Retrouvailles (French)—The happiness of meeting again after a long time
It had been three years since Sherlock had died. John was walking down the street back from the surgery when he accidentally bumped into a shaggy-looking old man. "Watch it!" the man shouted at him.
"I'm sorry," John apologized, gathering the man's books for him. The man just tipped his hat and walked away.
John had just settled down with a cup of tea when he heard a knock. Opening the door, he realized it was the homeless man. "Sorry to trouble ye, sir, but I was just wonderin' if I might have a cup of tea. Bit cold outside."
John sighed. "Sure. Why not?" He let the man in and went to fill the kettle again. When he came back into the living room, Sherlock Holmes stood before him, books and costume tossed on the floor behind him. John fainted.
He woke a few minutes later. "Sherlock?" he asked. "No. I…I'm dead. Thank God," he breathed.
"John," Sherlock whispered. He sounded broken.
"Don't be sad, Sherlock. I was so miserable. Now we can be happy. Though I didn't think Heaven would look like my flat."
"No one's dead, John." John's brow furrowed. "I…I'm so sorry. I didn't think it would affect you this much."
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"When I jumped from St. Bart's…the body you saw on the ground wasn't mine."
"Yes it was. I saw you!" John interrupted.
"John, please." John closed his mouth. "I hired that bicyclist to run into you so you would be disoriented and wouldn't see. I had Molly arrange for a dummy to be put on the ground for everyone to see. I know you're wondering why I did it. Moriarty and I met on the roof. He said if I didn't complete the illusion that I was a fraud by killing myself, he would have his snipers kill you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. I knew that as long as he had me, he didn't need you to die. But he killed himself. I had no choice. I hadn't originally planned for you to see, but you were there and I felt it was only fair for you to hear my goodbye. It was…awful, watching you. I wanted so badly to tell you what was happening, but I couldn't risk your safety."
"So what have you been doing for the past three years?"
"Chasing Moriarty's henchmen. Mycroft provided me with funds and arrangements as I tracked them through Europe."
"Are…are you…?" John struggled.
"Yes, John. I'm done. And I'm so, so sorry." To John's surprise, Sherlock leaned his head on John's shoulder and cried softly.
"Sherlock," John soothed. "Sherlock, no."
"I should have told you. I was just so scared for you. I…I thought that it'd be most convincing if you really thought I was dead. I thought you'd just," he hiccupped, "move on."
"Move on?" John asked incredulously, lifting Sherlock's head so that their eyes met. "How could I?" Sherlock shook his head. "I missed you so much. It hurt…so bad, Sherlock."
"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispered, resting his hand on John's upper arm.
"But you're back now." Sherlock nodded and John pulled him into a hug. "I couldn't be happier."
Sherlock smiled. "Me neither, John."
