Author's Notes- Rückprall is German for rebound, like a ball rebounding. I was sniffing around for German words in relation to Reichenbach and this one just kind of struck me. Anyway, this is my first Sherlock fic and I hope you enjoy it. Any constructive criticism is welcome!

Disclaimer: Sherlock (BBC) and all rights belong to Gatiss and Moffat and I make nor do I desire a profit off of this. I do it for JohnLock.

Non-beta'd so mistakes are all mine.
Rating may possibly change in the next chapter.
Okay, on with the show.

"Wanna hear another reason I know you didn't lie," John began, raking his shaking left hand through his hair. The tremors were back along with the limp, so his right was busy punishing the cane with a death grip.

"It's the times you were wrong. Like thinking Harry was my brother, or that the drug was in the sugar. And I'll believe none of that crap that you were faking being wrong, because no one could fake the look the indignity you get when someone points out your mistake. So there you have it. Fact, what is it now, number two hundred and forty seven? See, I told you I'd come up with more than your infernal tobacco ash."

With that he turned around and headed back to an empty flat, morosely basking in the pleasure of finally winning an argument with Sherlock; the same one he'd been having with the silent headstone for a year now.

A little over a month after his final visit to the final resting place of the man who changed John's life, he found himself exactly where he was before meeting the enigmatic whirlwind that had become his flat mate.

Standing in a therapist's office gave John the worst sense of déjà vu, as if he was trapped in some horrible cycle and whoever next came to mean something to him would evaporate as instantly as the last.

That fleeting, panicked thought was chased away by many more years of flirting experience (read: habit) when he met her.

Deciding a nice cup of tea at the café down the street sounded better than an appointment with the therapist he'd seen in another life, so John found himself sitting outside sipping hesitantly from an oversized fuschia mug.

"Wasn't I right?" Mary insisted after John went for a second sip.

"S' not bad," John hedged with a smirk.

"I come here after every session. Sit here and people watch, reminding myself over and over that the world keeps spinning."

John nodded slowly, eyes darting to the tremor in his left hand even as he smiled lightly, forcing his attention away from his treasonous limb. "That's a pretty good attitude to have about it. How long ago did your sister pass away?"

"It was eight months ago just yesterday. You wouldn't have been saying the same thing about my attitude even two months ago but I started going to the support group and if nothing else, it keeps me busy. Helps me organize my thoughts. If you don't mind me asking… who did you lose?" Her hand reached out briefly to squeeze John's forearm as she asked the question.

"That obvious, am I?" he chuckled, shaking his head. "Er, do you remember reading in the papers about a year ago about the, uh, death of a 'fake genius'?"

"Oh that man, something Holmes, right?" She gave him an empathetic frown, squeezing his arm again before sliding her hand to meet his and lightly holding his fingers.

"Sherlock; Sherlock Holmes. I'll tell you now, he was the smartest man I've ever encountered. Don't believe everything you read." She smiled indulgently and John could tell she was willing to accept John's word as the truth. "He was also the best friend I'd ever had. Kind of woke me up to life again after the war." John couldn't understand why those words had come out. He'd only ever said them to a headstone, and that certainly hadn't been listening.

Mary seemed unfazed by the revelation, which only reminded John of how little she knew of him; how she had no preconception of his friendship with Sherlock. It felt refreshing.

"I remember that story; something about a madman who wasn't, Sherlock supposedly hiring him to commit those crimes?" At John's wince, she backpedaled. "Sorry. I'm just… very sorry for your loss. You seem to hold him in high regard."

"He was a great man," John said, echoing Lestrade's words. He brought the cup to his lips, trying to force down the knot that had appeared in his throat.

"What you said, about him waking you up; it's been a bit of the opposite with my sister." John nodded, glad for the change of subject.

"How so?"

"I'd been so closed off from everyone and everything for so long, my sister included, but when she passed it was as if the world shifted into Technicolor and it was overwhelming. Like being oxygen deprived for so long that the first few breathes are dizzying. When she… passed away, it shocked me back to life. How ironic is that?"

It was John who reached a hand over this time, ignoring the slight panic he felt at how comfortable he felt around this woman already. When he gripped her hand her eyes shot up to met his and John was reminded of the camaraderie he'd experienced among the men with whom he'd served.

"What happened to your sister, Mary?"

"Anna had always been more adventurous and outgoing than I was when we were growing up, and when it started spilling into adulthood it became a wedge between us. Then she started seeing this bastard of a man, loved and trusted him, until the day he drove drunk and got them both killed."

"Oh no, I'm so sorry –"

"We hadn't spoken in two and a half years, John. I was selfish and horrible and I probably still might be because I find myself thinking maybe I'm glad we hadn't been so close. Maybe that would have hurt more."

"The last time I spoke to Sherlock I accused him of being a heartless dick, completely devoid of emotions. Basically what everyone his entire life had told him, even though I know it isn't true."

They both had tears in their eyes, but when their eyes met they laughed. They looked at each other incredulously, and then laughed a bit more until their shiny eyes were from more than mourning.

"Look at the pair of us," John said deprecatingly, but with a soft edge, before reaching for his tea again.

He didn't even care that it had gone cold.

Two weeks to the day that he met Mary and John finds himself at Sherlock's headstone for what he swears is the last damn time. And that's when he hears it.

"Thought you'd given up on me."

John's entire body went still, and for a few seconds he didn't even breath until he felt the adrenaline surge, cane dropped and hands clenching into fists as he spun around, sucking in a gulp of air his lungs for the onslaught of words he felt coming.

But of course, Sherlock beat him to the punch.

"Moriarty had a sniper trained on you; had an assassin with Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, probably even had one near Mycroft. He told me if I didn't jump you would all die. But since I'm even more brilliant than anyone, including Moriarty, can fathom, I had made plans in case something of that nature occurred, and it was really no harm, no foul. Little spider blew his own brains out so, sadly, he'll never know he's been outsmarted. Of course the word was still out for your heads on silver platters, the rumors of that silly key, so I couldn't just come right out and tell anyone who might still be in danger that I was alive. Plus there was the matter of scrounging up enough information to disprove everything Moriarty had that woman print. I maybe even be able to sue her for libel. Didn't think it would take me quite so long to shut down Moriarty's underground and get the information, but here I am. If you still want to take a swing, I must warn you, I've been doing lifts."

John is still standing, muscles taut, and his breath leaving him in shaky spurts, completely at a loss. For a moment he just repeats Sherlock's words.

"A sniper… no HARM… that bloody key…"

Sherlock watched him splutter but it seems he's run out of things to say, only looking at John solemnly as he waits for him to find his footing. John takes the blessed moment of silence (but it wasn't blessed really, because he hadn't heard that deep, steady voice in a YEAR) to wrangle his thoughts.

"And you couldn't left some sort of clue? Not for anyone?" The adrenaline seemed to leave him with the words and he felt himself slump, only staying up through sheer force of will.

"Molly knew."

Sherlock said it quietly but succinctly, yet if John wasn't mistaken he sounded… apologetic.

"Molly Hooper knew. Well, no wonder she's been avoiding me the way she has. I thought it was just because she's so mad about you. Every time I've seen her she looks at me and starts crying."

"Yes, Molly assisted me in the faked suicide," Sherlock ignored John's wince and forged on, "and though she may not have been as subtle as I'd prefer, I knew she would keep it to herself. She knew what was at stake."

John really needed something to lean on so he moved over to Sherlock's headstone, SHERLOCK'S HEADSTONE, as he looked at Sherlock and allowed himself to take in the whole scene.

"I need some tea."

John's skin was crawling by the time they reached 221B Baker Street, Sherlock's eyes on him, deducing who knew what, only making it that much worse.

"John –"

"Just give me a bit, yeah?" John ground out.

Twenty minutes and two cups of tea later, yet John's emotions were still ebbing and flowing from far too polar extremes for him to speak, as of yet. He wasn't sure what he wanted to say.

'The day I buried you I asked this of you, for you to return to me; Did you notice I kept up your room, just in case; How the bloody hell is it that Molly Hooper knew and I couldn't?'

Then there was, of course, everything else he'd said over the year to the headstone. It was all just so much. But he owed it to Sherlock. Owed him so, so very much.

"What did you say?"

John startled at Sherlock's proximity, sloshing his lukewarm tea when he was met with Sherlock kneeling in front of him, face bloodless, eyes almost as wild as the night he'd 'seen' the hound.

"What? What'd I say?"

"Just now, you said, 'I owe you'. Why?"

The wild look disappeared for a moment, replaced by doubt, before Sherlock stood up, arms crossed, taking a moment to school his expression.

"It was something I said the day you were buried."

"Yes, but why?"

"What do you mean, why? Because you were my friend. I had all of these mad, invigorating, mind boggling experiences with you and... and, as you've probably worked out in that genius mind of yours, I wasn't doing so well after the war. You fucked off before I could tell you that you probably stopped me from putting a bullet through my head. You fucked off before I could even try to repay you."

Sherlock's expression had shifted from wary, back to blank, until it took on that familiar warm look he knew Sherlock reserved for very few.

"John."

"No. No, damnit. You made me watch you DIE."

"Once again, John, you see –"

"I still have my gun."

"What exactly did you see?"

"Don't –"

"I fell behind the truck –"

"Truck?"

"John, what did you see?"

"I saw you jump off of Bart's!"

"And then what?"

"And then I ran as fast as I could, got knocked down by a damn bike messenger –"

"Oh, well that explains it." And there's something in Sherlock's eyes that irks John to his core.

"I swear to- Sherlock, this isn't a fucking case. This is you explaining to me how I didn't watch you splatter you BRAIN across a sidewalk."

"But there was no brain matter on the scene, only blood. The way I fell, I didn't dive; I had my feet below me and my arms out for balance. And since I knew Moriarty likes his snipers, I figured out the angle for the truck to be parked so they could place the mattress and bring me blood while still driving off quickly enough to assuage the need for proof."

"Was I supposed to make it to you before the truck moved?'

"Preferably." But there it was again. That look in Sherlock's eyes, like something was off. Blinked, and it was gone. "At the very least realize I wasn't stupid enough to kill myself."

"Well, sorry to have messed up your neat little plan. Just couldn't let me in on it before I left the hospital."

"You stormed out."

John gaped, but Sherlock just stared resolutely, eye inscrutable.

"YOU LET ME!"

John's fists were clenched tightly again, his mug a forgotten mess on the floor. He stood up from the couch, shoving a finger towards Sherlock. Certain pieces were fitting together, and there were some thing he did pick up from Sherlock. Most of it was telling John that the pompous ass before him was placating him. That this was Sherlock Holmes who had probably planned everything that happened down to the last detail.

"You knew just what to do to make me piss off precisely when you meant me to because you needed me to go with it. You needed me grieving you to keep them off your tail. You probably had the bike messenger planned.'

"I didn't know you would come back, John."

"But –"

"But yes, I took precautions in case you got there before it all happened. If you lot didn't seem like you really thought I was dead and gone, the assassins may have taken note. I've only just got them all called off. They see you visiting my grave looking distraught and you stay alive. I am sorry it affects you so much."

"And why should it, right? Sherlock –"

"I'm not a machine, John. I do have emotions. I have a mind that sends out chemicals in response to social stimuli. But I've just learned to ignore it for so long due to the banality of the emotions. It was always boredom, intrigue, deduction, boredom. For as long as I can remember, once I got off of the drugs at least. And then I met you and I felt intrigue but I also felt..."

John's phone chose that moment to ring, and when he saw that it was Mary calling he realized she was probably waiting for him at the tea shop. She would go to her therapy and then they would meet up and she would play therapist for John. He'd tried to refuse, but she'd claimed it helped her to help him and he couldn't resist her pretty eyes and earnest demeanor. He let it go over to voicemail, but he grabbed up his jacket under the watchful eye of his flat mate.

"I've got to go."

"What?" John spared himself a glance of Sherlock stuttering, feeling a sharp rush of cruel vindication, before he shook his head at himself and went to put on his shoes.

"You should go let Mrs. Hudson know you're alive."

"I've been to see her," Sherlock said, voice flat and practically pouting.

"And Mycroft? Have you contacted your brother?"

"Yes."

John shook his head viciously now. "Always the last to know."

"John –"

"I've got to go. I assume you'll be here when I get back?"

Sherlock nodded briskly and turned his back on John, walking through the kitchen towards his room.

John tried desperately not to slam the door on his way out, but didn't succeed.