A/N: When I sat down to write this out of boredom the other day, I didn't expect it to be this long- and this is only the first part out of what I expect will be a three chapter story. I'm a bit out of practice with fanfic writing, and I know there are a lot of these style stories around at the moment, but hopefully mine has an interesting twist and you can enjoy it

…***…

It was Molly who had text him. Good old Molly Hooper, who he hadn't spoken to in a few months and she thought he would like to know that they were up on the roof again. It had been almost three years since John had seen Sherlock take that one decisive step over the edge and apparently now Scotland Yard had taken it upon themselves to be opening up and poking at old case files. What were they hoping to find? They'd scoured the rooftop only hours after the incident; John knew Greg had been up there himself, his guilt driving him to work through the pelting rain, searching for any evidence that could point away from the inevitable conclusion so many had already reached.

All they had found was Moriarty's body, blood pooled in an oddly stagnant puddle about his pale features, the gun in his hand- fired once- and Sherlock's phone, tossed to one side. Last call made to John Watson at 16: 27. Last text sent to an unnamed number- 'Come and play. Bart's Hospital rooftop. SH'.

John really didn't know what they were looking for anymore, but since he had the day off from work and Molly had been kind enough to inform him, he thought that he would go and take a look into the matter.

He would've dropped anything even if he had been busy.

Maybe they had found something.

It may have been a foolish hope but it drove John on, nevertheless. He knew that he would never stop missing Sherlock, but he had learned to accept that he was gone.

He met Molly in the hospital entrance.

'Okay, Molly?'

'Yeah,' she smiled, 'yeah, I'm feeling really good today.'

Today. Bit of an odd thing to say, John thought. Molly had always been so open.

'Good.'

'Yeah.'

She gestured off in the direction of one of the corridors. John nodded and they began walking briskly, side by side.

'Do you know what they're looking for up- up there?' he asked.

'Just… following a new lead or something. I don't know. They won't tell me.'

'I'm surprised Greg didn't text me.'

'I don't think he knows yet.'

He stopped. Molly paused a step ahead of him.

'It's his case, isn't it? It still would be, I should think.'

Molly bit on her bottom lip. John could see her flexing her fingers nervously outwards at her sides. She didn't answer. He frowned.

'Molly?'

'What? Sorry. I really don't know. I'm probably not supposed to know.'

'Probably not,' he agreed, with a soft smile. 'Thank you for telling me anyway.'

'I… sort of had to, y'know?'

'Right.'

'You can go on ahead without me, if you like. You don't need me there.'

'Okay. Thanks, Molly.'

She bobbed her head slightly and turned swiftly on her heel, rubber hospital floor squeaking beneath her feet, the sole of her trainers leaving a faint, smudged swirl beneath where the ball of her feet had been. He watched her for a moment as she disappeared off down the corridor, lab coat flaring at the back of her knees, ponytail swinging in rhythm with her steps. It must have been hard for her, conducting Sherlock's post-mortem. She had volunteered herself to do it.

John blinked, cleared his throat and carried on his way.

He found it strange that there were no police, no bored and disgruntled flatfoots, guarding the entrance to the stairwell. Anyone could have just gone up and interrupted a vital forensic analysis, stumbled across key evidence. Ignoring this, John headed up them, wondering which officer was leading the investigation. He didn't know many besides Greg, who now consulted him less and less. John had his own life and whatever method he may have learned from Sherlock, his powers of deduction would never be anything close to that of the dead man's.

He reached the top flight, slightly breathless, calves protesting at his sudden desire to be so many storeys up. It had been a long time since he had last been up here, and that was only the once. He pushed the door open and stepped out onto the roof.

The sudden sunlight blinded him momentarily. He cupped his hands about his eyes to shade them and blinked hard a few times, expecting to hear someone query his appearance at a crime scene. He lowered his arm. There was no one there.

Well, there was one person.

'My god.'

'John.'

'Oh my god.'

'John.'

The figure stepped closer. Even lit from behind, his face in shadow, John knew who it was. It was like he hadn't changed.

'Are you… Are you real?'

Sherlock huffed out a laugh. 'You always did have a flair for asking the most obvious questions, John.'

'Yeah, and you always had a flair for the dramatic,' John fired back straight away. 'The roof, seriously?'

Sherlock grinned wickedly. It was so familiar.

John didn't know how he felt about that. He leaned as if about to take a step forward but then thought better of it. He was feeling a bit light-headed and it had nothing to do with the height. He took a breath, opened his mouth to say something. Thought better of it and shut it again, teeth coming together with a dull clang. He ground them against one another.

'I suppose you'd like me to explain.'

'It would be too obvious for me to point out that you're not dead and probably too stupid for me to ask how you're not.'

'It wouldn't be too stupid, John. I intended for you to think that I had jumped, that I had died.'

A beat. 'I did.'

'You had no reason to believe otherwise.'

'No.'

Silence for a moment and then John continues,

'I didn't believe you. When you said you were a fake. I know you're not.'

'Not as stupid as the rest of them then.'

'I have my good days.'

Sherlock shifted and looked away for a moment, glancing over his shoulder to the ledge where he had faked his own death. John followed his line of sight.

'Go on then.'

'Excuse me?'

'Tell me. Tell me how you, the great Sherlock Holmes, have returned, apparently, from the dead.' That had come out sounding more angry than John had intended it. 'I can see you're dying to show off. Well, maybe not dying.'

Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

'You're angry,' he observed.

There was no point in lying. 'I don't want to be. I can't help it.'

'Understandable.'

'Hmpf.'

'You've spent more time thinking me to be dead than you spent actually being my… friend.'

'That's. I still,' he cleared his throat. 'I still missed you.'

'Then why are you angry?'

'Because I never wanted you to be dead!'

It felt to John as if all of London encircling Bart's would hear his hissed admission. The words kept coming anyway.

'Do you know what it's like, Sherlock, do you know what it's like to see someone you- to see a friend do something like that? You jumped and it felt like nothing I could have said or done would have stopped you. It felt like you should never have jumped in the first place. I saw it though, with my own eyes and-,' he had to stop to take a breath, to look away from Sherlock's penetrating gaze. It was the face he made when he was trying desperately to understand the sentimental inner workings of a lesser mind. The softening of his eyes suggested he wasn't entirely clueless. 'I mourned you, Sherlock. For a long time.'

Sherlock strode further out onto the roof, coming to a halt near the centre. John followed but still kept his distance. The taller man crouched, running his elegant hands along the cement. He looked up at John.

'This is where Moriarty shot himself. There's a scuff here where the gun made contact with the floor when the body fell. And here,' he gestured a wide circle in front of himself, 'is where his blood spread from the head wound. You can clear blood up but the traces of it will never fully wash away, not if you know where to look for them.'

He rubbed his hands together, then placed them on his knees and pushed himself back up to his full height. John was reminded once again of the height difference. He had almost forgotten how short Sherlock could make him feel.

'Why did you do it then?' he asked. 'Moriarty was already dead, suicide, so why did you have to do it too?'

'He wasn't working alone, you know that, John. Moriarty was the spider at the centre of a web and although the spider was gone it didn't mean that the web could not support itself. That someone else could take the chance to be the spider spinning it all.'

John nodded. 'You wanted to take out his accomplices?'

'Yes. Moriarty wanted me to kill myself to finish his story. I had expected that much, it's why I arranged to meet him here on my own terms where I could manipulate the variables just as much as he believed himself to be doing so. I had made arrangements in favour of my survival should it come down to my having to jump.'

'Which you did.'

'I did. What you saw wasn't a lie, John, I really did jump. Moriarty may have been dead, however… He had set up the circumstances so that if three of his accomplices did not see me jump, they would shoot and kill three people.' He held up three long, white fingers. 'Mrs Hudson.' One down. 'Lestrade.' A second folded. 'You.' His hand now formed a fist. He let it fall to his side.

John took a moment to process this information. He took the few steps needed to look over the edge of the building as he had done the three years ago he had been up there. It didn't feel too high, not compared to so many of the buildings around them but the pavement looked very definitely solid. He toed the wall and turned back to Sherlock.

'You had to do it then.'

It wasn't a question. Sherlock nodded anyway.

'Lucky for clever old you you'd seen it coming.'

'I jumped, making sure that you would see me doing so but not so that you could see my body make impact.'

'You kept asking me to stay where I was. With that building there,' John pointed, 'blocking my line of vision.'

'Yes. And I timed it. I saw the cyclist coming, I knew that you would collide with him, so that was my moment. I jumped, propelling myself forward, knowing that you wouldn't see me land on top of the open laundry lorry which I have observed, from years spent in the labs, making collections outside Bart's at half past four every day. I landed there and was quick to jump out again onto the street. Using some blood I had swiped from the lab and some meditative Buddhist techniques I have researched, I was able to give myself the appearance of being all but dead.'

'That's.' John was speechless for a moment, his sentence left hanging.

'Yes.' Oh, there was the smugness.

'That's ridiculous,' he stated bluntly. 'You- you jammy bastard. A laundry collection?' John laughed incredulously.

'Yes,' and now he sounded almost hurt, slighted by John's reaction.

'It's a bit Scooby Do, isn't it? All a bit naff for that great big brain of yours.'

'It worked, didn't it?' Sherlock drew himself up into his coat defensively.

'I can't believe I've been mourning a man who threw himself into other people's dirty washing.'

'I did it to save you!'

'Oh, I'm sorry, am I being selfish now?'

John's scathing retort cut them both back a bit.

'I'm sorry,' John said shortly. He dug the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, feeling the bone, feeling tired. 'Who was your accomplice? You can't have managed all of this on your own. Was it Mycroft?'

Sherlock exhaled sardonically, rolling his eyes. 'No,' he answered pointedly. 'It was Molly.'

'Molly? Molly Hooper?'

'Yes. Molly is so often overlooked. I knew I could trust her.'

'Of course. And that's why she text me today. She knew you were back. That you were never really gone.'

'In short, yes.'

John barked out a laugh. 'Oh, I have missed you Sherlock. I really have.' He grinned, eyes wild and exhilarated as he used to look during the height of a case. They were now standing closer to one another, falling back into old gestures and the slightly crowded personal space dynamic of two people who lived together.

'I must admit to having missed your company too, John.'

'Ha, I always knew you would miss me if I went away for long enough. You'd notice that you were talking to thin air most of the time.'

'I did, it seems. I missed having you there. Sentimentality.'

'Sentimentality,' John agreed.

Sherlock seemed to be looking at John properly now, really taking him in with his perfectly balanced reasoning mind working at its usual hyper speed fashion. John let it happen.

'You've put on weight,' Sherlock observed.

'Is that really the first thing you've noticed? Thanks, I must be fatter than I thought.'

'No, not fat, John, only a few pounds. And I never notice anything first, everything is causal, I observe it as a whole. I know that your hair has grown out longer than you used to have it when we lived together, that your grey patch is spreading-,'

'-hey-,'

'- that you're wearing new shoes that aren't quite worn in yet because they're pinching at your toes and you keep grimacing, though I doubt you're aware of it. I know that you're back working in a doctor's surgery as I can see the knot of a tie in the open portion of your jacket and you would never wear a tie otherwise, unless you're going to another court case, which I doubt. I see from the crumbs on your trousers that you had toast for breakfast, that you weren't alone at breakfast, that you were with a woman, a brunette and that she kissed you on the cheek, leaving a faint lipstick smear, before you left.'

'True, yes.'

'It's not a platonic relationship either, this woman who kisses you on the cheek. It's a romantic one, a serious one at that.'

John chuckled knowingly. It was such a thrill to hear Sherlock at work again.

'What makes you say that?' he encouraged.

'I can see the faint outline in your jacket pocket- your favourite jacket, you've been wearing it nearly five years, time for a change perhaps-,'

'You're still wearing the same coat.'

'- I've been rather too pre-occupied to consider my fashion faux pas at this time, John. I can see, however, from the outline in your jacket pocket that you are carrying a small box around with you, approximately two inches long and two inches wide. You've been carrying it around in there for quite some time for it to form such an impression on the cut of your coat, so it's something important you need to keep with you. You're scared of losing it, but equally scared of… using it. A ring box.'

'… Yes, alright.'

'An engagement ring, ergo a serious romantic relationship.'

'Yes. Her name is Mary, she was the lead counsellor at Harry's AA group.'

Sherlock did not comment. John had so many more things he could have told Sherlock about the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, but he knew that this would not hold his attention. Not until he had at least met her and judged her for himself. John scratched at his ear.

'I haven't, uh, figured the rest out yet. The proposal.'

'You're getting engaged.'

'Yes. Well, if she says yes.'

'I imagine she will. It's suitably predictable.'

'Most people would just say congratulations.'

'You haven't done anything worthy of my congratulatory wishes yet.'

'Yet.'

'When you have done-,'

'You will?'

'I believe it will be expected, yes.'

'Thanks.'

'I will mean it.'

'It's a start I suppose.'

'I think I'm out of practice. I haven't had you there to tell me when I'm being not good.'

'Your studies in that area were always ongoing, yes.'

'Yes.'

They found themselves side by side now, gazing out over the low-lying sprawl of the east end.

'Why are you back, Sherlock?' John finally asked the question he had been pondering since discovering that his friend was well and truly alive. Somewhere in the back of his mind, that information was still processing, confusing the disordered pathways of his synapses. 'Why now?'

'Aren't you going ask me where I've been?'

John's lips twisted into a smirk. 'That's the obvious question, Sherlock. I'm sure we'll get to it. It's been three years though, no matter where you might have been or what you've been doing, with me thinking you were dead, so why have you suddenly walked back into my life? Why this bloody rooftop? If you just wanted to prove that you were alive you could have done that at any time, I'm sure there have been plenty of opportunities. But no, you've turned up now,' He glanced sidelong at his old flatmate, who was, in turn, busy gauging the probability that some member of the public would see them standing on the edge of a building and call for help lest they decide to jump. No one had noticed him the first time, why would they notice now?

'Sherlock,' John started. 'What's wrong?'

'It all ties in together, don't you see? Where I've been, where I am now, where I'm going.' He hops up onto the lip of the wall. He can see the spot where John stood, hand to one ear, as he left him his note. 'It was convenient to me to give the appearance of being dead, not only to preserve your life but also to give myself an advantage over Moriarty's cohorts. They weren't expecting me to able to outsmart them from beyond the grave, even I couldn't do that.'

'Only you bloody could.'

'Yes,' Sherlock answered with some degree of delight. 'I had several of them investigated and pointed in Mycroft's direction within a year of my fall. I suppose my brother was somewhat suspicious. I was still using his bank account, after all. He let me carry on, however, I'm loathe to say it but he is intellectually gifted enough to have been able to interpret my plans.'

'He never said anything to me.'

'It would have interfered, John. It was for the best.'

John shrugged. 'One day, the pair of you will let me decide that I know what is best for me.'

'Not quite yet though,' Sherlock wasn't teasing him, there was something serious in his tone.

'Sherlock?'

'You asked me why now. Why now. It was the right question, John.'

'You're starting to scare me a bit.'

'You should be scared. There's a reason I've come to speak to you now, there's a reason I chose this rooftop.'

'Just get over yourself and tell me straight for once, would you?'

'Colonel Sebastian Moran was, for all the more conventional intents and purposes, Jim Moriarty's right-hand man. He has continued to evade me over the past three years, but now he has made his plans rather more… overt. It is no secret to me that he wants me to die, he wants to kill me and finish what his boss started. I'm too clever for him, I can avoid him equally as well as he can stalk the shadows from me. You though, John, you can't. You have a presence- family, friends, a partner, patients.'

'What are you trying to say?'

'He's using you to draw me out.'

'I'm sorry, what?'

'He's targeting you, knowing that you are one of the very few people I would resurrect my supposedly dead identity for.'

'He wants to kill me so that he can kill you?'

'It's a dangerous game.'

John's jaw was set, his eyes hard and blazing.

'It's not one he's going to win.'