"You're not dead." John wasn't sure if it was a statement, a question, or a prayer.

"Obviously."

"You've been alive."

"That's correct."

"For three years, you've pretended to be dead."

"John, please stop stating the obvious. Yes, I am alive. I'm here. I never died. It was all a ruse."

A few moments passed, and a terrible silence fell over them. John stood like a statue, refusing to move, to betray any kind of emotion. Because he wasn't sure what he'd be betraying. Rage? Despair? Joy? He didn't know what to feel, much less what to say. And so the silence lingered as Sherlock watched him, equally stony and silent, from across the flat they had once shared.

"How?" he finally asked, dreading the answer.

"I have my ways." Sherlock replied, with that mysterious "I'm so clever" grin just twitching around the corner of his lips. Oh, he wants to explain, John thought to himself, because he's so damn proud of it, of his ingenious scheme. But no, John wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. He wasn't going to beg for an explanation. Sherlock wanted him to pry, the smug bastard. And he wasn't going to.

"You could have told me," he said instead. He felt a brief surge of satisfaction as that damn smile faded from Sherlock's face. "That you were alive, I mean."

"I'm telling you now," said Sherlock, deadpan. "Isn't that good enough?"

John laughed. He couldn't help himself. The arrogance of that question, the sheer, unleaded absurdity…how could he not laugh when the great Sherlock Holmes asked such an incredibly stupid question.

"No, Sherlock, it really isn't. Nothing is good enough, not after what you've done to me." He heard the venom in his own voice and immediately regretted it, as just a flicker of hurt flashed across Sherlock's face.

"John, please," the other man looked around as he spoke, avoiding eye contact "I understand that you're hurt, but let me explain. I did it to protect you…"

"Protect me?" John knew he shouldn't have shouted. He saw the change in Sherlock's expression, as though he'd just been struck across the face. And yet, he couldn't stop himself. After all that struggling to find the right words, to figure out what to say next, suddenly he couldn't shut up.

"You wanted to protect me? As in, spare me pain? Keep me from harm?" Sherlock moved as if to reply, but John didn't give him the chance. "Because let me tell you, right now, Sherlock Holmes; there is nothing you, or Moriarty, or anyone else in the world could have done to hurt me more than what you did!" Sherlock stared at him, incredulously. He has no idea, John thought. And that just made him feel even angrier, even as he tried not to let Sherlock see the tears welling up in the corners of his eyes.

"You were my best friend. You were the most important person in the world to me, you were my life, and you made me watch you jump off a roof. I had to live with that! Every time I closed my eyes I saw you lying on the sidewalk with your face bashed in. Did you ever think of that? Of what you'd be doing to me? You left me alone and confused and...and..." He paused, took a deep breath and tried to regain his composure, bringing his voice back down to a normal speaking tone, but he didn't feel any less angry. "And you lied to me," he continued. "I think that's what hurt the most. It was insulting, Sherlock. It was more insulting than all the horrible, horrible things you've said and done to me. It cut deeper than every little comment you've ever made about my intelligence, all the little head-games you've played with me. The thing that hurt the most was that somehow, you believed that you could ever make me hate you."

For a moment, Sherlock looked puzzled, then a sudden understanding crept across his face. "John," he said quietly, stepping forward and reaching out a hand, "I'm so sorry. Please, you have to forgive me..." And for some reason he couldn't explain even to himself, that sincere apology only made John angrier. How dare he come back here and start acting like a human being? he thought. With a sudden outburst of anger, John grabbed him by the collar of that damn coat and pulled his stupid face down to his level, as a flicker of shock and pain shot across Sherlock's crumbling stone mask.

"Why should I?" John hissed, "after all this time, after all the hell I've been through, give me one good reason why I should forgive you, you arrogant, obnoxious, lying, deceiving bastard!" He shouted again at the end, shaking Sherlock with every angry word. "You think you can just send me a bloody text message to say you're not dead and walk back into my life? You think if you can just make a sad face at me and it'll all be okay? Things'll just go back to normal? Oh, I can't wait to hear how you justify this. Go on, then! Tell me why I shouldn't just let you go on being dead!"

"Because I can't go on living without you."

They stood in silence for one terrible moment. John stared in amazement at Sherlock, who actually looked as though he were on the verge of tears. He didn't know what he'd expected Sherlock to say, but it was nothing like that. Maybe "I need your help" or "I'm your friend" or something else he'd said before, but not that. He simply gazed at him as what he'd just heard slowly worked itself out in his head. He took in the sight of this man who he had missed so much, who had mourned so deeply for. He looked into the beautiful, blue-grey, life-filled eyes of the man who had died for him. A lot of things became apparent to John in those few horribly silent seconds. He couldn't form any real thoughts; no precise words, nothing articulate. And yet, somehow, everything was clear, Clearer than it had been in a very long time.

Slowly, John looked down at his hands and let go of Sherlock's collar, moving his hands to rest on the taller man's shoulders. He looked up again at Sherlock, who was anxiously awaiting a response. John breathed in, hoping the right words would come out when he released it.

"Yeah, all right then," he whispered, and, wrapping his arms around his neck, gently pressed Sherlock's lips to his.

John closed his eyes and for a moment, everything froze. Sherlock was obviously surprised, his shoulders tense and rigid, his lips cold and dry and unyielding. For a moment, John was afraid he'd made the wrong move. Then he slowly felt Sherlock's arms wrapping around him, felt him relax and give in to the kiss. For what seemed like an eternity the two stood, holding onto each other with a perfect mixture of rage and love, sorrow and joy.

Eventually, the kiss broke, and they simply held each other, faces close together, nervous but joyful smiles on each face. Then, all at once, the significance of what had just transpired dawned on John. And, he could tell by the look on his friend's face, Sherlock as well. With what he realized later was probably an unnecessary haste, John released him and stepped back, stuttering helplessly.

"Um," he managed.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, carefully avoiding eye contact. John searched for words, but his head was spinning, as he tried without success to process what had just happened between them. He could see that Sherlock was having a similar difficulty, from the way he was desperately trying to resume his usual, expressionless guise. "I suppose we should…discuss some things…"

John paused, the emotional turmoil overcome by a sudden, small amusement that Sherlock Holmes, the great genius, the most amazing mind in the world, could ever make such an absurd understatement, and he almost felt like laughing again.

"No shit, Sherlock."