The first thing John noticed, was that he was no longer in the living room. Or maybe he was never there. He was in his bedroom, lying in bed, sun streaming through the crack in the curtain. Maybe he was simply dreaming that he heard arguing downstairs. He dreamed that Sherlock returned. Yes, that was it. He sat up in his bed and turned, so his legs dangled over the edge before coming to rest on the polished wooden floor. He rested his elbows on his knees and brought his hands up to his face, covering his eyes. He rocked backwards and forwards gently.

"He wasn't here John. He's dead. You watched him die. He wasn't here. You need to get a grip, John. He's dead and he's not coming back, and you wishing that he's still alive isn't going to change that."

This was not the first time John had had this conversation with himself. His dreams were so vivid, they always were. It was usually a relief to wake up from a dream to discover it wasn't real, especially if they involved the war. Buy more recently he had been dreaming of Sherlock, of the fall, of the hope that he might return. But John knew that wasn't going to happen, he was a sensible man with a desperate wish.

He climbed out of bed and reached for his clothes. He dressed slowly, the disappointed feeling in his stomach was still festering. He knew it was silly to be disappointed, but it wasn't something he could control. It wasn't the only thing he couldn't control lately.

After he was dressed in the usual jeans and jumper combination, he began towards the door. Something made him stop dead in his tracks. I shuffling noise was coming from inside the flat. Mrs Hudson never came in until 11am to bring John food. John glanced at his watch. 9am. So who on earth was down in the flat? Could it be…?

No. Surely not. It was just a dream, wasn't it?

He ran down the stairs two at a time before skidding into the kitchen. Sitting there, resuming his place at the microscope, was the tall, slim frame of Sherlock. His hair, still black and curly, but longer, bounced as he moved his head to write note in a fresh pad of paper before returning back to his experiment. His hands worked so skilfully, even at such a simple task. He was here. The room already smelled like burning chemicals, mixed with fresh bread which was laid out on the side (presumably by Mrs Hudson). He was wearing his purple shirt which stretched tightly across his chest. His coat and scarf were hanging up behind the door, in their rightful place He was really here, unless, John thought, he was still dreaming. He took his finger and pinched himself hard or his left forearm.

"John," the sound of his deep, baritone voice reverberated around the whole room. "When you have stopped inflicting minor and unnecessary injuries on yourself will you pass my your phone? I need to send a text to Lestrade." Sherlock reached out his hand, his palm flat, expectant. When the phone did not come, he turned, his curls bouncing around again. John was staring at him, open-mouthed and wide eyed.

"John, judging by your overreaction yesterday, I suggest you take a seat before we continue." Sherlock spoke softly, with a hint of caution. John snapped himself out of his stupor.

"My…" His voice caught in his throat. "My overreaction?"

"Yes, you passed out just as I walked in."

"Did I?" John's voice has risen a few octaves. "And that counts as an overreaction to you?"

"Yes," said the world's only consulting detective as her returned to his microscope. "It was extremely inconvenient, John"

John fell, rather gladly, into his armchair, continuing to stare at Sherlock. He could feel his pulse quicken and his breathing became heavier and faster. Inconvenient? Inconvenient! How dare Sherlock do this to him!

"Sherlock, you can't do this."

Sherlock looked quizzically at his, now rather pale, flatmate. "Do what? I'm only investigating the effects of-"

"I watched you die, Sherlock!" John nearly roared at the top of his voice. "I watched you fall and die, knowing that there was nothing I could do to save you. I buried you. Sherlock, I buried my friends in the war and I had to do it again, only this time..." His voice cut off.

"Only this time what?" Sherlock remain perfectly calm on the exterior, however, alarm bells were ringing in his head.

"It killed me too. It killed me to do that, Sherlock. It killed me to live without you, to not ever see you again. I nearly died Sherlock, just to end the pain! I wanted to see you again so much I actually swallowed the goddam pills!"

Sherlock's face drained of the little colour that was there. He was never told. This information, it was new. Mycroft promised that it wouldn't happen. He stood up and made a move towards John, but John brought up his hands to tell him to stay put.

"And I kept wishing, that one day," John continued, "one day, you might actually come back. But you never did. And it drove me crazy. I've been going mad locked away up here, with all the memories, all the pain, but still I hoped. You've caused so much damage Sherlock and you have the nerve to call my reaction to seeing my best friend is actually alive 'inconvenient'?"

John was now stood up, shaking. His whole body was tense and his face was flushed with colour. He was ready to explode, to scream every insult he new at the walking dead-man that stood before him. He wanted to throw every item he could get his hands on at that face, with his stupid cheekbones and permanently smug smirk. He wanted to beat the man within an inch of his life to show him how much pain he had felt over the past two months. He didn't care what that Adler woman said, the teeth and nose were the first ones that would get hit.

But John didn't do any of these things. His reaction took Sherlock, and himself, completely by surprise. He ran to the younger man and threw his arms around him. Tears began to spill from his eyes and fell onto Sherlock's shirt.

"I thought I'd lost you Sherlock." He didn't care that the sobbing was near hysterical. He didn't care that he was gripping Sherlock's shirt so tightly that he could easily rip the smooth fabric. He kept sobbing, finally letting out all the pain, all the hurt he had felt in the past two months.

Sherlock had no idea what to do. He had never been any good at these kinds of situations, but this was John. John, who had suffered so much, and Sherlock had not heard a word about it. He awkwardly put his arms around John and gently patted his back. He didn't say a word, extremely out of character for Sherlock. As John's sobbing began to subside, Sherlock made a move to put him back in the armchair, and released himself for John's grasp. He lowered his still weeping friend into the chair, and resumed his usual position in the chair opposite him.

He waited until John had completely stopped. He wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his jumper, took a few deep breaths, eyes closed, obviously trying to regain some sense of control. It took a few minutes, during which, both men sat in total silence, apart from the occasional sniff on John's behalf. At last, the man straightened up in his chair and opened his eyes, looking at Sherlock full in the face.

"What happened Sherlock? Tell me exactly what happened that day on the roof. From the beginning, the whole story." John never blinked, and neither did Sherlock. They just stared at each other, taking in every detail. Sherlock noticed that John was thinner, at least 10lbs, unhealthy. The bags under his eyes were noticeably darker, little sleep, probably due to the return of nightmares judging by the state he was in when he walked into the kitchen this morning. War? Could be, more likely it was about Sherlock, considering what he'd just been told. John's hands were shaking, obvious heightened anxiety.

After this brief deduction, Sherlock returned to the matter at hand. He let out a loud sigh and prepared himself for what he was about to do.

"Okay, John. I'll tell you, if you promise not to interrupt me. I need to tell you exactly why it happened, and that's only going to happen if you simply listen."

John nodded.

"Moriarty…" Sherlock began.