Some time later, John awoke to a pair of startlingly bright eyes staring at him worriedly.

Some time after that, those same startlingly bright eyes, now slightly duller, opened painfully.

"Did you… knock me out?" Sherlock asked the man now sitting calmly in his chair, sipping tea and staring out of the window. John remained silent. Sherlock stared for a few moments. "Well?"

"Sherlock. We will discuss this, along with the last three years after I've had a chance to calm down." John said mechanically, still staring out of the window.

"Calm down?" Asked Sherlock with a slight hmph! "I assumed you would be overjoyed at my return. I mean, the fainting was to be expected, I suppose, considering-"

"Overjoyed?" John asked in a dangerously low tone. He finally turned to Sherlock, his eyes rimmed red. Sherlock stared at him, silently, quizzically, willing him to explain. "You thought the sight of you would make me happy? After all you've put me through?"

"John, you must understand, it was-"

"No, Sherlock!" John burst out suddenly. "I am not overjoyed. I am angry. No, I am furious!"

"John, I-"

"I went through hell, Sherlock. First it was you, then I got a glimpse of happiness again and the universe saw fit to take that away from me as well. And now, you come back from the grave – a grave I saw, I spoke to, for three bloody years! – and you expect me to be happy? I showed a hell of a lot of restraint earlier in just knocking you out earlier. I wanted to kill you. But just imagine the paperwork involved for Mycroft! He was in on your little plan, your scheme, wasn't he?"

John was now breathing heavily, shaking all over. During his speech he had managed to corner Sherlock against the window.

Sherlock heaved a sigh, resigning himself to telling John the whole truth.

"Yes."

"Who else, Sherlock?"

Sherlock paused. "Well… Mycroft and, well, Molly."

"Molly? Christ, you told her, and you couldn't be bothered to mention a single detail to me? So, those years of friendship- of living together here, solving crimes or whatever, what were they? Some experiment in human reactions to death?" Tears had started brimming over now.

"John, I saved you life!" Sherlock yelled suddenly, pain etched on his face.

"I'm sure you did, Sherlock. You know, for a while after you jumped, I wondered if I even believed in God anymore. But Mary helped me through that. I do believe in a God, Sherlock Holmes, and that God is not you." John turned toward the door.

"If I hadn't jumped, you would've been killed!"

John paused, then gave a sad smile. "In that case, you really should have saved yourself the trouble." John turned toward the door once more, but was stopped by Sherlock's hand gripping his bicep.

"Not just you, John. Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade. All of you dead if I didn't make all of Moriarty's men think that I was dead first."

For the first time, concern crossed John's lined face. He shook it off and tore his arm out of Sherlock's grip. "I need some fresh air. We can talk more later. Please, just… Just don't follow me."

And for the first time in ages, Sherlock Holmes did was he was told. The front door closed, John Watson outside of it.

Sherlock returned to his chair, where he sat and thought for what felt like hours. Feelings were dangerous, he knew, but he couldn't help it anymore. John Watson had made him human. He couldn't imagine life without him. He imagined that John didn't realize how difficult it had been for Sherlock himself, spending three years without seeing his best friend. His only friend, if he were honest with himself. Other people cared for him, certainly, but none in quite the same way as John did. Or at least as John had before Sherlock left him.

Sherlock was so absorbed in his own thoughts that he nearly missed the sound of the front door opening. There was no way he could miss, however, the stomping footsteps making their way up to his flat. Sherlock gave a small sigh, got out his phone and sent a quick text. He placed the device back in his jacket and finally turned his attention to the man coming in the door. Sherlock let out a groan of annoyance at the sight of the gun in the man's hand. The barrel slowly made its way upward until it was level with Sherlock's head. His eyes gave a small roll.

"You kidnappers really do have the worst sense of timing."

AN: Wait, what? A plot?

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