A/N: This is my first Johnlock (so sorry if it's bad)- and it's a post Reichenbach. I swore to myself I'd never write one of these, but their cliched cuteness was too hard to resist. Without further ado, on with the story!

Disclaimer: I don't own it. I don't profit from it. (Sadly...)

John sat in his armchair, staring at the wall. The big yellow smiley face stared back at him with a mixture of condescension and commiseration. Three months after Sherlock fell, Mrs Hudson had had the flat redecorated. John had tolerated almost all the changes quietly, but when the men had tried to paper over that section of wall he had lost it, shouted at them all to just leave, and stood guard over the wall until they were gone. The only other thing he'd protested was when Mrs Hudson had tried to take the skull.

Over the faint sounds of the London traffic, a muffled crash echoed up the stairwell. Mrs Hudson had dropped something, John guessed. Judging by the volume and resonance of the crash, something rather heavy and breakable with separate parts, probably the tea tray. Look, Sherlock, I'm deducing. Aren't you proud? With a sigh, John lifted himself from the pillows and put on his best I'm-absolutely-fine-oh-I'm-happy-to-help-thanks-I'd-love-a-cup-of-tea face. He'd been having tea with Mrs Hudson rather a lot over the past six months- he hadn't had the heart to refuse her immediately after Sherlock fell, and somehow it had become a ritual.

As John padded down the stairs, the sounds from below became clearer- a quiet sobbing mixed with a deep hum that could be a man's voice, and then a noisy slap. John was becoming slightly apprehensive. He took the last flight of stairs at a slightly quicker pace. "Mrs Hudson? Is everything alright?" He rounded the corner and stopped.

"John, dear-"

John ignored Mrs Hudson, who was standing over a broken tea tray mopping her eyes, and stared into the room beyond.

"John, look-"

Silhouetted against the window was an excruciatingly familiar silhouette.

"Look who's-"

That voice spoke. The one John couldn't get out of his nightmares, the one which constantly repeated its note to John, constantly saying goodbye, constantly falling. "Thank you, Mrs Hudson, I'll take it from here."

"But, Sherlock-" Mrs Hudson protested, in the same tone as she always had, when he'd interrupt her, or keep heads in her fridge, and oh god what if it was him, it couldn't be him, why had she used his name, why, why, why! Unaccountably furious, John fled up the stairs in a whirlwind of pain. He can't be here! I saw him fall! He's dead, he's not here, he's dead, I saw his grave, it's a trick, he fell!

The door of the flat opened, and Sherlock- it can't be Sherlock- stepped over the threshold. "John."

John stood up as straight as he could. "No. You can't be here. You- can't- be."

Sherlock- oh god it's not possible- stepped forward, spoke in his seriously-careful-voice. "John, I know this is hard for you."

"You fell, Sherlock! I saw you fall! You fell, and you DIED, and you can't be here." John backed away, crossing his arms over his chest. "It's not possible."

Sherlock- what if it is- but he died - took another step forward. "I'm here, John. Once you've eliminated the impossible…" The words drifted into silence. John's heart was thrumming loudly, his mind awash with the sound of his own blood. When you've eliminated the impossible…

Whatever remains-

However improbable-

Must be true.

Must be true.

Must be true! He's here, he's not dead, he's alive, Sherlock's alive!

Sherlock- yes, it is him, SHERLOCK- stood in the doorway, still wearing the stupid coat, still the same cheekbones, the same ice-colored eyes, the same dark curls, the same vitality. John made a slight movement, and Sherlock looked towards him apprehensively. "John, I-"

John launched himself towards Sherlock and started punching every inch of him he could reach. "You- complete- ARSE- Sherlock Holmes!"

Sherlock couldn't keep the relief out of his voice. "John, I- ouch- I realise- ouch- I deserve- ow- I was stupid- ouch- please listen- ow!"

The flurry of blows showed no sign of letting up. "I thought you'd DIED, Sherlock! Jesus! Six- bloody- months! And all this time you were alive! Why the HELL didn't you tell me!"

"Argh- John! Please listen!" Sherlock writhed away from John, who stood panting and glaring at his flatmate. "I'm sorry, John. I had to." Quickly, Sherlock explained about Moriarty and the snipers. "After that, I had to stay away- I needed to track down Moriarty's network. Any contact with you would have put you in danger."

John's stance softened, just a little, but enough to encourage Sherlock to continue. "I only stayed away as long as was necessary. Although there may be the odd minor threat still remaining, I judged the danger diminished enough that I could return here. It may take another month or so before I can resume public life, of course." John twitched. "I…apologise for what I put you through, John. Will you…forgive me?"

John looked at Sherlock- brilliant, wonderful, amazing, ALIVE, Sherlock- and felt a little flicker of joy. He still felt angry- but this mixture of exhilaration and exasperation was the way Sherlock always made him feel. Of course he forgave him.

John turned on his heel and marched away into his bedroom without another word. He may have forgiven Sherlock, but Sherlock didn't need to know that just yet.

A/N: Sorry for the absence of cuteness and love in this chapter :( I'm planning two more chapters, with much more fluffiness, it just needed preparing... Reviews/constructive criticism/comments/whatever are appreciated greatly. I couldn't resist including an (extremely unsubtle) Deathly Hallows reference, so virtual cupcakes to anyone who finds it. -Ro :)