Even after all this time, John Watson was able to amaze Sherlock Holmes. Passing out had been number fourteen on his list of possible reactions, so low he considered it a statistical improbability. His surprise held him in check for only the shortest of moments and then he was at the doctor's side, hauling him into a sitting position and supporting him from behind.

John came around shortly, but his eyes remained slightly unfocused. He shifted around until he was facing the detective, both of them on their knees in the rapidly cooling grass.

"Sherlock? It's really you?"

"Yes, John. I'm back."

The shorter man reached out a tentative hand to touch Sherlock's cheek. At the contact a huge grin crossed his face, his eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he fainted again.

Luckily Sherlock was close enough to catch him this time. Worried as he was about his friend, he found himself chuckling. Passing out twice hadn't even made his list. He eased John to the ground this time and massaged his temples, allowing him to wake slowly, and fully, this time.

"John. I'm flattered to have this kind of effect on you, but we really should get going. Can you walk at all?"

"Walk? You're alive. If you wanted I could fly."

"Fly? Don't be ridiculous John. That's not…Oh! That's from that movie you like so much."

"That's right. I'm surprised you remember."

"I remember everything."

"No, you delete anything that's not of importance," John insisted.

"Nothing to do with you falls into that category."

John's smile faltered, and suddenly he was pushing himself up, away from Sherlock and shaking his head viciously. "No. No. That's what I'd want you say. So this can't be real. I'm dreaming. Or dead. I thought I'd decided not to do that."

He had worked himself into a neat little panic that was quickly spilling over to Sherlock. He lunged forward and caught John by the front of his shirt.

"Calm down, John. It's all right."

"Of course you'd say that."

"John," Sherlock sighed, raising his hands to frame his friend's face. "If this was all in your head, and it was exactly the way you wanted it to be, what is the one thing that would ruin it all? What could happen right now that you would never intentionally put into your own fantasy?"

He only had to wait a couple of heartbeats until John found it.

"Yes. Exactly. Stand up now. Look over there."

John did as directed, following where Sherlock pointed until he spied the dark car waiting a short but respectable distance away.

"Mycroft?" The name was an insult in his mouth. "Why the hell is he here?"

"Because this is real, John. And we need to go. Please. We're far too exposed here. Let's go home."

"So you're not dead?"

"Never was." Sherlock's attention slipped as the relief washed over him, which is why he didn't see the punch coming. He should have. It was number two on his list.

"Right, then. Home."

The flat was both comfortingly familiar and frighteningly alien to Sherlock's senses. On the surface, little had changed—furniture in the same positions, books still on the shelves, violin in the corner. His equipment was cleared from the table, but poked out from the tops of boxes in the corner. The subtle changes, however, were alarming.

The place was neat, tidy in way John had never managed when Sherlock had lived here no matter how hard he tried. It even smelled clean. No traces of chemicals or partially-decomposed body parts wafted in from the kitchen. No gunpowder residue clung to the walls. But most shockingly, Sherlock could smell nothing of himself, and very little of John

Sherlock understood the cause immediately. No one had lived here for a year. John still called it home, but it was nothing more than a place for him to be while he waited. John had not been living, merely existing.

The doctor prepared tea while Sherlock readjusted to the surroundings. They hadn't said a word on the way here, though he knew John was bursting with questions. After closing the curtains tightly they took to their accustomed positions and he let John ask. Sherlock answered everything. Not as much as he could. Not as much as Mycroft though was wise. Completely. He explained Moriarty's final demand and the consequences should he not comply. He detailed his time dismantling what remained of Moriarty's web. He told him honestly of his search for the three snipers and the manner in which he had apprehended and disposed of two of them.

"So one's still out there." John appeared calm, but Sherlock knew he understood which one of the three remained. "But you came back anyway. Why?"

"The Adair case." Sherlock thought it would have been obvious.

"There have been scores of juicy murders in the last year. You didn't come back for any of them." He stopped short of adding or me, but Sherlock felt the unspoken words hanging heavily between them. "What's so special about Adair?"

"Nothing. He was a card cheat. His partner found out Adair was keeping more than his share of the profits. Idiot took out an internet ad to hire a hit-man."

"But he wasn't shot."

"Not by bullets," Sherlock agreed.

"What then? Poison darts? Rubber bullets? Laser beam?"

"Sonic ray."

"No such thing," John argued.

"Yes and no. One of the semi-legitimate businesses Moriarty had in place to cover his criminal activities was weapons development. Though it was never traced directly back to him, the government recently rejected a proposal for exactly this type of weapon. It would have transmitted a sonic blast that could take out an entire platoon or target a single man. The pulse would stop the heart, leaving the victims immobilized until the victors could secure them and administer a shot of epinephrine to restart the heart."

John looked slightly sick. "The potential damage…"

"Was unacceptable. Hence the rejection of the design. Of course, I don't believe it was ever intended to actually be proposed, especially considering the scientist who brought it forward was found dead a short time later. He probably had no idea who his real employer was or the true intention of the weapon. Likely he came up with the revival solution on his own."

"So you know who did it, why, and how. I don't see the mystery."

"You will if you think."

John opened his mouth to protest, but caught himself. Sherlock loved watching John go into his own mind, sort through the details and slot them into place. His eyes zipped back and forth then stilled. He gasped and looked toward the window. "He's here? The one you haven't got yet?"

"His name is Sebastian Moran, and he's sending me a message. We've been chasing each other across the world for months now. Apparently he took a page out of his master's book about the best way to reach me."

"Me."

"I'm sorry, John."

"Stop that, Sherlock. Stop that right now. We will get through this. You probably even have a plan. And I bet it's brilliant. The only thing you will ever have to apologize to me for again is leaving me. Which you won't have to do because I won't let you leave me. Never again. Tell me that brilliant brain of yours can understand something so simple."

John had leaned forward during his heated little speech, and was now just inches from Sherlock's own face. He closed the gap to answer John's question in the only way he knew how. He meant to only brush his lips against the other man's lightly, to let that simple contact express gratitude, seek understanding, communicate all those sentiments he had tried so hard to deny he felt. But John's hands went to his neck, pulling them closer and deepening the kiss. Sherlock felt John's reply there, expressing his own appreciation, seeking assurance, and communicating all those sentiments Sherlock had read so clearly on his beloved friend's face which the older man would never say out loud.

The kiss was gentle yet profound, and as platonic as two men who care deeply about each other could possibly share.