BBC owns everything, blah blah blah. Thanks for all your reviews! Here's Chapter 10! Enjoy :)

He got halfway up the stairs before his fear got the best of him. He would never admit it, but he was scared of what would happen upon entering the flat where so many memories of an actual friendship resided. He forced himself up one more step, but before he got to first landing, he turned around and slipped quietly out of the front door. He moved to sit in an alleyway, trying not to draw attention to himself. Breathing quietly, trying to control his heart rate and his apprehension. "I'm fine," he asserted out loud.

When he did calm down, his adrenaline stopped rushing and the cravings crashed down on him harder than they ever had before. No, he thought. I am clean, I am fine, I don't need it. He sat there, in agony, for a few more minutes, though it felt like hours. I give up.

It was just once more, just so he had the courage to get through the door to his flat. Then, he and John would cases again. And he would play his violin at odd hours, and John would make tea, and Mycroft would barge in, and Molly would flirt with him obliviously, and everything would be back to normal. "Just once more…"

Back in 221B, with a fresh high, he grinned as he climbed the steps. John will be so happy. He'd better not want a hug. Oh what the hell, I'll give it to him. Stopping in the doorway, he sighed, and knocked quietly but firmly. Sure he could use the key, but that would ruin the drama of it all! He waited.

"I'm coming!" John called form within the flat. He sounded like he'd just woken up. Sherlock heard him shuffling towards the door. His heart speed up even more. After a year and a half, here he was, and John was coming to welcome him. This was it, the climax of it all.

The door swung open. John looked up at him. "No." John breathed. "No, no, no."

"Yes, John." Sherlock said.

"You...You're not real, you're dead. I saw you jump, I watched you die! I saw them put you in the ground!" John's voice rose to a shout. "You are DEAD!"

"John, after almost three years of following me around, your observational skills should at least be good enough to determine whether someone is dead or alive. Have you really gotten this rusty?"

"Only you can come back to life and have you first statement be a condescending one," John muttered. "It is you isn't it?" John said, his eyes shining with tears.

"Yes," Sherlock said, struggling to keep the sarcasm out of his voice for John's sake, even though his initial reaction to any type of emotion was to sass it away.

"My God." John said quietly. "I need to sit." He said definitively. And he did, sitting in his favorite chair. Sherlock took this time to observe the room. John had cleaned up the flat, his papers seemed to be all boxed up, and stacked neatly against the far wall. Sherlock Microscope hadn't been touched, his last slide still in place, though it seemed Mrs. Hudson had probably dusted it once in a while. Sherlock's chair hadn't moved. He felt strangely happy, that his things had been left alone, then again the cocaine was still shrouding each thought in pleasantry.

"Where the hell have you been?" John asked as Sherlock walked around. He noticed the smiley face was still on the wall, and the clippings about Moriarty still on the wall. Sherlock snatched them down, and tossed them into the bin.

"Here, and there, and everywhere," he said drolly, letting his addled mind take over the conversation for a bit, as he revisited the last year. Kill or be killed, it seemed it had been. He only killed once, and he had gone on a four-day coke binge afterwards. Whatever he may pretend, he was a murderer now, and all that Sally Donovan had said about him floated around in his mind.

"What an answer." John quipped. "I still can't believe it. I told you, I told everyone, 'he's not dead. He can't be dead.' And look at you—you're here. I can't believe you're here, Sherlock," he said, stepping forward and wrapping his arms around Sherlock's waist. Remembering his internal promise to let John hug him, no matter how uncomfortable he was. He did let him, and made a concerted effort not to cringe.

"Jesus, Sherlock, your hearts going a mile a minute!" John said, looking at him. "What, did you miss me?"

"I've just come back from the dead, moved through the icy streets of London whilst avoiding any police officers and CCTV cameras, and have seen an old…friend…before even seeing my brother, and you touched me. I don't like touching John. My heart may be running on adrenaline right now, there's no need for suggestion." Sherlock said, quickly and with his usual level of aloofness.

"As is the rest of your body, I'm sure. When's the last time you ate, Sherlock?" John asked tiredly, and Sherlock tiredly responded that he thought it was something like 3 days, and despite the fact that he was incredibly high even though he swore he would quit once back at home, everything was back to normal.

Oh, Sherlock, what will I do with you?

Well, I had this halfway done, but I needed to put up chapter 9 first. So I did so, and as going to wait, but what the hell, you know?

Thanks again for your reviews, keep 'em coming! :)