Two years he's been away – seven hundred thirty-one days and eleven hours, to be more precise.
"I knew you were alive," that's all Mycroft says, though it actually counts as a peace offering on his side. He only nods and walks away.
Molly can't even swallow the lump in her throat when she sees him – she's the one who helped him fake his death and yet, she can't resist placing a quick peck on his cheek. He lets her, for he knows he owes her one.
"You son of a –," Lestrade blurts out as he steps into his office, while Donovan drops all the files she's carrying. "Such language," he remarks suavely, and he's secretly pleased that his dramatic entrance has sorted its intended effect.
When he shows up at 221B Baker Street Mrs. Hudson is in hysterics, she probably believes he's a ghost or something. He walks her to the armchair and gives her a mouthful of brandy; she gets hold of his hand and cries, he waits patiently until she calms down again.
It takes five minutes and twenty-four seconds before John can form a coherent sentence after finding him on his doorstep. "Two years! It's been two years, Sherlock," his friends yells, grabbing him by the lapels of his coat. He knows John is angry and rightly so, but he's not really expecting to be thrown out of his new home.
"I'm sorry, I had no choice," he says to the closed door, then slowly finds his way back to the apartment they used to share. It feels incredibly empty now, and he tries to convince himself that he's just bored instead of plain lonely.
Mrs. Hudson starts to worry when she hears him scream in the dead of the night; he apologizes for the inconvenience and tells her he's fine, though she doesn't really believe him.
A week later he wakes up to find John standing over him. "What's wrong, Sherlock?"
"Nothing's wrong," he mutters, his gaze fixed on the ceiling.
"Mrs. Hudson says you've been having nightmares."
"So, what of it?"
"I had nightmares too. What are yours about?"
He shuts his eyes as a sign he's not interested in having this conversation; however, when he opens them again John is still there.
"In my dreams, they always pull the trigger," he murmurs as last, a wave of nausea rushing through him. They do, and he's left to stare at the lifeless bodies of the only friends he's ever had.
"What are you talking about?"
"A life for three, that's what Moriarty offered me. It's not too high a price when you come to think about it, though I preferred to take another way."
John pales a bit as the meaning of his words starts to sink in. "I'm one of the three, am I not?"
He doesn't answer, doesn't need to.
"You should have told me."
"Too risky. I might as well jump off that roof instead."
A moment later two strong hands are gripping at his shoulders.
"You great idiot," his friend says affectionately, and he feels something warm stir in his chest.
"People will start to talk, John," he warns him with a smirk.
Neither of them actually cares in the slightest.