A familiar black car pulled up beside John as he walked from the tube towards his flat, on his way home from a rare trip out. The door opened as it slowed to a stop and John resignedly stopped, but didn't turn towards the car.

"What could he possibly want now?" he said without turning to look at Anthea

Surprisingly, Mycroft himself answered, "Get in the car, Dr. Watson."

John turned towards him angrily. "We're done Mycroft. We can't possibly have any more business to discuss. I said all I have to say six months ago. Leave me alone."

Mycroft didn't answer, but John could feel the elder Holme's eyes boring into him. Realizing he is not going to shake the man, John turned.

Mycroft looked…different. His usually smooth façade was gone. He looked haggard and drained.

What on Earth would have Mycroft Holmes looking like that? John wondered as he climbed into the back seat, Mycroft sliding over to make room for him.

"Thank you," Mycroft says softly, looking John in the eye. "There is something you must see."

They rode in silence to Mycroft's townhouse and John meekly followed the man into the elegantly appointed home.

"So, this is where you live," he said. "Much nicer than the warehouses you used to take me to. Bringing me home to meet Mummy are you?"

Mycroft acknowledged his attempt at humor with a tight smile, ushering John into the library where a fire burned brightly on the hearth.

"Please, sit down," he said, indicating a chair by the fireplace. "There is something you need to know. This may come as a bit of a shock…" he trailed off into silence, clearly at a loss over how to continue.

A frisson of fear ran down John's spine. "It's Moriarty isn't it?" he managed to whisper.

"Hmm? Oh, well, in a manner of speaking." Seeing John's eyes widen in fear he continued quickly, "Oh, he's quite dead."

"Then how?"

"Moriarty died the day Sherlock jumped. Shot himself in the head."

"I'll say it again, then," John said through clenched teeth, his shoulders straightening into a military bearing. "How is Moriarty a threat now?"

"John, Moriarty died that day but Sherlock…did not."

"What?" John murmured, not quite taking in Mycroft's words.

Sherlock didn't die? I saw him. I took his pulse!

"Do you remember what Sherlock told you in that phone call?"

Of course he did. He remembered every word. Slowly he replied, "He said it was just a trick…just a magic trick."

Oh, God. Could he have actually meant it!? Could it have been a trick? What kind of sick joke is that?

"It was a trick, John. A dangerous, foolhardy trick – but a trick nonetheless."

"I don't believe you. Sherlock wouldn't have let me believe he was dead all this time. Why would he do that?"

"I had to, John," Sherlock said, stepping from his hiding place in a dark corner of the room.

John's mind reeled. This isn't possible. He couldn't take it in. Here was Sherlock; thinner and with a new haircut, but definitely, shockingly, alive.

"John, I owe you a thousand apologies…."

It was too much, John's mind shut down and he gaped at the man, his mouth working but unable to form coherent sounds.

He stared at the specter of his dead best friend as his sight grew grey.

He awoke slowly to find himself on the settee with a very worried looking Sherlock holding a damp flannel to his head.

"Get off me!" John growled, swinging his feet over and coming to his feet. Sherlock stood with him.

"John?" he said. "Are you alright? I knew it would be a shock but I never expected…"

He didn't see the punch coming as John hit him, not taking care to avoid his mouth this time.

Sherlock reeled back as Mycroft grabbed John's arm, preventing him from landing a second blow.

"No, it's alright, Mycroft. I deserved that and more," Sherlock said, rubbing his aching jaw.

John stood panting as the anger drained from him to be replaced by an overwhelming sense of joy.

"Sherlock?" he finally managed to choke out.

"Yes, it's really me," Sherlock replied quietly, as if afraid John would spook.

"Oh God, Sherlock," John rubbed his face with his hands before throwing his arms around the man and hugging him tight.

Sherlock returned the embrace, hesitantly at first, but then firmer as he murmured, "I'm so sorry, John."

John disengaged and returned to the settee, fixing Sherlock with a hurt look. "Why? Why would you do that to me?"

"John, there was no other way. Moriarty had a sniper trained on you. If they didn't believe that I jumped – and died – they would have killed you and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. Before he killed himself there was a chance I could have made him call them off. But when he died I had no choice."

"OK. But why continue the ruse for so long? You could have told me. Do you have any idea what you've put me though? Put all of us through?"

"Yes."

"That's it? That's all you have to say? Six months, Sherlock. I know you have no understanding of human emotion, but this is a lot, even from you."

"It took longer than I thought," Sherlock said, never taking his eyes from John's.

"What did? Moriarty was dead – what kept you back?"

"The snipers had the order. If they even suspected I was alive they had the all-clear to execute you," he took John's hand, desperately trying to make John see the validity of what he is saying, as if he could transfer the thought by touch.

"I've been dismantling Moriarty's web. I've tracked down every one of his partners and turned them over to Mycroft."

"Wait. Mycroft knew? All this time he knew you were alive? You bastard!" he said, swinging to face Mycroft, murderous rage on his face.

"A prudent deception, Dr. Watson. I regret the necessity."

"Shut up! Just shut up! I didn't think I could hate you any more than I did. Once again I've been proven wrong."

"I can only apologize. It was necessary."

"Piss off! OK!? Just…piss off. I want to go home now. Call the car and get me home."

"John," Sherlock's voice was pleading as he placed a placating hand on John's arm.

John shook him off violently. "No! No, Sherlock, I can't do this now. I can't…talk to you. I can't even look at you right now."

Swinging back to Mycroft he demanded, "Take me home."

"Very well," Mycroft said, reaching for the intercom and summoning Anthea.

"No!" Sherlock exclaimed. "John, you have to listen to me. You're still in danger. The last of the snipers is still out there. I need your help to track him down."

John was incredulous. "No. You can't just waltz back into my life and ask for my help like nothing happened. It doesn't work like that. Just…no. Alright? Please, just let me go."

He let himself out of the library, closing the door firmly behind him.

Sherlock took a stumbling step after him but was stopped by Mycroft's hand on his arm. "Let him go, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "He needs time to adjust to this new reality."

"But, there may not be any time! Moran could be planning to strike at any moment. I need to stay with him and keep him safe, don't you see?"

"Trust issues, remember? I told you this wouldn't be easy."

"I remember. I had just hoped…"

"Yes, well. He is closely guarded and Moran still doesn't know you are alive. John should be fine for the time being."

"But..." Sherlock began as he stood at the window watching John climb wearily into the back of Mycroft's car.

"No buts, brother," Mycroft interrupted, joining him at the window. "This is best. You had to expect he might react this way."

"Yes, I suppose," he said as his hand reached into his shirt to grasp the metal tags still hanging around his neck. "You've kept him safe so far. Don't let me down now."

"I won't"