A/N: Don't ask, because I don't know. XD Wrote this at... oh, ten-thirty ish last night? Un-beta'ed and probably full of nonsense, but whatever. Read it if you like. Spoilers for 2.3, obviously. Characters (aside from one very blatant cameo) aren't mine.

The first to know about his return is Mycroft, but only because his eyes and ears are everywhere. Sherlock has no plans to ever tell his brother that he has visited London many times and gone unnoticed in a variety of disguises (tourist, common Londoner, and starving artist, to name a few). The second to know is Molly Hooper, at whose flat he retrieves his beloved coat and scarf and hides his scruffy ginger hair under brown dye. She fills him in on things he has missed—John took up smoking, Lestrade fell far in the ranks, John lost his job and Mycroft quietly covered the rent, John left 221B for his old flat, a serial killer stumped New Scotland Yard for eight months, John is limping again—and in exchange he thanks her again and grants her a brief, chaste kiss on the cheek before he leaves. The third person is someone he has rarely seen in the years since Mycroft and Lestrade cracked down on his drug use. It is a short, lean American with a wary demeanor and useful connections that he meets in a quiet backstreet. He has never learned the American's real name, but knows that he is wanted by his own government for crimes he may or may not have committed; regardless, the American is his key to the seediest bits of the city. They make their trade, cash and a new passport for a fresh pack of cigarettes and confirmation that Moriarty's web is in shreds. Once, their exchanges had been cash for cocaine, or any other drug he fancied at the time, but those had stopped entirely after John showed up, and instead information had taken its place.

The fourth, and last before the media is involved, to know is John himself. It is winter, three and a half years after the fall, and he knows exactly where to find his former flatmate. It is New Year's day, only a few hours after sunrise, and fresh snow blankets the graveyard. There are only a few trails of footprints in the snow, and two of them lead to a single gravestone engraved with the name of the disgraced detective. The first trail has since left, but did not go far; the owner of the footprints leans against a tree nearby, in plain sight but unnoticed. The second trail of steps stops with the army doctor standing at the grave, his hair graying and unfamiliar worry lines creasing his face. He leans heavily on the cane at his side and is completely silent for a long time, merely gazing at the headstone, believing himself to be alone with his thoughts. Eventually, he sighs and turns away from the grave, but does not leave immediately. He glances around the graveyard, seeing an old man placing flowers at his wife's grave, a young couple crying over a child's headstone, an unfamiliar person loitering in the trees nearby, but never really acknowledges any of them.

"John."

It is not until that painfully familiar baritone sounds in his ear as he lurches away from the grave that he thinks to look again. The tall individual in the trees is not so unfamiliar after all—more tired, perhaps, with a ghost of stubble to show that he has not shaved recently—but certainly still the same person that was supposed to be buried in the frozen earth.

The next moment is little more than a blur; his cane momentarily forgotten, John strides toward the taller man and fist connects with jaw and Sherlock is sent reeling and suddenly he finds himself nearly-strangled by a tight hug, one that is all at once apologetic and loving and demanding answers. Eventually, he is released, and Sherlock looks down to see not the old, tired John of a few minutes ago, but instead happy John, carefree John, his John...

"Your hair is the wrong colour," he observes, and Sherlock smiles faintly. "It's a few shades too light."

"Last night, it was orange," he replies simply. "Would you prefer I had left it that way?"

John laughs, and it is not the hollow mockery that Molly has observed during their occasional meetings, and Sherlock is all the happier for it. Those three years were not easy for either of them, and he knows this, but he has hope that this is a good sign that they will move on, that life will go on like none of it had ever happened. But suddenly the army doctor sobers, crushing that hope in a single moment. "You were dead," he states, perfectly calm, his voice level. But Sherlock can see the questions in John's eyes, the stubborn set of his jaw, the anger hidden in his clenched fist, and he knows that he has misjudged.

Sherlock offers his flatmate a hesitant smile and replies, "I wouldn't know – Molly tells me that I was unconscious, but I don't remember much of that day."

"You jumped off a building, Sherlock!" His voice rises, the happiness of learning of Sherlock's survival dissolving into the anger and frustration of being left out of the loop, of not knowing. "I-I saw it. You had no pulse."

His smile fades, but he does not retreat, even as several of the other people in the graveyard look over at the sound of his name, his name that had become famous before falling into disgrace. "I'm well aware of the fact," he replies, careful with his words, trying to not agitate John further. "One does not forget broken bones and concussions quite so easily."

"But—why? Why didn't you tell me? Do you have any idea how much that destroyed me?"

"I couldn't." At the bitter, hurt expression forming on John's face, Sherlock hastily recalculates, promptly adding, "If I hadn't jumped—he would have killed you. The past few years haven't been exactly easy on me eithers!" But John only scoffs, forcing Sherlock to surrender; he takes a step back, hands up in a vague attempt at a calming gesture. "If you don't want to believe me, then so be it. Perhaps you'd be happier if I really was dead, and that Moriarty's web was still intact, just waiting for the next criminal mastermind to show up?" John's expression softens, but Sherlock fails to notice, still speaking: "You're angry at me, I'm not surprised by that. But you come here frequently, even after the rest of the world has forgotten my name, which suggests that you don't hate me, despite my best efforst to ensure that you did. I couldn't tell you because I needed to be unknown–"

"–because if Moriarty's friends thought you were dead, they wouldn't know to look for you," John finishes for him, visibly calmer than a moment earlier though still visibly upset. "I would have kept your secret, if you had–"

"The most convincing lie is the one told by a man that believes it to be truth."

This is met with silence. Then, eventually, John sighs and gestures toward the graveyard entrance. "It's cold—if we're going to argue this, we may as well do it someplace warmer."

"I agree entirely. Speedy's?"

"Fine by me."

a/n: This was intended to be a oneshot, but I have more ideas floating around in my brain – let me know in a review if you'd like to see more. :) Actually, I'd love any kind of review – even just a few words to let me know if you liked it or a thousand words bashing me for being American and failing at everything and anything. :P