As you all know: I don't owe anything. Just my imagination ;)

1.

It had been a year. One whole year. There were times John Watson could not believe it was already 365 days ago that he saw his best friend jump of that roof. It felt like yesterday. Every day it felt like yesterday. For the outside world it seemed he had moved on: had a job as a doctor, be it part-time; he still lived at 221b Baker Street, but the apartment was darker and emptier without Sherlock's things; he dated occasionally; and even the limp, that had returned after the Sherlock's death, had disappeared over time.

Inside however John knew he never really moved on. He just moved. Life moved because he couldn't stop it. He could of course. And he had considered to do that. But he just couldn't take his own life and it felt like a cowardly thing to do (and he occasionally thought of Sherlock as coward for doing it, but those thoughts only caused him more pain).

Sleeping was difficult. He could not distract himself when he lay in bed, staring at the darkness. John knew that he would never get over watching his friend die. He knew he would never get the imagine of Sherlock's blooded face on the pavement out of his head. Nor the sound of him hitting the hard stone ground. Nor the feeling of his risk without his heart pulsing underneath it. But he also knew that life goes on and he had to make the best of it. So for the past months that was what he had tried to do. He had tea with Mrs Hudson every week at least once. She talked about her hip and John talked about his work. Sometimes they talked about Sherlock. Always about the good times. Never about the end. DI Lestrade had stayed in touch and occasionally he asked John's opinion about cases, but John knew it was out of pity and after a while he and Greg just got together for a beer every now and then. Mycroft also tended to call every week. Courtesy call, as John well knew, and he started only picking up every other week. There was never much he and Mycroft had to say to each other.

Today should be like all other days, John told himself. It does not make a difference that it is exactly one year ago. It should not hurt more than any other day. And, strangely enough, it didn't. The day passed by quickly due to a flu epidemic keeping him busy at work (he had arranged months ago to work this weekend to provide himself with a distraction). At the end of his swift, around six in the evening, John felt surprisingly little depressed. He even decided to pass by Sherlock's grave on his way home. He did not visit it much. It was nothing for John to stand by a stone and talk as if there was actually someone listing. Every time he thought back about the one time he did that, just after Sherlock's death, begging for him to come back, he felt stupid and ashamed. He never brought flowers or plants, and the grave was always clean, cold and without any sign of visitors. He didn't assume there was anyone regularly visiting the grave, so he was surprised to see a man standing next to the stone when he arrived. His wondering as to who the visitor was took only a second, as a black umbrella the man was leaning on gave him away.

'Good evening Doctor Watson' Mycroft said without looking up.

'Mycroft.' John stayed a bit behind him. Maybe Mycroft wanted some privacy for his grieve, but instead he saw a slight smile on his face when he turned to John.

'I was waiting for you. I knew you would come today, doctor. Good day at the hospital I see.'

'It was okay. I don't come here much. If you wanted to see me you could have called.'

'But not today. Today you would come.'

John didn't respond. Mycroft did not seem to be grieving. But then again, John had never detected any sign of emotion from him after the death of his brother.

'Doctor Watson, would you mind talking a walk with me?' Mycroft asked polite but since he already started walking he did not really needed any answer from John.

'Mycroft' John said as he walked quickly to keep up with him, 'I don't really feel like a talk right now. Maybe we can meet tomorrow.'

'No doctor Watson,' Mycroft said simply, 'I am sure you want to hear what I have to say to you tonight. I wish I could have told you before but unfortunately the circumstances did not allow it.' They kept walking, Mycroft seemed to be going somewhere. On one side of the graveyard there was a small pond where they stopped.

'What do you mean?' John asked. 'What is it?'

'It is about Sherlock, John.' Mycroft turned to the doctor with a grave expression on his face. John frowned. 'What about Sherlock?'

Mycroft did not say anything. He just turned and looked across the pond. John followed his stare. On the other side of the water stood a man. A tall man with dark hair in a long coat. His hands were behind his back and the collar of his coat was up. He was looking at John. John blinked. And blinked again. 'It can't be…' he murmured. 'It can't be…'

'John', said Mycroft next to him, 'I know this might be a bit of a shock and more explaining should be done…' but John did not listen. His eyes were betraying him. They must be. It can't be that he is seeing a man on the other side of the pond who he also saw jumping to his death a year ago. Mycroft kept talking '…and I told him to let me tell you more, but, as you know, he is too suborn for anyone to tell him how to do things.' John did not hear him. He started walking around the pond to get to the man he still didn't believe to be Sherlock. He felt his feet started running until he stood in front of the man. Sherlock. Thinner, paler, dark circles under his eyes, but Sherlock none the less. Smiling at him.

'Hello John. Good to see you.'

John couldn't breathe. He had a thousand questions, but at the same time he still didn't believe it was real, so he just stared.

Sherlock stopped smiling and gazed over the pond. 'Breathe. And then say something John. You look ridiculous like that.'

John swallowed and shook his head. 'Sh..sherlock?'

Sherlock turned to him. 'Who else? Honestly, must you stare at me like that? I feel like..'

But John never found out what Sherlock felt like. He raised his left arm and punch Sherlock in the face. The blow had only a small part of his anger behind it, but it was enough to make Sherlock fall to the ground, just next to the pond. He looked up to John with one hand to his bleeding nose. Now it was Sherlock staring at John in amazement while John screamed at him: 'One year Sherlock! One whole year! You bloody bastard!' He starting walking away and when heard Sherlock calling his name he turned and yelled over his shoulder: 'Don't follow me or I'll throw you in the bloody pond, Sherlock! I swear!'

John run out of the grave yard. He tried to pace himself but he was too wired, too angry, too shocked to make himself slow down. Sherlock was alive. Alive. He had never died. For a whole year he was not dead. All this pain… guilt… sadness that he had been feeling… it was unnecessary because Sherlock Holmes had been alive all this time, he just didn't tell his friend. John was furious and also, somewhat, hurt… He didn't know how to define the feeling and he did not want to feel it, but he couldn't ignore the voice in his head telling him Sherlock just didn't care about him and about how he had felt these last 12 months. 'What did you expect?' the voice nagged, 'for him to confide in you? Has he ever really done that?' John slowed down and tried to take deep breathes. Sherlock was alive. That was all that mattered right now. Maybe he should go back so he could get answers. Surely there must be some reason for all this. Maybe he could just know the how and why, and then cut Sherlock out of his life forever. Anyone who can do this to a person they claim to be friends with isn't worth it! John was still so angry! But also curious…. He looked around. Where was he anyway? When did it become so dark? When did it start drizzling? John stood motionless and in doubt in the middle of the sidewalk. But then his curiosity and (-he couldn't lie to himself-) excitement to see his friend (or ex-friend?) and hear his story got the overhand and he started walking back to the graveyard. He suddenly felt his phone buzz in his pocket and took it out to look at the message. It was from Mycroft, or at least, from Mycroft's number.

'Come back and let me explain. Don't be childish! SH'

That last part stung a little, but since he was already on his way back John decided not to let it bother him for now. When he arrived back at the pond Mycroft was gone. Sherlock was sitting on a bench, staring over the water. When he heard John coming he looked at him and got up. When John came closed he saw Sherlock's nose was still a bit bloody. The red blood accentuated his pale face. John noticed he looked tired. Weak. He hadn't noticed that before. The expression on his friends' face was not one of regret or doubt. He looked at John as if he knew he would come back. Not unfriendly, but also definitely not as taken over by emotions as John was.

'You better have a hell of an explanation for what you've put me through Sherlock!' Said John while trying to stay calm and suppress the urge to punch him in the face again (going for the teeth this time, Miss Adler would be surprised).

'John…' Sherlock started, 'I owe you so much more than an apology... So much more than an explanation…' He sat down on the bench again and John followed him, burying his hands in his face. 'How could you do this to me Sherlock? I thought we were friends? Why the bloody hell did you have to do it like this?' He looked up at his friend, his face demanded an answer. Sherlock leaned back in the bench and gazed over the pond. 'I hardly know how to begin.'

'At the beginning.' John urged. 'What happened on the rooftop?'

Sherlock took a deep breath and started his story.

The two man sat at the bench until darkness had takeover and the drizzle had faded. Sherlock talked and talked, and John listened, occasionally interrupting him with questions. Molly's role in the whole affair explained her absence from John's life, and Mycroft's knowledge of his brother being alive gave John a bit of reassurance as to his capability of having emotions. Sherlock explained he had been hunting Moriarty's men for the last eleven months, and then came back to London to see John. Mycroft had been against it, claiming that Sherlock should leave John alone, but Sherlock did not even bother to elaborate on why he had not listened to his brother.

After his story he and John sat in silence for a while. Each taking in by their own thoughts. Until John asked: 'And now what? Why did you come back, Sherlock?'

Sherlock did not immediately respond.

'I thought you might be pleased to know I am not dead. Maybe you will sleep better.'

'I'm sleeping fine.'

'Don't lie to me John. I could tell from across the pond that you don't!'

'Well, you don't look like you've been living the healthiest life either.'

'I'm fine.'

'Don't lie to me Sherlock.'

Sherlock stared at the doctor for a few second before a smile broke through his face. John couldn't help but to smile back, but he hated himself for it. 'Jesus, Sherlock, I hate you, you know that?'

'No you don't.' Sherlock said simply. 'But I see you are still angry with me.'

'You're damn right I am.'

John sighed. 'But you are right, I am also pleased to know you are alive.'

Sherlock smiled without looking at the doctor. 'I am also pleased you know that now. And I forgive you for hitting me in the face.'

'You forgive me?!' John shook his head. 'You're a bastard, Sherlock Holmes, and a lousy friend and I definitely have not forgiven you yet.'

'That's okay John. I know you will, eventually.'

'Does that mean you're back then?'

Sherlock looked at John and smiled. 'Yes, John, I am back. Is that okay with you?'

'It does not seem like it matters if I'm okay with things or not, does it now?' John got up. 'I think I need some time to process all this, Sherlock. I'm sure you'll know where to reach me if you want to.'

Sherlock didn't respond. He just looked over the dark water.

'Fine then.' John said. 'Good night, Sherlock.'

Sherlock didn't move. 'Good night, John.'

Please let me know if I should continue with the rest of the story, or if I'm just writing for myself :)