It was precisely eleven o'clock when John heard footfalls on the steps again. He did not move from his chair, head barely lifting from its dipped posture in the reading from his laptop. He saw the flutter of the heavy coat as the man who could only be Sherlock stepped inside the room and walked to the table where the cotton balls still sat to disassemble his features once more.

He paced towards the coat-rack this time, shrugging off the vestiges of winter down to his brown blazer and plain, crisp button top. John eyed the bone of his wrist as Sherlock trailed a hand over familiar cushions before taking a careful seat in his familiar throne now half disguised under floral throws. Sherlock never ate when he was on a case and he'd been gone on assignment for several years now. A thin man indeed.

There were other changes-small ones-that John noticed as he closed the lid of his laptop and set it aside. There were the eyes, of course, both in depth and darkness with clear signs of exhaustion ripening the thin skin above his cheeks into an ashen amethyst. Travel abroad had not darkened his complexion with a healthy tan but rather left him just as pale as in memory. Much to John's envy, his face still failed to crease with age outside his curiosity lines. He wasn't sure what he expected to find after only three years. The sameness of him was ghostlike.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked, seated and comfortable, fingers already tenting in front of his bottom lip as he scanned and thought with visible attention.

John'd forgotten what it was like to be under that stare. He breathed a laugh, looking away at his hands, his knees, the wall, the spray-paint smile. "Fine," he said, turning back to his friend with nerves causing his right leg to jump. "I mean, I'll be fine. Just... Just a lot to take in. A lot."

Sherlock nodded, face impassive as deductions whirled through that brilliant head of his. "You have questions."

It was needless to say and an understatement by far. John hardly knew where to begin. He'd spent most of his time rereading old e-mails with the new knowledge that they had been from a known colleague and not some stranger. Sometimes he felt like a complete idiot for not having realized. Sherlock was a master of disguise and a fairly convincing actor but in hindsight he had done a rather poor job of pretending to be whatever James Sigerson was supposed to be. He was Sherlock through and through with only a touch more of what the man normally considered to be 'normal' mixed in. James Sigerson was Sherlock Holmes's Clark Kent; a reflection of himself and a parody of everyone else. Considering their correspondence, it was difficult to see just where that line was drawn between the two. James had seemed like a lonely man who had found himself in a kind of impromptu, work related exile. James hadn't pretended to kill himself to get to Florence and Tibet, however; that was all Sherlock and still very much a mystery. It was the first question to come to his mind and in many ways the only one that needed answering.

John cleared his throat, scooting closer to the edge of his chair. "Just one for starters," he said, swallowing the doubt that warned he may not like what he heard. "Why? Why would you... I mean the set up, the deception, the planning, all of it; why did you do it?"

Sherlock nodded, lips pursed in the facial equivalent of a shrug. "It was Moriarty's answer to the final problem. Discredit me, strip me of everything I'd ever achieved, and then force me to end my own life to complete his version of the story."

"So you just played along, did you? You just...let Moriarty think he'd won?" There was anger there. It being Sherlock, John was sure he'd have known he was angry either way.

"No." The detective shook his head. "Moriarty lost. He made one fatal error which could have given me an out, in response to which he put a revolver in his mouth." Sherlock scowled, leaning forward in his seat with tented fingers now covering his nose and mouth. "I had planned for the eventuality, of course, but only as a worse case scenario. You weren't supposed to be there, John."

"Hang on," John waved his hands for his friend to stop, trying to follow but lost without context. "Alright, from the beginning, Sherlock. Just start over and tell me everything."

The consulting detective nodded and stood up from his chair, hands clasped behind his back as he began to pace along the rug."You'll remember our first encounter with Moriarty," he began, voice strong and louder than necessary. "He promised he would burn the heart out of me if I did not stop interfering with his work. Given his changeable nature I'm not entirely convinced taking on only the small cases would have changed matters. His means would have had to have changed but eventually it would have come down to the death between us. Moriarty knew exactly what needed to be done to burn me and everything else up to that point on the roof was just part of the game. The trial, the papers, the police, they were all minute details in the final solution: my death. As we know, Moriarty didn't like getting his hands dirty so it was easy to assume someone else was going to end my life. He could have had any of the known assassins kill me at any time, however, so the killer would have to be a pawn, someone directly linked to me whose final act of betrayal would be more painful than a sudden shot. I thought perhaps Lestrade but he was already being used in my incrimination. That left only you but you remained unwavering in your convictions. Therefore the killer became very obvious. Who else could be motivated to kill me but was familiar enough to strike a psychological blow as well? Only myself.

"Facing myself as my own executioner, the means to my survival became more varied and more assured. By choosing a location like the roof of Barts as the place for the final stand off, I was choosing my means of destruction. I needed only two accomplices: Molly and the homeless network. Having a coroner willing to write me off as dead was crucial; there needed to be records and someone to fake forensic evidence as Miss Adler had proven. The homeless network is very easily bribed into silence and extremely resourceful. I worked out the physics of the leap and supplied the funding, they supplied the lorry and the necessary ground crew with borrowed costumes from the hospital for the more important players. No matter my audience, there would be enough confusion to make for a convincing suicide for most observers of which you were not intended to be among. I had to have you as far away as possible-for your own safety."

Sherlock stop pacing for a moment, hands moving from clasped behind his back to engaging in simple gestures as he continued with his lengthy, breathless account. "The gingerbread man, John. Burnt to a crisp, remember?" He pointed to the door where they had stood that day, eying the sealed parcel and its cryptic message. "He'd taken my career and my reputation from me but he had not yet touched those closest to me: my heart. It was a warning and a promise. I knew Moriarty was going to try and convince me to kill myself but how he would achieve that was still uncertain. I had my informants watching all of us. When Moriarty appeared my informants made the call-the call to get you out of Barts and out of danger by fabricating news of Mrs. Hudson's imminent death. It wasn't until it was all too late, however, that I discovered Moriarty had his own men watching us as well: assassins put in place to spy on Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and you with the express intentions that you all be murdered if I failed to comply with Moriarty's schemes. There was a word, a phrase, that could have been used to call it all off. I tried to convince Moriarty to trust me and somehow get him to change his mind but he killed himself instead-along with any hope of walking away. From that point on I had to jump, and not only appear to die but remain dead or else the assassins would carry out their orders.

"And then you arrived. Just in time-or rather, several seconds too early. You were a wrench in the works. You could have ruined everything. You were.. so close. If you hadn't listened to me, all the planning, everything, it would have been for nothing. In a way it worked out well. Your performance convinced the assassins as much as my fall did."

John clenched his jaw to keep from interrupting, wanting so very much to correct his friend. If by performance he meant absolute devastation and shock, he was an utter dick.

Sherlock would have been unapologetic besides. "From there Mycroft became accomplice number three," he continued, his story winding down. "I received a new identity complete with passport and was given a position with the SIS in tracking down international crime rings with the promise of being given every assistance and opportunity available to target Moriarty's closest associates to try and weed out the assassins and put an end to the threat against Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and yourself. The rest, of course, you know. Every place I went, every annoyance I had with food, customs and the general attitude of my associates I wrote to you about under my new identity: James Sigerson. Which brings us to now." He turned on his heals, planting himself directly in front of John as he stood and waited, somehow not at all out of breath for all the speed at which he spoke.

John stared as he digested, eyes no longer too nervous to lock on to his friend's own. Generally when Sherlock completed a long breakdown of cause, effect and motive, words like fantastic! or brilliant! or even astounding! came to mind and fell out of his mouth before he could gather them up. Not this time. This time John sat in complete silence, regarding his long lost friend with uncertainty. He swallowed hard, lips pursed and relaxed as he thought of things to say, rethought them, and abandoned them. He drummed his fingers on his knees, nodding his head like a dashboard doll as words continued to fail him. He ran his tongue along the backs of his teeth, breathed, looked from the corner, to Sherlock, to the window. Swallowed. It was hard. It was very, very hard.

"You-" his voice cracked and he pursed his lips again, wincing. He swallowed once more. "You did all this... to save my life?"

"You once tried to do the same for me."

John chuckled, closing his eyes and dropping his head."Yeah, well, you weren't supposed to be a hero, remember?" John pinched at the space between his eyes and concentrated for a moment on breathing. If he tried, he could still feel the weight of the explosives on his chest, feel them pressed even closer as he threw himself against Moriarty's back, hear Sherlock's stuttering appreciation for his efforts, see the flattered nervousness.

Standing only a few footfalls from him, Sherlock's hand seemed to stretch out towards John but retreated, winding back around behind the tall man who took a step back, weight shifting from right to left. "Would you like a beer? Something stronger perhaps?"

"No, I'm alright. Just... utterly blown away." John leaned back, wiping his palms on his thighs as he took one last deep breath. "You are... without a doubt... the cleverest man I have ever known."

Sherlock stood a little straighter, brows pitched a little higher as his face reflected nearly three years spent in the company of Donovans and Andersons, lacking greatly in Lestrades and Watsons. It had become almost annoying how expectant of praise Sherlock had become before but seeing again that surprise and slight shock at it made John remember just how lonely they had both been before they'd met. Sherlock flushed just slightly, a more healthy tone coloring his pale cheeks.

"You still think so?" Sherlock asked.

John nodded sagely. "You managed to disappear for three years and not miss a single thing. There is not one thing I could tell you now that you don't already know and for every time I needed a friend you somehow managed to still be there. You have literally outdone yourself in every way imaginable." John smiled despite himself, unable to withhold his own satisfaction in pleasing his friend. "Three years and we haven't missed a day. You could move back in tomorrow and it would be like you'd never left."

"Glad you feel that way. My things are upstairs, yes?"

As if nothing had changed.

John nodded. "Right, Mrs. Hudson packed them all. You really want to be going through all that tonight?"

"Probably not," Sherlock admitted, plucking at a loose thread from one of Mary's printed throws. "At least, not until we confirm the 'all clear'. Bit suspicious to unpack a dead man's things if he has to remain dead."

John stilled in his chair, the momentary relief rushing back in to hide under suspicion and dread. "You mean it's not over? You might have to leave again?"

"It's a possibility," The consulting detective admitted. He paced again, less from nerves and more from habit. "Mycroft feels strongly that anyone who had any such orders to kill you and the others has been taken care of based on comparative records of who was in the country at that time and who we've confirmed capture or destruction of."

"And if not?"

"Libya."

"Libya?" John leaned forward in his chair, face following Sherlock's to-s and fro-s with interest. "For how long?"

Sherlock raised one shoulder in a half shrug. "Until we can be sure."

"And if it doesn't end?"

Sherlock shrugged again, dismissively, though his eyes fell and his feet became still.

John stood, the nervous energy in his leg begging to find an outlet. "Sherlock, you mean to tell me this could go on forever? You, out there, just so we're safe here?"

"I've got, what, forty years to try and fix this?" He looked up, as though calculating via the spots on the ceiling. "I'm sure I can beat out forever somewhere in that time."

"Sherlock-"

"Don't feel sorry for me, John." Sherlock turned to face him, cold eyes warm but sharp with intensity. His voice was stern like an adult speaking to a child, chiding him as though he should know better and face similarly austere. "If it wasn't worth the price, I wouldn't pay it," he said.

John stood still for a moment, not even willing to blink under Sherlock's uncompromising stare. "Alright," he said at length, "Not another word about it then." It was Sherlock's heart he was criticizing. John nodded minutely, pursing his lips as he took a step back, eying the clock at the mantle and its skyward arms. "Well... I don't know about you, but I'm absolutely knackered."

"You look it."

"I look it?" John scoffed, gesturing at his friend in his travel-creased suit, "Look at you! You look like you haven't slept in weeks. You'd be laid out if it weren't for the adrenalin. Get to bed. Doctor's orders."

Sherlock nodded, a content smile on his lips as his lids drew heavier over his pale eyes. John recalled James complaining of sleeping in strange beds, the way he would catalog the spring density and wondered if one could figure out the age of a mattress by the sound of its groan. He'd though the man was being funny. Him being Sherlock, he was probably halfway through with the thesis.

"Good night, John," Goodbye, John he said, giving his friend's shoulder a brief pat as he moved past him towards the door.

John suppressed a cold shiver "Yeah, good night," he replied, watching him go with a sense of needing to follow. He stood up, catching him in the hall. "Sherlock, one more thing," he called out, one hand braced on the wall. "I checked your pulse that day; you didn't have one."

Sherlock's eyes danced with their customary delight in being clever. "Rubber ball under the arm."

"Oh. Right." Of course.

Sherlock nodded to him and retreated into the bedroom-John's bedroom. John didn't have the heart or will to correct him. He could have the old room for the night. There would be plenty of time to sort everything else out in the morning.

Two a.m. and John shot up gasping. He was sweating in the cold room, heart racing, breath short but labored. He could see it still, even with his eyes open. He could see Sherlock falling. He put his face in his hands, rubbing at his cheeks and temples, concentrating on every breathing exercise he knew to stay calm, not to shout, certainly not to cry. It had been years since that dream had ended. He could recall months of his name on his waking lips, throat raw from shouting. To see it again now-

John startled as he looked beyond his small bed. This wasn't his room. Boxes everywhere, heavy black marker screaming 'SHERLOCK' down at him from every corner. He felt the panic like an electric shock before sleep and dreams drifted back far enough to remind him why he was there, and who was downstairs in his bed. He breathed deeply, closing his fists around handfuls of sheets as his head hung. Everything was alright. The dream had been a memory but one proven false by the night's encounter. Everything was just fine. Sherlock was alive now.

It sounded utterly preposterous. He'd fallen so fast. Even if he did land in a prepared lorry he'd have been hurt. Far too fast. Not terminal velocity-could the human body reach that from five stories?-but too fast a drop for a sudden stop not to greatly injure him. His eyes had been open. Could he lay that still while in pain and hold his eyes open and uncreased for that long? There had been no pulse. A rubber ball? How had he manage to place it there? Would he have had the forethought to have it on hand at all if John wasn't supposed to be on the scene? Too many holes. Too many uncertain variables.

Which was the dream?

John swallowed an uneasy breath, looking out towards the bedroom door. He stood quickly, trying to enact calm as he walked back down to the second floor, steps creaking with age and weather. He tried to be quiet. He walked slowly to the bedroom he'd began calling his own and paused with his shaking hand on the handle. His palm was wet with sweat and he let go to wipe it against the printed sleep pants he wore before taking the handle once more. He was too old for this. Too tired for this. Sherlock had been dead too long for this feeling to still be there if the room was as empty as he feared. He turned the handle and held the door open.

The room was dark, every corner black with shadow. Though the bed was sat against the nearest wall, the light from the hall failed to illuminate it. Even so, close as he was, he could see the black curls on the pillow. Sherlock slept curled up on his side, back to the door with bare shoulders pale against the white sheets and navy comforter. John let out his held breath and closed his eyes, leaning heavily on the door frame as his strength left him in a wash of relief.

"John?"

He winced at his name. Though the body on the bed had not moved, his voice was unmistakable. He'd woken him. John cleared his throat, feeling like a fool. "Sorry. Just.. making sure. Go back to bed." He heaved himself up straight, pulling the door to close.

"John."

He paused at his command. "Yeah, Sherlock?"

There was a rustling of fabric as Sherlock pulled back the sheet behind him, comforter as well. He said nothing more as he pulled his arm back in towards his own chest, leaving the other side of the queen sized bed empty and turned down.

John blinked for several minutes, pretty sure he was reading the situation clearly but still faltering with the sense of it. "You.. want me to get in bed with you?"

"Excellent deduction." Sherlock's voice was somewhat muffled with his face turned partially into the pillow.

"...Why?"

"Because we're both tired and judging by your combined trust and abandonment issues-apologies for the latter-this is not going to be the last time you wake up tonight and possibly not the last time you come down here and wake me up to assure yourself I'm real. Save us both the trouble and lay down."

John clenched his jaw, hand squeezing hard on the door handle. He had half a mind to tell him he was perfectly fine and didn't need any assurance. It was hard to make that stance barefooted and purposeless at two o'clock in the morning.

He walked over to the bed, tugging the sheet back down with a jerk before laying on top of it, helping himself to the comforter and making sure plenty of space remained between himself and Sherlock on the mattress. "Don't analyze me, Sherlock; I don't need two therapists."

"Noted," the deep, sleepy voice replied.