Sherlock stood stock still in the living room of 221B as he heard the key click in the lock and footsteps on the stairs. He could tell by the sound of the pace and gait that the man was of military background and bearing, wearing heavy boots, carrying a considerable weight and standing at about 5ft 7. It was undoubtedly John.
Sherlock's brain began to analyse John the second he stepped through the door into the living room. His body showed clear signs of his time in Afghanistan; his face and arms were tanned and his hair was slightly lighter in colour, his shoulders seemed slightly broader and his back a little straighter. He was clad in No. 5 Dress Khakis (or possibly No. 7 Desert Barrack Casuals, Sherlock couldn't recall the difference at the moment) with the RAMC Blue beret in his hand. His hair was cut short and neatly parted on the right side of his head, clearly displaying his left-handedness. His eyes were clear, and, as far as Sherlock could tell, John seemed almost at peace. For a split second, Sherlock knew that John was happy without him.
The thud of John's heavy khaki kit bag hitting the floor and a strangled gasp from his throat brought Sherlock back to the here and now. He didn't really know how to handle the situation. John, a grown man, a soldier, suddenly diminished to a child, sobbing and shaking in the doorway. Sherlock chose the best option from his mental list. He decided to hug John, who didn't really seem to notice. He simply clung quite tightly to Sherlock's clothes as his sobs died down into small gulps and eventually stopped altogether.
John pulled out of Sherlock's long grip and stumbled to his old chair, collapsing into the familiar fabric. Could it be that Sherlock Holmes survived his jump from the roof of St Bart's? The proof stood right in front of him.
"Sherlock." John's voice was hoarse. "You're alive."
"Excellent."
"What?"
"Excellent deduction. Is it possible that my absence has proven somewhat mentally beneficial for you?"
"I... okay, now I can believe it really is you." John half-smiled and ran a hand over his face.
"Tea?"
"That would be fantastic."
Sherlock nodded and went to the kitchen, finding the kettle at the back of a cupboard and the teabags still in their old jar, which now smelled of extremely pungent three- year old tea. He opened the fridge and realised the flaw in the plan.
"John."
"Mmm?"
"No milk."
Their eyes met and all of a sudden they both burst out laughing, Sherlock's normal restraint completely disappearing. John laughed until he started crying again, emotionally overwhelmed. Sherlock sat down opposite him once he was sure that John had finished discretely blowing his nose.
"But how, Sherlock?" John looked up from his hands at the man in front of him. "How did you do it?"
"All in good time, John. I would rather wait until both Lestrade and Mrs Hudson are here to hear it. Saves tedious repetition of something rather painfully obvious." Sherlock frowned. "You mean you have no idea at all of how I did it?"
"Sherlock, we all thought you were dead. We weren't about to go poking around to find out why. Lestrade sent Gregson and Hopkins to Bart's roof to deal with Moriarty's body- I assume he is really dead?" Sherlock nodded. "They found Kitty's recording device too. Cleared your name."
"Yes, I know. My brother kept me informed."
"Wait, what?" John looked shocked. "Mycroft knew? You mean... he's been lying to my face for three years, the bastard!"
"I'm... I'm sorry John." If possible, John looked more shocked by the apology than the cause. "He was essential to my plan, just as it was essential that you and the police and the world believed that I was dead."
"Right."
"I really will explain later."
John nodded, trying to quell the turmoil of anger and disbelief and hope inside him. He felt like shouting, but instead he calmly said: "I'm going to get some milk. You coming?"
Sherlock felt that it was the least that he could do for John. They needed to talk and a walk in the crisp spring air was perfectly suited to this purpose. He stood up and moved towards the door, but stopped when John tapped him on the shoulder.
"Turn around, Sherlock."
"What?" Sherlock turned to face John and was caught completely unawares by a sublime, glittering right hook to the jaw that held three years of anger, grief and finally acceptance behind it. He reeled backwards and looked at John in surprise.
"I would have thought a year back in the military would have taken all the violence out of you."
"Don't worry." John looked very pleased with himself. "There's plenty more where that came from." And with that, he double-timed it out of the flat without waiting for Sherlock, the change jingling in his pocket and his mind already back on tea.