Sherlock stood in the hallway of 221B panting heavily. He'd evidently been running, but his face however was as white as a ghost. This was due to him being covered from head to toe in chalk and dust.

John and Mrs Hudson gaped at him, longing for and explanation.

Sherlock however, simply brushed himself off and stepped past John. He started up the stairs, calling down, "Tea would be lovely Mrs Hudson."

John and Mrs Hudson both followed him with their gaze as he hopped up the steps. Sherlock reached the top and turned out of sight. John put a shaking hand to his forehead, drawing it down to his mouth where it met the other. He stood, leant against the wall with his hands cupped over his mouth. Mrs Hudson looked back towards the place where Sherlock had just stood. There was a small circle of dust on the carpet. She turned away, "I knew he'd come back." She spoke shakily and shuffled quietly away to the kitchen.

John frowned at the top step where Sherlock had been. His body was frozen and he struggled to make his legs start up the stairs. They felt heavier with each step, his breaths deepened and his head throbbed. With a sweaty hand he reached out and pushed open the door. Sherlock was searching the room, most likely for his cigarettes but stopped and looked up at John as he entered. There was an awkward silence. Sherlock could see John was waiting for an explanation, but ignored it, "I need you to send a text. These exact words; Tell Mr Lyle that the-"

John abruptly cut Sherlock off, "Shut up!" He shuffled forwards, impatient, pointing a finger at Sherlock. "You were dead! We buried you! And you just waltz in!" John paused, struggling to resist the very strong urge to punch Sherlock in the face. "How the hell can you be here?"

Sherlock turned away, an awful heavy guilty brewing in the pit of his stomach.

John shifted uncomfortably, his hands hanging limply by his sides. His voice cracked, "Just tell me the truth."

Sherlock approached John. " You have to understand I did it all for you."

John grew impatient, "Did what?" he frowned at Sherlock, his fists slowly clenching as he waited for an answer.

His voice was deep, his face grimacing, "Moriarty may have killed himself, but that was nowhere near the end of it. He'd set up plans that would take place on the event of his death. I had to jump to save you all."

John cut in, "But three months, Sherlock? You could've come back."

"I had to make sure every thing had been taken care of. Moriarty doesn't do straight forward."
John's voice increased in volume. "But you let me believe for three months that you were dead? I've been mourning you and having weekly bereavement counselling." His temper rose, "You didn't think once in three months that you could perhaps drop me a text to say, 'oh hey, I'm not actually dead'? I bet that never even crossed your mind!"

"John, it wasn't that simple."
Sherlock was interrupted by a punch to the face. He staggered sideways holding his jaw, exclaiming at the pain. John held his fist, panting.

Sherlock pulled himself upright, wiping a drop of blood from his lip. "Did that help?"

John breathed heavily, taking a deep breath to calm down. "Yes."

There was a pause, the two men stood facing each other, catching their breaths. Sherlock spoke, looking John in the eyes, "I'm sorry."

Sherlock could see John shivering from the rush of emotions he'd just felt all at once in the past few minutes. "You alright?"

John took another deep breath then let it out slowly, "Yep, yeah." His voice shook.

He paused, breathing for a moment.

John lurched forwards and grabbed Sherlock into a hug. Sherlock froze for a moment unsure how to respond, but then reciprocated, placing his arms around John's waist. John closed his eyes, a tear falling onto Sherlock's shoulder. He sniffed. Sherlock realised John was crying and gently stroked his friend's back, embracing him a bit tighter.

John drew out of the hug and moved his hands up the Sherlock's face. He held them there for a moment gazing into Sherlock's deep blue eyes. He took in every feature of the face he knew so well, processing the fact that Sherlock was actually standing in front of him again after all this time of lost hope.

John's lips lightly touched Sherlock's. His eyes closed, Sherlock's warm breath on his face. There was a split second where Sherlock was confused, but he quickly settled into the kiss. He reciprocated. It felt natural and he shocked himself to find that he was enjoying it. As John's lips lightly nipped at his he felt an overwhelming sense of absolute happiness, and he remembered why he came back.

He needed John. He could've just jumped and commit suicide for real. He was willing sacrifice everything for the people he loved who were in danger. He didn't have to ask for Molly's help. He didn't have to land in a lorry full of bags instead of the pavement. He didn't have to perform a body swap. It could have been him on the pavement rather than the look-a-like he'd arranged to have take his place. Except it couldn't have been. He needed to be with John. He couldn't just leave him. He cared too much for him. The reason that John was his only friend was because he'd never felt anything like this towards anyone else before. It wasn't just a friendship, it was much deeper than that, and what made it so significant was that John felt exactly the same way.