The whole cab ride to St. Bart's, I think back to the note I left in Mrs. Hudson's mailbox. She deserves to know where I'm going, for all she's done over the past three years. I told her everything: where I would be, what I was doing there. And a thank-you, for being an incredible housekeeper-I-mean-landlady for all this time. Not to mention, telling her that she was right all along about me and Sherlock, and what I really think of him.

Whenever I remember the times I told her and everyone else I wasn't gay, I want to punch myself. If only I hadn't been such a bloody chicken, I'd have said it. I would've admitted it. And maybe things would've been different. Maybe he wouldn't have left me.

Or maybe he'd have just pushed me away, farther than ever.

I step out of the cab, right to the spot where I last saw Sherlock Holmes, high up on the rooftop, and just stand there. Maybe it's the fact that I'm wearing his old scarf, or maybe it's being in this spot, but I feel his presence near me, like he's standing behind me, watching me.

"Sherlock," I whisper, "I don't know if you can hear me, but I'm coming. I'm coming to find you. I can't be here without you. I just can't. It's too hard, Sherlock, because I love you. God, I can't believe I'm saying that. But it's true. I love you, Sherlock Holmes, and I'm coming."

I bury my head in my hands and cry for Sherlock.

And for myself.

"Ah, little brother, it's good to see you showing your face again."

"Piss off, Mycroft, or I'll let you deal with your own national security."

"Oh, but you enjoy it so, helping me, so long as you get to prove you're clever. And, of course, there's the added bonus of seeing the... poor people you left behind."

"Don't…" Sherlock's silvery blue eyes cloud with pain. He knows full well what he did to John by pretending to take his own life, by not telling John that he had survived.

"Yes, I'm sure Dr. Watson will be delighted to see you, Sherlock."

Sherlock buries his face in his hands.

They sit in silence, two brothers, unsure of what to do, when suddenly they hear a ding.

Mycroft pulls out his phone. "Oh, dear."

"What?"

"Speak of the devil…"

"What's going on? What about John?" Sherlock of course knows who Mycroft is talking about, even without his "speak of the devil."

"It appears that poor Mrs. Hudson has found a suicide note in her mailbox."

Sherlock's heart stops. "John… suicide note… Where is he?"

"Bart's. Text Molly." The elder Holmes tosses his little brother his cell phone.

Sherlock takes no time in running for a taxi, paying the cabbie extra to get him there faster, texting Molly on the way: JW left Mrs. H a note. He's heading towards you. I'm on my way, but under no circumstance let him on the roof. SH.

In seconds, Molly's replied: I see him. Won't let him.

And then: Welcome back, by the way.

What a great way to return from the dead.

"John?"

I turn around to see Molly. "Molly, perfect. Let me up to the roof."

"Absolutely not," she replies, her voice firmer than I ever thought Molly Hooper could be.

"What?"

"I know what you're trying to do, and I can't let you."

"What do you mean?"

"Mrs. Hudson told me about your little note."

"Damn it, I never should've told her where I was—"

"She told Mycroft, too; it would've taken them—him—seconds to figure it out." Which is true. Mycroft might be the only person in the world smarter than Sherlock... okay, no, Sherlock is much cleverer, but still, Mycroft would have figured out where I was almost immediately.

"Molly, please, I can't do this. I can't do this anymore. Just please let me." I hope that maybe, just maybe, Molly will have pity...

"No, John," she whispers, her eyes filling with tears. "I can't."

I sigh. Time to take desperate measures. "Fine," I mutter. "God, I can't believe this."

"What?"

"Don't let this be how you remember me."

"John, what-"

"Goodbye, Molly." And I punch her in the face, hard, and snatch her keys, taking off before anyone calls security.

"John!" she screams, trying to stop the flow of blood in her nose. "John, no, you can't!" She shouts something else, but I can't hear her, and I don't want to, anyway.

I flash Molly's ID card at the sensor next to the elevator doors, which open with a gentle hiss. As soon as I step inside, I shut the door, in case Molly tries to follow me in. I breathe, once, twice, and press the button to take me to the roof. I try to imagine Sherlock making this same trip three years ago, and it brings me to tears again.

The broad daylight hits my eyes as I step onto the rooftop. There's a whole world below me, one that was once stained with Sherlock's blood, and soon will be with mine. I wonder if the fall will be painful. It can't be more painful than the last three years have been.

I don't want to land on a car or anything. No, it's got to be solid concrete. Instant death. I walk around the edge of the roof, looking for a quiet street, a place where I can jump and land in death's open arms. And I find one, just next to the door. Perfect. My jump awaits.

I take a step, and another. There's the edge, right there. I breathe in and out, and in and out again. My final breaths.

I'm coming, Sherlock. As soon as I count to three.

Three.

I step towards the edge. One more step and I fall.

Two.

I bend my knees, preparing to spring.

One.

"No!" A hand grabs my wrist, pulling me away from the edge. We both fall backwards, and I hit my head on the concrete surface of the roof. My vision blurs, and everything around me seems to spin, to shift.

"What the bloody hell were you thinking?"

That voice. I'd know that voice anywhere.

Sherlock.

And the last of my vision goes.

Sherlock is ready when John faints. Without hesitating, he catches John's head, letting it rest against his right shoulder, and pulls him closer, cradling him in his arms for a few moments before lifting him up and carrying him back to the elevator.

He exits the elevator to see Molly with a broken nose.

"Mycroft's got a car for you outside," says the pathologist.

"Do me a favor, Molly... don't tell Lestrade that John took your keys by force." Sherlock tosses the keys back to Molly, who catches them easily.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Molly replies as she pockets the keys, grinning slightly. "Oh, and I thought John might be unconscious, so I got a stretcher for you." She motions to the stretcher next to her.

Sherlock chuckles. "Oh, Molly Hooper, you're a star." He carries John over to the stretcher, laying his friend down with a gentleness he never thought he possessed.

Sherlock spends the whole car ride cradling John in his lap, supporting the injured head with his right arm and stroking the blond hair with his left hand. Finding a need to talk, he murmurs gentle words of comfort into John's ear. The words were so full of sentiment, yet Sherlock loved each word. More importantly, he loved the man to whom he was whispering.

When he walks into 221B, Mrs. Hudson nearly faints. But he continues to hold John, the very way he dreamed of doing for so very long.

Finally, he decides he has to talk to poor Mrs. Hudson, so he gently places John on the couch, pressing a light kiss to his forehead before he goes into the kitchen, where his supposedly-not-housekeeper makes him a long-awaited supper.

I regain consciousness (of an ache in my head, no less), but I don't open my eyes yet, trying to avoid reality. I don't want to have to see the completely empty roof around me. Not yet. Not yet.

And then I hear something, something I haven't heard in such a long time. A violin, playing a melody that I know well. It's my song, my special song, the one Sherlock composed and used to play during the nights when I had nightmares and panic attacks. My song, that my Sherlock wrote for me. And I realize, I'm lying on something far too comfortable to still be on the roof. Could it be...?

I open my eyes to see my - our - living room, and there he is, in his chair that has been for three long years so empty and cold, letting bow and strings touch for the first time in forever, a smile etched on his face. Not his typical Sherlock Holmes smirk, either. A real, caring smile that is so full of sentiment that I have to stifle a laugh. I don't say anything, wanting him to finish the song first. It's been three years since I last heard that song and I want to hold onto every note.

When he finishes, he places the instrument back in its case and just looks at me with that look, the one that I recognize so well. I can almost see the gears of his brain turning as he figures out the past three years of my life with just one deducing glance. And I wonder what he's going to say.

"I'm sorry."

Okay, I wasn't expecting that.

"John," he says softly. "John, I am so sorry. I had no idea you were..." He breaks off, getting up from his chair, and brushes my hand, kneeling by the couch. Tears slide out of those hypnotic silvery blue eyes as he grabs my hand fully, clutching to it like a lifeline.

I feel the tears build up in my eyes as well, and I sit up, throw my arms around him, and sob into his shoulder. "Sherlock," I whisper through the tears. It's all I can say. It's all that I know. "Sherlock..."

He returns the embrace, wrapping his arms around me, and tightens it. "Shhhh," he soothes. "I'm here now." He buries his face in my hair, kissing the top of my head. "John, it's okay. I'm here now."

Wait... he kissed the top of my head?

I look up and meet his stare. "Sherlock?" He gives me a tiny little half-smile. "You... you..."

"Shhh," he murmurs again, bringing a hand to my cheek. "Yes, John, I did. And I'll do it again." He kisses my forehead lightly. "Don't pretend you don't like it." He smirks playfully, running his long, slender violinist's fingers through my hair, and I can't help but chuckle a bit.

"Isn't this a bit sentimental for you, Sherlock Holmes?" I tease. "Mr. High-Functioning-Sociopath?"

"Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side," he agrees. "And you have forced me to admit my utter defeat." He pulls me in just a bit closer, and then his perfect cupid's bow lips capture mine in a sweet and delicate kiss that just doesn't last long enough. As he pulls away, he cradles my cheeks and chin in his hands, his face so close to mine but not touching, and whispers, "I love you, John Watson."

"I love you, too," I whisper back, just loud enough for him to hear - not because I'm embarrassed, but because this is our moment, our perfect moment, and I don't want to share it with anyone.

Of course, we have no such luck. Just as I'm about to throw my arms around him again and kiss him, Mrs. Hudson walks in.

"John! Oh, John, you're safe. You had me worried sick, dear."

"Mrs. Hudson," I say softly. "Oh, Mrs. Hudson, I am so sorry for-"

"No, dear, I'm sorry. I should've known all along-"

"You did know all along," I interrupt. "You knew from the beginning how I felt about Sherlock."

"That I did, dear," she chuckles. "Well, I'd best leave you two alone for a bit, now that you've finally decided to face the truth. Idiots, the both of you."

"Mind making me a cup of tea?" I ask.

"Not your housekeeper!" she calls, but I hear her taking out the teakettle. Sherlock and I burst out laughing, and then we get our kiss. Finally.

When we eventually pull away from each other, it's because we need to breathe. It's not because Mrs. Hudson comes in with tea and biscuits. That has nothing to do with it. Nothing whatsoever...

"You're a horrible liar," says Sherlock, reading my mind as usual.

"Damn you, Sherlock Holmes," I say, grinning. He chuckles softly and kisses my forehead before settling himself on the couch next to me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. "Thanks, Mrs. Hudson."

"You're welcome, dear. I'm just so glad you two are both safe; I was so worried..."

It's two hours later before Mrs. Hudson stops fussing and finally goes to her own flat, and it takes all of Sherlock's energy to hide his exasperation at this. He does appreciate Mrs. Hudson, and her caring for "her boys" as she calls them, but two solid hours of fussing is too much. He just wants a private moment with his John.

John, too, seems a bit done with Mrs. Hudson, and the two share a smile when she leaves. Sherlock has held back until now, not wanting to make a large display of affection in front of his landlady...

"Come here," Sherlock chuckles, and he lifts John up onto his lap. "There, is that better?" John nuzzles into Sherlock's arms, closing his eyes and grinning lazily.

Sherlock studies the man snuggled in his arms for a few moments, but it's not the usual information-gathering observation. This is different; this is gazing at the man he loves, taking in every detail not for practical purposes, but for his own pleasure. It's so strange, so foreign, but so perfect and wonderful. There's no deducing or crime-fighting right now. It's just Sherlock and his John, John and his Sherlock, and nothing can get between them.

Sherlock soon realizes that John has fallen asleep in his arms. Smiling slightly, he stands up, still cradling John close to him, and carries the love of his life upstairs.

Hopefully, someday, I'll be carrying him to my bedroom, the detective says to himself.

"There you go, John," Sherlock whispers once John is tucked into bed. "Goodnight." He kisses his forehead one last time. "I love you." He stands up and turns to leave the room.

"Sherlock..." John mumbles. Sherlock turns to see that John's eyes are open. "Stay..."

Sherlock walks back over to John's side. "Go to sleep, John," he says softly.

"Sherlock, stay," John begs tiredly. "Please..." His eyes begin to glimmer with tears. "Please don't go... Sherlock, please..." Tears slide down his cheeks. "Please don't leave me again, Sherlock."

And that's when Sherlock realizes how deeply he wounded his sweet John three years ago. The pain is still there, tearing at John's heart, even after Sherlock's return.

"I'll never leave you," Sherlock replies emphatically, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "Do you hear me, John? Never. I will stay with you always, John, I swear. You're never going through what you went through again. I won't allow it. I love you too much to let that happen ever again." He strokes the blond hair gently, letting his fingers play over John's exhausted face. But it's not enough; the pain still is so clear in John's hazelly brown eyes.

Bending down to kiss John's forehead once more, the dark-haired detective crawls between the sheets and opens his arms to his beloved.

I roll over and immediately am surrounded by Sherlock's embrace. His presence almost overwhelms me, but then soothes me, like a sedative.

"Sherlock," I whisper. "Oh, Sherlock, thank you." I can't help but cry again, but this time tears of joy that he's here, holding me.

"Don't thank me," he murmurs into my hair. "I've wanted to do this for years." He begins to place slow, delicate kisses wherever he can - on my forehead, in my hair, on my cheeks and nose and eyelids, and finally, he cradles my head in his hands and his lips brush mine. This kiss, too, is slow, delicate, but also so full of passion, energy, spirit. Sherlock's very mind seems to pour into this kiss, the whole of his brilliance, and it fills me with a rush of joy.

He pulls away far too soon, and of course he knows I want more, because he shakes his head. "You need to sleep, John," he murmurs, stroking my hair. He places another light kiss to my forehead. "I'll be here when you wake up."

"Promise?" I ask, inwardly chiding myself for sounding childish.

He chuckles, caressing my cheek. "I believe they say, 'Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.'" He loosens his hold on me, and when I try to hold tighter, he stops me. "Relax," he coos in my ear. "I'm right here, John. You don't need to worry. I'm here now. Just... relax... good... now close your eyes, and breathe... in... now out... and again..." I can't help but obey, breathing in and out as he tells me, and I can feel myself drifting off. His lips brush my temple with a feather-light touch, and he whispers, "Now sleep, my love... go on to sleep... and I'll be here when you wake."

And for the first time in three years, I feel safe.