I do not own anything.

I apologize for any mistakes. It's late, I'm tired, blah, blah, blah.

I hope you enjoy my little oneshot.

John opened the door to his flat, 221B. Even after trying to wash his sorrows in alcohol he still wasn't drunk enough to forget. He wasn't even drunk at all. It had been three years since Sherlock had committed suicide today, and he still wasn't used to the empty armchair, the lack of yelling at crap telly, the silence of the violin that still sat on the table near the window, barely touched. John couldn't get rid of the skull or Sherlock's violin because it still seemed far too soon. Sometimes he wished he did, though, like now. He heard someone play a sad melody that seemed to match a song Sherlock would play as he stumbled up the stairs. He wouldn't hesitate to punch them. They were mocking him, he knew it. Mocking how he kept it and most of Sherlock's possessions, scared to get rid of them because he knew that it would be the end. That would be the end of Sherlock.

He opened the door yelling, "If you play one more note I swear to God I'll—" he stopped yelling and tumbled backwards, gripping the doorframe to keep him steady, his cane falling with a clang to the floor. He gasped unable to believe it.

Sherlock turned away from the window and looked at his friend. "Hello, John, welcome home." He set down his violin and went over to help him up. He outstretched his hand and John jerked back. Sherlock gave him a questioning look.

"Y-you…" John barely got out, looking down at his hand then back up at Sherlock, "You were dead. You… I saw it. I saw you fall and you… You hit the ground. I took your pulse. I stood at your grave."

Sherlock let his hand fall to his side. "And that was what you were meant to see. Everyone had to think I was dead, John, or you would be dead right now, along with Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson."

John stared at Sherlock for a long time, wondering if he was just so drunk he was imagining it. No, he couldn't have been imagining it, he wasn't drunk. He straightened up then slowly outstretched his hand to Sherlock's arm. It was there. He could feel it. He could feel the warmth of the blood under his skin.

"The blood…" John says. "I saw the blood rush from your head…"

Sherlock's gaze softened, which everyone knows never happens all too often. It's a rare sight indeed, but John is too focused on the impossibility of this situation. "I'll explain it all, John—"

"Why would you do that?" the doctor whispered.

Sherlock turns his head slightly, the questioning stare returning. "What do you mean?"

"Why the hell would you do that?" John said louder, the anger in his rising. "Why the hell would you let me, and everyone else think you were dead?!" He was finally yelling, everything catching up to him now. His head was swimming. "All of us, Sherlock! We all thought you were dead! We stood at your grave! Three years I was here, sitting alone! And you let me believe it! You let me believe all that time that you were dead, that I was alone!" He pushed passed him, into the flat. Sherlock's gaze followed him, his facial expression the same cold expression he never seemed to get rid of.

"I assure you, John, it was for your own good. It's all okay now—"

"No it's not! It's not okay!" His shout echoed through the room, their stares not breaking for anything. The words were repeated from one of their 'adventures', when John was truly, completely frightened, and Sherlock knew it.

Silence fell, neither of them said anything. It stayed that way for a long while, until finally Sherlock spoke up, a surprising seven syllables. "I am sorry. Forgive me." His voice was low, his look sincere. "There was nothing else I could do."

John inhaled a long, deep breath. "You could have let me know what was going on."

"You know that wouldn't have worked."

There was another long silence, filling the room with the anticipation of the next sentence spoken. Sherlock is back, John thought. He is not dead. He faked the whole thing to keep me safe. He closed his eyes. He has been gone three years. I have thought he was dead for three years. He is not dead. He is alive. John opened his eyes.

My best friend is alive. He smiled. My best friend, who I thought committed suicide, is alive. He started to laugh. He is alive and he is here.

He punched Sherlock. "Don't you dare pull anything like that again," he said to the bent-over Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock smiled then started to laugh, touching the cut that John's knuckles made, the same spot as before. "Never."

Sherlock Holmes is here. He is alive.