A/N: Just a little idea I had about the reunion. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.
John had punched Sherlock. A lot. He had been so angry, so absolutely burningly furious that Sherlock had let him think he was dead and left him to stew in grief and guilt. He was hurt, too. Oh, Sherlock had explained it, how he had to be made to think Sherlock was dead in order to keep John alive, that it would have been too dangerous to show up any earlier, but instead of being touched at Sherlock showing how much he cared, he felt insulted. He was a soldier. He had faced life-or-death situations countless times, both in the army and with Sherlock; why did he need protection? Sherlock had looked skeletal when he had shown up, John would almost have believed him a ghost if it had been for the blood that had spurted from Sherlock when he had hit; yet Sherlock thought that it was he, John, that needed looking after, needed protecting?
So John had been angry and disgusted and hurt in front of Sherlock, and when Sherlock tentatively offered to make tea and then discovered there was no milk, John was glad to have an excuse to get out of 221B.
As soon as he stepped outside into the cold winter air, it hit him. His best friend, Sherlock Holmes, wasn't dead. He was as alive as it was possible to be, and right now he was sitting stewing in their living room. John walked quickly and as soon as he rounded the corner, he let out a whoop and jumped in the air, realising he had forgotten his cane, but that for the first time in almost three years, he did not have a limp. John bent over laughing, in relieved hysterics, and a little old woman who reminded him of Mrs Hudson asked if he was alright. Mrs Hudson! Had Sherlock told her yet? Never mind. He would leave Sherlock to feel guilty for a bit longer (after all, he did deserve it), then return home (it was home again now, it hadn't been without Sherlock) and give his best friend in the entire world a hug.
Because...well...he was back. And, for the moment, nothing else mattered.
