John.

Over and over again Sherlock repeated in his head as he climbed the endless stairwell at St. Bart's. Only moments ago he'd read John's note stating what he was going to do; how he was going back to where it all began so he could end it properly. Sherlock had nearly passed out after he re-read the note at least four times and then rushed out of the building to hail a cab to the hospital.

Sherlock had come home after his three years away hoping to find John in their flat unsuspecting of his friend's return. What he didn't plan on was that note placed on his leather chair. It was dated the same day so Sherlock hoped he could get to St. Bart's in time to stop the unthinkable.

Even though his lungs were burning and his legs were beginning to seize up, Sherlock kept flying up the stairs two sometimes three steps at a time. All the while trying to keep the idea that John hadn't jumped yet in the back of his mind. If John had and Sherlock was too late… well, he didn't want to think about that. There was no conceivable way he could live without his blogger and he thought that maybe, no matter how small of a part, John felt the same way.

Which is why John was on the roof.

Sherlock stopped abruptly, breathing hard and holding onto the banister. He shut his eyes tightly and thought. Obvious, he scolded himself. John thought Sherlock was dead, and if Sherlock was right about how John felt… then this would be the only way he would be able to see Sherlock again. But this also meant something far worse.

John had stopped believing in Sherlock.

After all this time Sherlock had kept the small hope that John still believed he was alive. Of course he knew it was a small chance since he went to great measures to make the fall look as real as possible. But John wasn't just an ordinary person. And now Sherlock may have lost him for good.

Back in reality, Sherlock doubled his speed up the stairs with new renowned determination to prove his broken soldier wrong. Sherlock was worth believing in.

Sherlock…

John thought wearily. That name had haunted his thoughts and nightmares for three years now, ever since…

Goodbye, John.

The broken soldier choked back another sob as Sherlock's last words repeated in his head for the billionth time. He remembered that afternoon so vividly sometimes it seemed like that moment was all there ever was. Like the moment where Sherlock jumped was the only point in history that ever existed. John knew of course that that idea was ridiculous, but sometimes the memories would make him think otherwise. Now the doctor was on the roof of the place where everything started all those years ago, slowly making his way to the edge where his best friend once stood. This was where John would see his consulting detective again; it was where everything would become right and the heartache would stop. He could only hope, could only pray, that it would work.

John Watson stepped onto the ledge, raised his arms, and closed his eyes.

Sherlock reached the top and slammed open the meal door opening to the roof; panting and with a couple beads of sweat dripping down his face. He stared over at his blogger who had taken his position on the edge, noticing that the abrupt sound had no affect on his stature. The detective took a few steps forward and pulled his long coat tighter around him, even though the race up the stairs had left his body temperature well elevated, the current situation had left him feeling chilled to the bone. John was still standing completely motionless, his arms still raised and head held high as if he was the Savior himself ready to die for Sherlock's sins. Sherlock figured John thought this was all a hallucination, but he had to chance it. John had to know he wasn't dreaming this time.

"John." Sherlock spoke loud and clear and with determination. His broken soldier had to know that this was real and no illusion. John flinched slightly and turned his head half an inch. Sherlock could've sworn he saw a tear reflect off his cheek in the sunlight.

"You're not real, you never are…" John spoke almost so quiet that Sherlock could barely hear him. He took another few careful steps towards John.

"I can assure you I am, very real." Sherlock spoke softly and slowly so as to not startle his friend. "I know it's been years since we've last seen each other and you've been living with so many unanswered questions, but I'm back John. In the flesh and here to stay; I'm never going to leave you again. I promise this time." Sherlock continued his slow approach towards John who now seemed to be shuddering; most likely form sobbing, but the detective couldn't tell for he was still too far away. John's arms wavered and eventually dropped down to his sides, his head bowed.

"I'm tired of your… fucking promises!" John spat, his throat constricting with the sudden flood of emotion and hot tears streaming down his face. "For three years, Sherlock! Three fucking, miserable, years I tried to move on and forget your face… to forget everything about you that I ever thought mattered. I endured nightmare after hallucination after memory and I thought I was never gonna move on—to be happy." John turned his head to glare at Sherlock, tears streaked down his face and his eyes were red and puffy as consequence. Sherlock had never seen his blogger like this before; so broken and lost that he was unsure if he could save John this time. John carefully rotated himself on the ledge so his front was now facing Sherlock and, out of impulse, Sherlock took a few strides towards John.

"No! You stay back! You stay away from me… you liar!" John nearly screamed and Sherlock abruptly stopped, held up his hands, and took a couple steps back.

"John please, I'm not going to hurt you." Sherlock spoke softly, albeit with a slight waver to his tone because of the sudden fear his friend was putting into him. "I… I never meant for things to go this far—for me to be gone all this time with you thinking I had deceived and lied to you. Because I didn't; I have never lied to you John Watson about who I am and what I do—"

"So those things you said before you jumped, they were true?" John cut in and Sherlock shook his head.

"No, of course not!"

"Then how can you stand there and say—"

"The truth is only the truth if someone believes it to be. Otherwise it's just information that the person has the choice to accept or not." Sherlock paused for a moment, lowering his hands slightly and taking painfully slow steps towards John. "If you believed that what I said on this rooftop three years ago was the truth, then yes John I lied to you and deserve to be called such a name. But… if you saw through the façade like I hoped you would, then you know the truth." Sherlock spoke carefully and was now only a few feet away from John. The look on his face was so troubled and at war that John himself wondered if this was how Sherlock felt; always at war with his mind over his heart. "So John, what do you believe is the truth?" Sherlock asked and John closed his eyes, shaking his head.

"I… I don't know anymore. I hoped for so long that what I'd seen was just another of your clever tricks, but all that blood and your pulse…" John took a shuddering breath and opened his eyes, looking directly into Sherlock's. "I couldn't see how you survived, and after the funeral and your headstone… I just—didn't know what to do for a long time. But there was one question I wanted an answer to…"

"And what was it?" Sherlock asked, fearing he already knew what.

"Why?" John breathed. "Why do it at all? What was the point of pretending to be dead all this time?"

"To protect the people I care about." Sherlock answered immediately, causing a confused look to appear on John's face. "I know, shocking isn't it? The Great Sherlock Holmes has a heart after all." He said with sarcasm and a bitterness to it that he hadn't necessarily intended. "I had to fake my own death; otherwise Moriarty's hit men would've put a bullet into each and every one of your skulls. I couldn't let that happen, so in the end I made it look like Moriarty had won after all and that I had died; just like he wanted. Except I got the upper hand towards the end and I made it out alive." Sherlock closed the remaining gap between himself and John, looking up at the soldier's face that seemed to soften. "Or at least I thought I had, and then I realized exactly what I had lost in the process." The detectives eyes began to tear up, but he blinked them back and continued on. "I realized I had left my best friend behind to weather the storm I created and let loose, and I am so… sorry for that." Sherlock couldn't hold back the emotions flooding within him any longer and it showed by the sudden crack in his voice. He quickly wiped a hand over his eyes and took a deep breath. "I really am John, it's my fault you're in this situation and are feeling this way. But I had no other choice and—"

"Oh shut up, Sherlock!" John cut in suddenly with a break in his voice, causing Sherlock to look up suddenly. "Just… stop, please." He quietly pleaded, a couple tears falling down his cheeks and Sherlock could tell that he was a few words away from cracking.

"Alright… we don't have to talk about that now, it can wait. There'll be plenty of time for that later. Just take my hand and come with me, and I'll tell you everything you wanna know. The truth this time, I pro—… I mean it." Sherlock corrected and outstretched his arm, extending his hand for John to take. John shortly shook his head and took the smallest of steps away from Sherlock on the narrow ledge.

"No… I don't even know if this is real; if you're real!" John rattled off, looking around and trying to avoid eye contact with Sherlock. When his gaze turned behind him at the death-defying drop John wobbled slightly on the edge, his arms splaying to try and regain balance and Sherlock immediately grabbed at the coat he was wearing. John, out of instinct, grabbed onto Sherlock's hand holding onto his coat like anyone would if they were about to fall. Both of their eyes were wide and locked onto each other for a second that seemed to last an eternity, then Sherlock acted and pulled John back forward; stabilizing his balance.

"You see? That was real; no illusion." He spoke slightly breathless, and then slowly released his grip from John's coat, but John wouldn't let go of Sherlock's wrist. Instead he wouldn't take his eyes off the contact.

"Do you remember… when we ran away from the police handcuffed together… and you told me to take your hand?" John muttered. Seemingly in a trance he traced the inside of Sherlock's wrist with his thumb, finding his pulse towards the outer part of it. "We kept running until we got to that reporters apartment. Then he showed up, claiming he wasn't real and that you made him up; that you fucking paid him to pretend to be Moriarty." John said angrily through clenched teeth and tightened his grip on Sherlock's wrist. "That bastard actually tried to make me—to make us believe that he wasn't real. But it didn't work, not for a second." John looked at Sherlock then, a new light in his eyes. "Moriarty was real, as real as you are now standing in front of me. I see that now as I did then." John shifted his grip from Sherlock's wrist to grasp his hand firmly. Sherlock felt as if a massive weight was lifted from his being.

"I knew you would. You're no ordinary person, John, and I knew that you wouldn't give up; that you wouldn't stop believing." Sherlock smiled broadly like he had never smiled before and a few tears of utter joy slipped down his face, but he quickly wiped them away with his hand. "Let's go home John. Please." Sherlock pleaded and tried to coax John off the ledge, but there was still something keeping him glued there. "John, what is it?"

"You may be real, but that doesn't change what you did all that time ago; how you left us like that."

"I told you, I'll explain everything later once we get the hell out of here. Please John, just give me a second chance and I'll show you that I'm worth believing in after all this time."Sherlock begged as terror slowly ebbed through him that he seemed to be losing his control on. John's face gave away the war he was having inside himself; between his head and his heart, and Sherlock could tell which side was about to lose.

"I… don't know if I can this time. I'm so tired of giving you chances to make it right Sherlock. I'm—I'm sorry." John choked on a sob and closed his eyes, then let gravity take hold of his fate.

Time seemed to slow as John wavered where he stood; allowing fate it seemed to choose which path he should take.

Sherlock would have none of that.

As soon as John closed his eyes Sherlock yanked him forward and into his arms. The pair fell backwards onto the concrete roof and Sherlock landed flat on his back with John on top of him, the breath being knocked from him. John propped himself up with his hands and stared at Sherlock, albeit confused and yet thankful at the same time. Sherlock blearily opened his eyes and blinked a couple times, trying to focus on the man on top of him.

"Ow." He stated and brought a hand to his head. "You couldn't have picked a cliff with soft grass could you have?" Sherlock complained, but smiled in relief nonetheless.

"You didn't." John simply replied, and smiled as well. The two were mere inches away from each other's faces for what seemed like hours, but was actually seconds before Sherlock cleared his throat and began to sit up; John shifting off of him at the same time. They sat together on the roof of St. Bart's for several minutes before either of them spoke, and when they did Sherlock was the first to break the silence.

"I'm sorry John. I really am, and I can't say it enough—"

"Then don't try to." John cut in wearily, then sighed. "Look, if anyone should apologize it's me for doing this in the first place." He put his face in his hands and shook his head as if that would erase the last 3yrs from his memory. "I dunno what I was thinking coming up here and standing on that ledge—"

"You were thinking that that was the only way you could see me again." Sherlock cut in and John looked at him slightly shocked, he then carefully stood and braced a hand behind his head; wincing. "After all this time you're still surprised when I deduce something about you… interesting." Sherlock grinned and offered his hand which John took.

"I suppose it's my turn to say it this time…" John stated. "Let's go home Sherlock."

"I couldn't agree more John." Sherlock said and smiled, heading back towards the door leading into St. Bart's with John right behind him.

"Oh, one thing Sherlock," John began, putting a hand on Sherlock's arm to stop him. "Thanks, for… ya know." He said, gesturing behind him. Sherlock just grinned.

"Of course John, you're my best friend after all. I wasn't just gonna stand by and let you do that; not when I knew the reason why was no longer valid." Sherlock replied with sympathy and what seemed like compassion, again surprising John. "Come on, I've had quite enough drama and emotion to last a lifetime thanks." And with that Sherlock began heading down the stairs, albeit slower than normal, but still with an energy that clearly stated he wanted to get the hell out of there; and John couldn't blame him. Once they got to the bottom they headed out of the building and onto the street to hail a cab. When Sherlock bent to get inside the cab he winced again from the wound on his head.

"You sure you're OK Sherlock?" John asked skeptical.

"Yeah I'll be fine, just a bump… are you gonna be OK though?" Sherlock countered back, looking towards his blogger. John glanced out the window at the passing scenery trying to avoid Sherlock's gaze, but ended up facing his friend nonetheless.

"That depends, are you gonna stick around this time? Or are you gonna pull some other elaborate trick any time soon?" John questioned.

"I'm not going anywhere John. Not now—not ever." Sherlock stated so certainly that John knew he could believe him this time.

He realized that he could believe in Sherlock Holmes after all.