My friend Rayne and I are writing writing this together. We invite you to read it, favourite it if you like and maybe even review. Thank you for even clicking on our "little" story.

"Sherlock! You complete arse!"

"John, you're being irrational."

"Irrational! Irrational? Of course I'm bloody irrational, Sherlock! You faked your own death! What was I meant to do?"

"It was necessary."Sherlock said calmly, almost off handedly. He shot John a look, instantly taking in a breath. Waving his hand, he tried to shoo the subject away. It meant nothing to him. It was just another one of his genius escapes. He thought John of all people would understand. However he was just being annoying.

"Necessary? Sherlock, you must have read my blog," Sherlock tried to reply but John wasn't going to give him the chance. "Don't even bother lying to me, Sherlock Holmes. Just because you are past emotions doesn't mean you can just watch me suffering! How would you feel if I was dead? Oh wait. I'm sorry, silly me. You wouldn't! I'm just another disposable experiment to you. My feelings don't matter." Before Sherlock got any chance to answer, John stormed towards the door to his room and slammed it shut. Sherlock stared blankly at it, unsure of what had just happened. He did however have a sudden feeling of guilt. Picking up his violin, he let the bow touch the strings and played his feelings away.

John sat in his room. His eyes ached with their inability to cry; unlike the time he'd spent alone when he'd thought Sherlock was actually... dead. The word sent shivers down his spine. Dead and Sherlock never mixed, except for when they took up cases about dead things. Usually people, once or twice there were dead animals.

John shook his head and rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hands. He ran his hands over his face and let out a shaky breath.

"Sherlock." He sighed. The word hung heavily in the air. John wasn't sure how to feel; he wanted to punch and hug the frustrating man that was Mr Sherlock Holmes.

A soft, mournful violin melody filtered into John's thoughts. Sherlock was playing again. Damn him. Never giving John any time to think, not without that damn violin.

John sighed again. His anger with Sherlock was getting to him. He fell backwards and lay sprawled across his bed.

Sherlock was playing some soothing music. Better than his normal racket. This gave John something to think to. Sherlock infuriated him. How could one man be so annoying and yet so amazing at the same time? Those weeks without Sherlock had been terrible. Thinking his best friend was dead and gone. He had been lonely, treated as the main mourner. Everyday he had written a post on his blog. Not that anybody could see them. Those ones had been private. Everyday he missed Sherlock more and more but now he was alive and acting like everything was okay? He wanted to strangle him. Yell. Something.

Rolling over John felt the soft texture of cotton rub against his cheek. Sherlock's scarf. He had taken that the third day of being in 221B alone. Mrs Hudson had left him alone for one night and he had found himself sneaking into the detective's room. He had spent the night there. He wasn't completely sure why he had. He just knew it had made him feel slightly better. Like he wasn't alone.

Although, being alone was something John rather liked. Except for Sherlock. When Sherlock was around, John mused, he was never alone. He'd run out to get the milk, or to find a crime for Sherlock to solve, and Sherlock would still be waiting for him. It didn't matter about the hour of his departure, or the length of time he was out, Sherlock would wait for him. It was nice.

John smiled, sleepily. All the rowing had made him tired, emotional displays did that to most people. But the tiredness that John felt was bone deep. His being ached with tiredness from... his loss. What loss though? Sherlock was fine. Sherlock was being loud and musical in the flat. So, why did it feel like Sherlock wasn't there this time? Because - was it possible - John expected this to be a dream from his addled mind? Because - could it really be - Sherlock was dead and John was imagining it?

John shook his head and shut his eyes. He let the music wash over him. If this was only a dream, it was the best dream he'd had in a while.

Sherlock quietly opened the door to John's room. He was sprawled out on the bed, clutching hold of Sherlock's scarf. He could tell he had hurt John. Not like he usually did. This was worse. This was different. He couldn't tell why John was exactly angry though. He seriously didn't think that if he did Sherlock wouldn't care, did he? John had seen what Sherlock did to that American who even dared to lay a finger on Mrs Hudson. Surely he concluded Sherlock would do the same for him?

Sherlock shook his head before closing the door and going back to his study. He had to set his affairs in order and fix everything. He'd phone Lestrade in the morning. Right now he'd continued to play his piece. It distracted him from John's stupidity.

The sun dawned as Sherlock's bow danced over the strings of his violin. He was lost in the music, unaware of the time, date or even who and where he was. His mind was running over the many clues that were now worthless, left behind by the ever illusive man that had caused the biggest crime rates of the last 10 years. He'd killed a man by drowning him, but the victim was dry and there were no signs on the body of a struggle, drugs or even the drowning. That was just one of the minor things. Not to forget setting a serial killing cab driver on London and destroying years of Government planning.

Sherlock thought deeply about the whole ordeal of pretending to die... What was John so emotional about? He'd only done it to protect John from this man. From Moriarty. Sherlock never really understood Moriarty. Never understood why Moriarty had wanted him dead. All he knew was the Moriarty ordeal was over and John was safe.

That was all that mattered right? John was safe? Everybody was safe? He couldn't help think that something was missing. Sherlock thought that faking his death would make everything okay but for some reason, it hadn't. He knew John had taken it badly. Hacking into Mycroft's cameras had confirmed that. Wherever he had been hiding he would stay up and watch John sulk around the apartment. Typing on the laptop or staring into space. Sherlock didn't even try to understand human emotions. He barely understood grief. It was such a horrid emotion. One he had eliminated.

At least it was all over now. He'd make it up to John. Take him out or something. A night without any experiments. It was the least he could do. Especially after that eulogy. Sherlock had almost been touched when he had read the post. Which was weird, come to think about it. Sherlock had seen John writing each night and yet he had only ever seen three posts. Normally he would have gone for John's laptop and looked for what John was writing all those nights. However this time, Sherlock would let him keep his privacy. He didn't want to push John too far.

Sherlock's brain ached, as it usually did after trying to comprehend human emotions. He rather envied the animals that only had to listen to their primal instincts, although that wouldn't have allowed Sherlock the freedom to think and to deduce. He put down the violin and wandered to the window. He stood, resting his hands on the windowsill and leaning out the window. The cool air brushed his hair out of his face, scanning the horizon, the cold grey London skies promised rain.

Maybe he could get another case to solve? He should call Lestrade and maybe even, he shuddered , Mummy and Mycroft. Though he had a feeling Mycroft already knew. He had been back in the flat for an entire night and Mycroft wasn't going to stop using those cameras for awhile. In case anything happened. Sherlock had gone by another name for a while. Whilst Moriarty was dead Sherlock was sure his men were still after him, Sherlock Holmes and anyone that knew him was in danger. Even those able to look after themselves, like John, would have to watch their backs. The idea that Moriarty was finally gone was soothing though. He was their biggest threat. Everybody was a mere child compared to James Moriarty.

In the end, Sherlock thought sending a text to Lestrade was better. He didn't like talking on the phone anyway. As he quickly tapped the "I'm Alive. - SH" into his phone, Sherlock heard the beeping of a text appearing. As soon as he had sent Lestrade's he noticed it had come from his brother. Good, so he had been watching the flat.

SHERLOCK HOLMES! YOU HAD MUMMY DEVASTATED. YOU NEED TO EXPLAIN THIS TO US SOON! I'M COMING AROUND LATER! - MH

Sherlock groaned. Maybe it was a bad idea coming home. If Mycroft brought his mother he would never hear the end of it. Least he had time to prepare himself. Even if it was just Mycroft. Trust him not to show brotherly concern though. Mummy comes first. Sherlock snorted, his childhood in a nutshell. Again. The London sky began to pour, he was right. Holding out his arm, he let the rain crash against his skin. It felt good no longer being a phantom. To be back home.

Sherlock pulled his arm in from the window and stuck his head out the gap. The rain fell on his head, wetting his hair and sticking it to his head. He laughed as he saw a very familiar car pull up outside. Sherlock wouldn't be allowed to leave the flat today, not until he'd been spoken to at least.

He pulled his head in and shut the door. Sherlock thought he might as well look, as Mycroft said, barely presentable. He pulled his shirt down and began to unbutton it. His pale, skinny chest was covered in bruises; natural but annoying. He dropped the dirty shirt into his room and began to unbuckle his belt.

After a long, hot shower Sherlock walked out of the bathroom with a slightly damp towel in hand and tousled hair. Another towel was wrapped around his waist. He grinned as her rubbed the towel in his hands over his chest. He wandered through the flat, stopping by John's door. Maybe he'd woken? Sherlock gently opened the door. John stirred in his sleep. His eyes flickered back and forth under his eye lids. Sherlock pulled his head out of the room and turned around to his room. He got dressed and sat in his chair. He was determined to wait for Mycroft...

Five, four, three, two, one.

"Hello, brother dear."

In the door frame stood the, obviously annoyed, figure of Mycroft Holmes. No umbrella this time. Sherlock found it almost amusing. Mycroft glared down at him. He'd only seen his brother his angry once before. Though hog tying his brother, whilst he slept, and stealing his 'booty' isn't exactly the same."Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded in reply. He could sense the anger in his brother's voice. Could read it in his body language. "Mycroft, glad you could co-"

"This isn't a game, Sherlock."

"I didn't mean it to be. I was hiding for my own protection and for John and Mrs Hudson's of course. Probably you too, I gather." Mycroft rubbed his temple slowly with his left hand. It was clear Sherlock didn't understand the grief he had caused.

"Mummy's coming to see you. Today. You best be here." Sherlock groaned and spun in his chair. He wanted to ignore his brother as much as he could.

"Enjoy watching on your camera, Mycroft. You'll hear the explanation to John later, no doubt. Sort everything out will you." Sherlock heard the door slam and the sound of a car pulling away. It wouldn't be long now till John awoke. Then he could start his explanation.

Until then he sat there, contemplating what to do when his mother arrived.