by now."

A headache was blossoming over John's temples. "I just want Sherlock. I want him not to be dead."

"For God's sake, John, I'm not! Look at me!" Not-Sherlock lunged forward and held John's shoulders. John reared a little, but there was no fight behind his movements. Not-Sherlock's eyes were inches from his own. John could see this man's lips were thinned and his face was almost emaciated. He had bags under his eyes and his hands felt bony, his shirt was loose.

John chuckled. The crease between Not-Sherlock's eyebrows deepened. "What?"

"It's just...Sherlock's shirts were always too tight, 'cos he was so bad with laundry. The one your wearing is all dirty and baggy."

"John." Not-Sherlock's voice had dropped about an octave. "My shirt is messy because I have not stayed in one bed for more than three nights. It's loose because I've lost seventeen pounds from stress and pain."

"Sherlock didn't have any spare weight to lose. He never ate."

"I still don't."

John swallowed, rolling his neck a little. "If you are Sherlock, tell me how you faked it." Not-Sherlock's mouth opened, but John changed his mind at the last second. "No, wait, don't. I don't care, I would've thought of it already." Not-Sherlock snorted. "Oh, don't start! I would have, you have no idea what I've been through, you bastard."

Not-Sherlock's eyes hardened.

He took his hands off John's shoulders and stood imperiously. "When you saw me jump off St. Bart's, the thoughts that went through your head were ranging from disbelief to helplessness, which has built up your insecurities this past year. Your therapist, although still unaware of your feelings about Afghanistan, has helped greatly by simply listening to you talk. For a long time, you were holding the belief that you had somehow caused my apparent suicide, which is completely ridiculous, a realization that you came to a short while ago, thank God. Your physical state has been less healthy than expected and you were just starting to recover from the shock of my fall. Your work is holding, although you wish people wouldn't act like you're about to shatter at a moments' notice."

Not-Sherlock came back to his level again, taking John's hands. His grip was tight but shaky, if that was even possible. "Your sister's drinking has increased again, probably due to more marital stress, which has placed more burdens upon you." He paused, sliding his thumb up John's wrist. "You have seriously contemplated suicide more than once, which is the reason I chose now to tell you that I am very, very alive and that any danger Moriarty had threatened is gone." His eyes were brighter than the night after he'd seen the hound, and the gaze was intense. "So please. Believe in me."

John closed his eyes. "John?" The illusion was running thin. "John, please..." Even if it was fake, it would be a relief to see his best friend again. "You said you'd always believe in me." But it wasn't a dream. Sherlock was here.

"Sherlock." John opened his eyes. "Thank you." Sherlock's face was mere centimeters from his own, his fingers still entwined with John's. His weight was on John's lap and those pale eyes were almost pleading.

John had missed him so. Some nights had been unbearable, knowing he wouldn't be woken up by some mad experiment that involved minor explosions. Some nights he had sobbed incessantly into his pillow, embarrassing as it was. Some nights he had just thought about Sherlock's face, body, voice, mannerisms.

Sherlock wasn't an impulsive man unless it suited him, John knew that. So he wasn't sure how he would react when John slipped his hands out of Sherlock's and cupped his thinned face, waiting for a sign. Sherlock gave the tiniest of nods and leaned in as John closed the gap. Their lips met.

John exhaled through his nose. Sherlock's lips were soft, his breath was hot, his body was pushing John farther into the chair. John pulled his head and moved over, letting Sherlock fall in next to him. One of them angled his head, making the kiss deeper. John was running his hands through Sherlock's curls. Sherlock's hands were on John's neck and back, pulling him closer. John not so much heard but felt a rumble vibrating from Sherlock's throat, which he liked.

They broke apart, and John was surprised to see Sherlock's face sagging, a few tears rolling down his cheeks. "God, was I that bad?" John asked lightly.

A half-laugh, half-sob broke out of his mouth. "No, John. I've just...not touched anyone if I could help it. For a year, now." He wiped his eyes. "And I wanted to come back so many times. Without the work, without you..." he trailed off, resting his head on John's shoulder. John put his arms around Sherlock and pulled his head down so he could put his chin on that curly skull.

"It's ok now, Sher. Coming back from the dead was bound to rattle anyone." He could feel tremors in Sherlock's body.

"Thank you for believing in me, John."