This is a lil' one shot inspired by a small idea my friend encouraged me to continue. So that's dedicated to you, mate* :) :) :) *YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE. Sherlock explains why he jumped in Reichebnach fall.

It was a rainy day. Of course it was, considering most days in London were rainy. John Watson sat in his usual chair in 221B Baker Street and Sherlock tottered around the kitchen in a haze, tinkering with dismembered fingers for whatever experiment he was working on. Rosie was taking a nap, and the apartment was quiet, save for a few knocks on the counter whenever Sherlock moved something around, or the rustles of John's newspaper.

When the newspaper finally shut, John plonked it on the coffee table and stood. "Tea, Sherlock?"

"Don't mind if I do, thank you John." A cloud passed as John flicked the kettle on, and he leaned on the bench.

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"We never did talk about… when you jumped."

"I had my reasons." Sherlock clicked an empty slide into the microscope and stared hard into it.

"You're avoiding this. Why did you do it?" John's voice was quiet, slightly hurt. I just… want to know."

Sherlock looked up from his microscope and swivelled to look at John. "I did it for you, is that not enough?" He winced, and looked down, as if remembering something. "I've already told you that."

"No, Sherlock." John rubbed the back of his neck and sighed, crossing his ankles. "I just," he faltered. Offence flickered across his face. "How could it be for me? How? You pretended you were dead. For two years. Two years, Sherlock. I … I was so hurt, so confused." He raised his voice when Sherlock resorted to looking back down the barrel of the microscope. "I thought I had lost you!"

Suddenly, Sherlock was right in John's face. "You were hurt?" he hissed. "You were upset? I couldn't reach out. I couldn't speak to anyone. The only reason I died was so you could live. You had a gun on you and I had no choice." John blinked.

"A gun?"

"Yes, a gun! You, Lestrade and mrs Hudson. Had I not jumped you would not have been standing here right now. It was all part of Moriarty's plan. The snipers needed to believe it." Sherlock's expression softened. "And so did you."

"Why did it take you so long to come back? To tell me?"

Sherlock shrugged off his coat, and John was suddenly extra aware of how well it covered Sherlock's thin frame, added extra bulk to the skin and bones there. As Sherlock started unbuttoning his shirt, John tilted his head.

"What the hell are you doing, Sherlock?"

"I'm showing you why I couldn't come back." He turned his back to John, and took off the shirt, revealing them to John. The ragged bits of flesh that remained as prominent as they were when they were first administered. John let in a sharp breath, and reached out to touch Sherlock's back. Sherlock tensed at the cold fingers, but let John guide them down, across his spine, every place that the porcelain skin had been marred. Had John seen him when he had first came back, he might as well have been looking at a skeleton.

"Who gave you these?" John's voice was pure, condensed rage.

"I was captured by Russians. Mycroft eventually got me out. It was… so cold."

"I am so, so sorry, Sherlock," John mustered. "I had no idea." Sherlock just picked up his coat and shirt, hanging them over an arm and smiled. "It's fine. I did it for you." With that, he bent over, and kissed John on the cheek, before heading to his room.

John just stood in silence, waiting for Sherlock to return. When the taller man did, he was in his blue dressing gown. "Are we not going to have that tea?"

He walked straight past John and into the kitchen, coming out with a cup of tea and sitting on his chair.

John was still in the same spot in front of the kitchen door. "Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"Did you just… kiss me on the cheek?"

"I suppose I just did. Sorry, mistake."

"Oh, yeah. Mistakes. They happen to the best of us." He moved towards his chair.

"Of course," chimed in Sherlock. "Caring is not an advantage."

"Oh. Right." John didn't sit down. After a few minutes, he spoke again; "So you wouldn't do it again?"

"Do what, John?"

"Well, kiss me."

Sherlock looked up at John and got up, walking over to where the shorter man was standing. Leaning forward slightly he kissed John on the cheek and straightened, running a hand through his hair. "Like that, you mean?"

"Well, not quite, like that." Sherlock's eyes narrowed in confusion and widened again as he understood.

"Oh, you mean like this?" Sherlock leant in to John and kissed him, closing his eyes. John reciprocated the kiss, closing his eyes as well, breathing in the smoky, sweet aroma of Sherlock Holmes.

"Yeah," he whispered as they pulled away. "Like that."