I am so sorry for the long hiatus! Because you guys waited so long, I'm going to post the last two chapters tonight. And again, thank you all so much for reading c:

John hadn't even slipped his phone completely in his pocket before it began buzzing again. Lestrade, evidently, wasn't going to be so easily evaded; it took three more unanswered texts before he resigned to the fact that he would just have to wait.

They had begun to walk back, rather than hailing a cab; it wasn't far to the flat. John stayed a few steps ahead, walking fast, not looking back at the man silently following him. The night was well below freezing, but John didn't feel cold, exactly. He was having a hard time feeling anything but numbing shock, and it was under its effects that he didn't talk for a good while. He could feel the tension building the longer he kept silent, but he just didn't trust himself to speak yet; he didn't know exactly what he'd do until he regained some of his composure.

Then again, John was going to have to talk soon. It was either that or punch him again.

He decided to go with the easiest question first; technical details. Ones that didn't involve reasons, or what had happened before, or all that happened after. Just inconsequential facts.

He slowed marginally, and they fell into step. "How? How did you do it?" His voice was still slightly rough—shouting had done his throat no favours.

Steve—no, not Steve—looked at John, then back ahead. "It wasn't difficult. You know the right people, they can perform miracles."

John flinched involuntarily at the last word. Miracle. One last miracle. "Well, I'd appreciate it if you could enlighten me."

"It's unimportant, John. A truck, a body…Molly helped set it up, not many people involved were exactly knowledgeable of their roles. Nobody, really."

"Oh, Molly was, though, was she?" John said, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk and staring at him disbelievingly. He stopped as well, looking back at John, his expression hidden under the beard and spectacles. "Molly knew you were alive, she knew this entire time. For God's sake, Sherlock, you trust Molly, yet you don't trust me?"

"It wasn't a matter of trust." Sherlock muttered, eyeing around them. Or John imagined he was; only then did he realise what an exceptional job the clouded lenses did disguising the eyes behind them. "It was a matter of who worked in a morgue. And to be fair, Molly only knew I was alive a bit longer then you did."

"What? Why?"

"She never saw me again afterwards. She did see the empty truck, with just a little blood, and I hope assumed the worst." He said this in the same tone he used when explaining to John, step by step, how he managed to break the coffee maker by running corrosive chemicals through it.

Unbelievable. "Thought this all out, didn't you?" John asked indignantly.

Sherlock fixed him with a sardonic look, obvious even under the disguise. "It is a habit of mine."

John let out an unamused laugh. "So…nobody knew. You just happened to roll out of a moving truck—"

"—and into another, kindly provided by my always reliable brother." Sherlock finished, sarcasm frosting the edge of his voice. "He was the one person that did know everything. He's kept secrets larger."

Yeah, he's also let them loose. John shook his head.

Sherlock gave a sniff of amusement. "My thoughts exactly. I'd go so far as to say he owed me."

John started, then looked back to Sherlock, amazed.

They began walking again. John was still having trouble wrapping his head around everything, and wondered for the umpteenth time if he was actually dreaming. Or unconscious—maybe he'd slipped on some ice and whacked his head on a fire hydrant. Perhaps he'd gotten the wrong drink at the pub and inadvertently ingested someone else's drugged pint, and was in the throes of a hyper-realistic hallucination. Even if that wasn't the case, the adrenaline from the night, plus the fact that it was around one in the morning, didn't give John much confidence in the reliability of his senses.

"Alright then," he said abruptly, "why then? Why did you do it?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He just continued to walk steadily forward.

John felt his anger rise again, with the pain of the past years filling his mind. The first few days—hell, the first week—staying at Harry's, with her worried looks barely memorable through the haze, all while knowing that he'd eventually have to return to the flat, but avoiding it for weeks because it was just too damn hard. The slow regression back into everyday life, into a linear existence that should have been familiar, and instead felt completely alien. He remembered the constant stream of inquiries, and then, the one sneer from a young, cocky doctor that went too far, and the fight that lost him his job.

He recalled the ache he felt, which had lessened over time, but never really left. It was a grief that went farther then losing someone—the burden of that last memory had clouded all the rest, the uncertainty like a book with its last few pages ripped out and burned. It left John with nothing solid—nothing to hold onto from the best period of his life, and the best friend he'd ever had.

As the memories flooded through him, it was only by pure grit of self control that he managed to keep from shouting. "Christ, Sherlock, answer me!"

"John, calm down." Sherlock said in a low voice.

"Calm? I am calm, Sherlock, this is me calm. Or at least as much as I can be, considering the circumstances." He stopped talking as a woman walked by in the opposite direction, taking no notice of the two men. No sooner had she passed by that John began again, speaking in a low hiss. "At least clear up that little mystery for me, would you? Forgetting these past two and a half years that I've gone through thinking you were dead, and how that's been for me, at least give me the reasons why."

"He threatened me," he said shortly.

"He threatened you. As in, he threatened to kill you if you didn't kill yourself?"

"Not exactly."

"Well, good, because that couldn't make less sense."

Sherlock abruptly took out his phone, looked at it, snorted, and shoved it back in his pocket. "Well, isn't that a tragedy," he muttered under his breath.

"Sherlock."

"Hmm?"

John threw up his hands, in a for the love of God kind of way. "Really—"

"He was going to kill you. That was his plan."

John blinked, and nearly stopped walking again. "What?"

Sherlock exhaled, as though steeling himself for the long haul. "And Ms Hudson. And Lestrade. The last two I hadn't expected at first, but as for the first threat it was what I had anticipated from the beginning."

"Anticipated? You knew this was going to happen? All of it?"

"To an extent." Seeing John's face out of the corner of his eye, he added, "Moriarty was never subtle about the fact that he would one day try and ruin me, John. Surely you picked up that little clue."

"Yes, but…" John was still in the dust. "If you knew he was going to have you killed…why did you go to him? Why the hell would you even risk it?"

Sherlock gave him the look John was all too familiar with; one that suggested he'd missed the obvious by a hilarious amount. "There wasn't any stopping him, John, not until he believed he won. If he'd been arrested, or killed, then he already had half a dozen plans set up, with no way of retracting them. It was a game, and I had to do everything in my power to win. And that eventually meant, as I had suspected from the beginning, my death."

"You suspected."

"And I was right."

"How long, exactly, did you know this?" They had arrived at John's flat, but there was no way in hell he was going in just yet. John grabbed Sherlock's sleeve, jerking him to a stop. "Because I don't exactly remember you mentioning it."

"It had to be believable."

"You didn't trust me to go along with it, then?" John asked, incredulous. "You thought that I'd be so daft that I'd go around, telling everyone?"

"I already said—"

"—and you trusted Molly, of all people. Molly, who had dated Moriarty, if you've forgotten—"

"—Molly wasn't on his radar. I already mentioned that he threatened your life, along with Ms Hudson and Lestrade. However, I'm sure the sharpest eyes were on you. He had a sniper tracking your every move, every word, every expression. If there was even the slightest suspicion that you knew more then you did, the entire plan would fall apart."

The wind picked up suddenly, shuffling dead leaves across the icy ground. Sherlock looked away, towards the flat. "By 'falling apart'," John said quietly, after a few moments, "you mean—"

"If there was any hint that the suicide was a set up, the sniper would have killed you, right there. It was hard enough setting up a fake suicide in a crowded street; I couldn't risk the truth getting out in a way that could have been avoided so easily."

John pressed his lips together, irritated that he couldn't think of a response. Trust Sherlock to twist anything into a perverse kind of sense.

"Not to mention," Sherlock continued, "your performance had to be convincing even before that, when we were talking on the phone."

John remembered, all too clearly. The haunting phone call, Sherlock weeping, trying to convince John that he was a fraud, the last words… He knew now, he finally knew, that it was what he had believed, what he had hoped. But then, he realised that Sherlock had brought up another issue in need of explanation. "Yes, Sherlock…why was that necessary?"

Sherlock exhaled a plume of smoke. "John, just think," he said impatiently. "It wasn't only that I had to die, it was that I had to die a fake. That was the whole point. Of course, you had to make that as difficult as possible."

John was finally starting to understand. All of it…it was all a plan, all of it, to get out of the intricate trap Moriarty had placed. A magic trick. John remembered how much he'd denied, how he wouldn't listen, and with a cold feeling in his stomach realised that he'd been under a microscope; in the crosshairs of a rifle the entire time. "Well," he finally said, "that was as realistic as it could have been, if Moriarty knew as much as he seemed to."

"Well, I'm sure of it, being as we wouldn't be standing here if it wasn't."

There was another silence. John looked into the smoky lenses of the glasses, and tried in vain to see his friend, but the disguise was too effective. If it wasn't for his voice, John seriously would have wondered if it wasn't all just a trick. "Moriarty…"

"Killed himself."

"Why?"

"He valued the game more then his own life, evidentially. It was his final move."

"Right. His final move was to kill himself, and yours was to fake it. And you did that admirably. But what I don't get, what the real issue for me is," John fought to keep his voice low. "Why, Sherlock, did it take you two and a half bloody years to come back?"

Sherlock looked weary, as though this was what he had been waiting for the entire night. "We should really get inside." he said evasively, glancing at the flat again.

"Don't think you can dodge this one, Sherlock, you knew damn well it was coming— "

"Inside." Sherlock interrupted.

Before John could argue, Sherlock had turned on his heal and headed for the door. Not wanting to risk waking Ms Hudson, John refrained from shouting, and settled for following Sherlock in hot pursuit.

Sherlock opened the door, with what John recognised as his old keys, and paused. He turned to John, giving him an icy stare. "The locks are the same, John?"

"What?"

"Did it not strike you as odd that my keys were never recovered? How could you have missed that?"

"It wasn't my top priority, Sherlock." John countered, cottoning on. "I was sort of preoccupied, remember? To be honest I'd thought you had lost them. Wouldn't have been the first time."

With a huff of irritation Sherlock swept inside. John shook his head as he closed the door behind them.

They went upstairs quietly, not wanting to wake Ms Hudson. But the moment the flat door closed John faced Sherlock, his face set, waiting for an answer to his question.

"The period afterwards…that was the slight snag that Moriarty had created in killing himself." Sherlock looked around, absentmindedly tossing his keys in the air a few times before lobbing them onto a chair. "It wasn't an end, his death. It was, as I said before, his final move. He had employed the assassins to keep serving him afterwards, and that posed a problem."

"Because he couldn't call them off." John said slowly.

"Yes, exactly. While they were still in the shadows, I couldn't risk coming back. For the past few years…I'd been tracking down the remnants of Moriarty's web."

For the next while, Sherlock briefly and haltingly took John through the past two and a half years he'd been gone. It took more then a little prodding from John in order to get a full picture; Sherlock was dead set on skimming over anything he described as "extraneous", which basically included everything but the moments he made pivotal deductions or discoveries.

Eventually, though, John cobbled together the story. Hiding, traveling, gathering data, investigating, forever searching…Sherlock explained that the first two assassins, the ones that had been assigned to Ms Hudson and Lestrade, were found and detained within the first month by Welsh police, with the aid of a mysterious inspector from London.

The third assassin, as Sherlock grudgingly admitted, was more difficult. That was what had taken the bulk of the following years, what had required him to travel seemingly everywhere, what forced him to adopt multiple aliases to avert suspicion. It always seemed that the killer was forever on the instep, always ahead, having just slipped away once Sherlock arrived. It was this one man, one single man, that had held him back, prevented his return…

"And?" John said, as Sherlock took a pause. "Did you find him?"

Sherlock fixed him with a look, then continued looking around the flat, as he'd done periodically throughout his entire narrative. "Well, John, I can tell your skills for deduction do not flourish late at night."

John wasn't in the mood to be belittled; his nerves were completely fried. "Sherlock, so help me—"

"Yes, I found him." Sherlock interrupted. "And I killed him."

"Did you?" John asked, taken aback.

"You were there, John. It was only a few hours ago."

There was silence. Sherlock picked up a crystal paperweight, turning it about in his hand, before placing it back exactly where it had been before.

"Are you telling me…" John said quietly.

"It isn't coincidental that I chose tonight to come back."

John's mind reeled. The sniper, the one that had killed all the people…the therapist...bloody hell. He had been hired to kill me. John rubbed his face. "And I tried to keep him alive…" he muttered. He remembered how he'd asked for something as a compress, how he was shocked at Steve's ice cold wondered if the man was alive long enough to recognise him. The man who was his target, trying to save him. "How do you know it was him?"

"I was on his trail, obscure as it was. Though I wasn't absolutely certain until I examined the rifle. Moriarty supplied his boys well, evidentially."

"What do you mean?"

"The rifle was extremely high tech, as you probably already guessed, judging by its compacting abilities. But the scope was all I needed. It was digital—a small computer, essentially—with storage capabilities and facial recognition software, among other things. It had the ability to store information on hits, dead or alive, and would bring up the information at will. The easiest way to do so"—he put up his hands, miming the act of looking through the scope of a rifle—"was to put the victim's face in the crosshairs."

"And I was in there?"

"Yes."

John nodded, his face impassive, though inside he felt slightly sick. "Was he here this entire time?"

"'Course not. He only came here a few months ago, after I nearly got him in Dublin." Sherlock looked aggravated, and he began pacing back and forth. "Of course the clues are obvious now. Stupid. How could I have missed…"

"Sherlock." He stopped pacing and looked up at John, who was looking at him with his eyebrows raised. "Is this really an issue now?"

"It might not be for you, John, but when a killer I'd been tracking for more then two years slips through my fingers, again, it's an issue for me." He began pacing again, tapping his fingers on his thigh in agitation. "Not to mention that not a few days after he got away, I get information of a man shot dead in London."

"What, O'Neil? The Irish victim?"

"Well, I didn't know anything else at that time; I just set off for London. Of course, after I found the rest of the information, an inspector from Dublin seemed the logical choice for an identity."

"A Welsh inspector from Dublin?"

Sherlock waved an impatient hand. "I had an Irish accent before. I couldn't risk the sniper recognizing anything."

John nodded. "Well…you convinced me."

"That was absolutely necessary. Talking to you was the most risky thing I could have done. Now that we know he was there, in the pub…it was very lucky that he didn't become suspicious."

"Maybe he didn't think you would do something so stupid."

Sherlock's mouth twitched into a small grin. "It's possible."

"And why did you? Talk to me, that is?" John crossed his arms and leaned against a chair. "Why did you even come to the pub I was at? I've seen you there, before. You knew I went there often."

"Precaution."

John smiled, remembering the text from what felt like so long ago. "You couldn't have stopped a bullet."

He waved a hand again. "All his other victims were alone. More or less."

More or less. John remembered the second victim, shot within seconds of passing him. Well, at least he got a few feet. "So you think the risk of him taking a shot at me for old times sake was more then him suspecting you were alive?"

He stopped pacing, at looked at John. "No, don't you see? He already had his suspicions, before I even arrived. Think about it!"

"Think about…what, exactly?"

"Every one of his recent victims—there was a pattern, John!" Sherlock talked fast, in the tone he usually used when explaining his thoughts; frustrated how nobody had somehow been able to read them. Hearing it come out of Steve's mouth was still something that John wasn't getting used to. "A loose one, obviously, and they were clearly still hired jobs, but he most likely picked them at his leisure. Think! Every single one was a man, late thirties or early forties, who wasn't particularly tall."

"That…isn't an uncommon description, Sherlock." John said, though suddenly feeling quite cold.

"They were also killed near or on Baker Street."

Jesus. He's right.

Sherlock stared absently across the room. "I'm wondering—and now, I don't suppose I'll ever know—whether he was sending a message. Wanting to draw me out." Sherlock put his fingertips to his mouth, looking at the wall, obviously in deep thought.

John let the silence go on for a full minute. "Sherlock," he finally said.

He didn't answer.

"Sherlock."

He jerked a bit, and glanced at John, through the translucent lenses of the glasses.

John gave him a look that said you done? One that felt as familiar as an old glove.

As if only just noticing what he'd been doing, Sherlock broke out of his reverie, blinking as though emerging from a darkened room and into a lighted one. He turned away, took out his phone and began checking through it mechanically.

"You know," John said quietly, talking to his back. "You still could have given me a hint. Something." John wasn't even going to begin on his return as Steve. That he'd had the nerve to be in the flat, to talk to John about everything, without even an inclination towards a clue…John didn't know whether to be furious or just amazed. He settled on the former.

Sherlock began typing a text. "I decided against it." His tone was cavalier, although John could see his fingers tighten on the phone.

"Why? Because you think I'd faint in public?" John shook his head. "I'm not saying you should have made a grand bloody entrance—"

"—it doesn't need to be a "grand bloody entrance"to be pointlessly dangerous—"

"—a text, Sherlock, isn't dangerous. Unless I had a habit of shouting them aloud while I read—"

"—John, where did you put my pocket knife?" Sherlock inquired, looking at the mantle with some concern.

"Could we stay on topic, please?"

Sherlock turned abruptly. "Don't you think I—" he stopped, mid-exclamation. He returned his attention to the phone. When he spoke again, his voice had settled back into his usual tone. "I did consider it. You should know my methods by now. In the end I decided that it was too risky; phones can be lost, or stolen. And even if there was a way…I didn't see the point in anyone knowing, if I ended up dying anyway."

This unexpected turn resonated, and left John quiet for a few moments.

Sherlock had brought up a point that he hadn't considered. Was it easier, then, that John had not known, that he'd begun moving on? That he'd remained ignorant to the truth that his friend had lived, but was balancing on the thinnest of wires, one that could snap at any given day? Had he known and something had gone wrong…well, he'd be in the same position he'd found himself two and a half years before.

"For future reference, Sherlock," he said, his voice low, "I'd like to know."

Sherlock didn't answer.

After a moment, John shook his head and walked to his sidetable, where he'd noticed a scrap of paper before. It was a note from Paul, hastily scribbled. Dear John, I forgot to say that I left the milk in case you needed it. It's in the fridge.

John stared at this note, confusion mounting as he wondered why Paul didn't simply tell him before he left. Then John realised; Paul had come back to the flat after John had gone, presumably just to tell him that one last piece of information, and felt it so absolutely necessary that he'd left a note.

John put it in his pocket. The moment he had the chance, it was going on the fridge.

There was a flurry of staccato tapping behind him, and John turned to see Sherlock furiously typing on his phone. With a deep scowl on his face he sent a message, and threw the phone on the chair next to his keys.

"Wife giving you trouble?" John asked.

Sherlock gave him a look that was astonishingly puzzled—a look not suited for his face, no matter what one he was wearing—before his expression cleared once more. "No. Though, it seems as though my sister is becoming quite irritated that her beauty's sleep is being compromised, it being "two in the bloody morning" and I've not returned home from my walk yet."

There was a beat of silence. Then, the tension in the room was broken as they both began giggling.

"Tell Mycroft that you're staying out tonight, and he can go to bed." John said, laughing still at the mental image of Sherlock's prim older brother sitting in bed and glaring at his phone, becoming increasingly annoyed as the night wore on.

"I did. I also turned off my phone. I'd advise you to do the same if you want any sleep tonight."

"You told him you're here?"

"No, but he'll figure it out soon enough, if he hasn't already. John," Sherlock looked suddenly uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable. He looked away, to the wall, the same wall that displayed the bullet riddled happy face which Ms Hudson had kept "meaning to repaper", and yet still remained untouched. "Don't…think that all this hasn't…crossed my mind. I…" He stopped, his expression almost pained.

It was then that John realised he didn't need to hear it. Not tonight. "Its fine, Sherlock." Sherlock looked at him, his face still uncertain and uneasy. "Really," John added. Though he didn't know the whole story, John understood his friend well enough to know that an apology—if John desired one at all—would develop over time, without the cumbersome weight of words.

Sherlock nodded. Though his expression didn't drastically change, John thought he saw his friend's shoulders relax just a little, as though an invisible weight was suddenly lifted off.

Pacing again, Sherlock continued to study the flat; gathering data, John supposed, on what had happened since he left. Well, whatever he could gather from things like the slightly moved table and the unwashed mug that sat on it. Which probably, John realised, was quite a lot. All the while he scratched at his beard, something John had noticed he had been doing all night, though he remembered the action even as he knew him as Steve. "Is there anything of mine left in the flat?" he asked abruptly.

"What? No, I don't—I think Mycroft took everything, actually—"

"He was thorough, then. No matter." He took off quite suddenly for the stairs, hurtling up them a few steps at a time. John heard a door being opened, then some rustling, followed by a few distinct clunks as things undoubtedly fell over. Well, I'm going to be missing one of my shirts tomorrow. John just hoped he chose one of the many that he'd already spilled multiple acids on, that John basically kept to make his closet look fuller then anything else.

John wandered over to the window and looked out, thinking. Vaguely he heard Sherlock come down the stairs again and slam the door to the bathroom. John felt an unexpected weariness, and shut his eyes for a moment, leaning against the sill.

John broke out of his daze when he heard the bathroom door open, some ten minutes later. "No point staring out there, John, as of tonight there's no longer anything interesting."

"Somehow, that doesn't exactly bother me." John turned, and for a moment he froze, staring.

Sherlock gave him a strange look, and in the back of his mind John knew that it was probably disconcerting to be on the receiving end of a prolonged blank gaze, but for the moment John didn't care. It was only then that he was hit with the full realisation that, as he knew now, he had been subconsciously doubting the entire night. The wig, glasses, and beard had vanished, along with whatever else made up the disguise that had fooled everyone so thoroughly. John felt an unexpected wave of emotion at seeing the familiar face; though thinner, and somewhat more haggard, it was only then that John knew it wasn't somehow a hoax.

John smiled and turned back to the window. It was either that or hug him again.

"What?" Sherlock asked suspiciously, obviously seeing the reflection.

"Nothing…just…I don't think I'll miss Steve." John stuck his hands in his pockets.

"Oh." John could sense him smiling as well. He heard Sherlock walk around, pick up something, only to throw it right back down, obviously unimpressed. It was probably the novel John had been reading. "Well, it's a relief to talk without having to measure every word. It's completely exhausting, not to mention pointless. The world would run a lot more efficiently if people didn't screen their thoughts for the sake of being polite." He spoke the last word with the same disgust a child would put into the word "vegetable".

"That, or World Wars would be in the double digits." John remembered Steve's strange way of talking; normal at most times, while at others just seemed…odd. Now thinking of it, John was amazed that Sherlock was able to pull it off; to the extent that John wasn't even suspicious. Then again, he wouldn't have exactly been expecting it. He was friendly to Anderson. No, I'd have never guessed.

"Hmm…" he agreed thoughtfully. John turned to see him wander over to the couch. John noted with relief that he'd picked a shirt with discoloured spots on the sleeves. He reached behind the couch, and pulled out the old, dusty case—a case that held the single thing Mycroft had forgotten in his purge of the flat. Of course, it didn't help that John had hidden it under the couch cushions. "I suppose you never had the thought to tune it once in awhile?"

"I don't know how to work that thing, Sherlock, I'd probably end up breaking it in half."

"True." He unsnapped the case and pulled the instrument out, it's wood still miraculously shining after years in the dark. He began turning the pegs, but then stopped. He looked up at John. "Of course, I'm assuming I can touch it now?"

That took a moment to sink in. Then, they both burst out in peals of laughter. The built up tension from the night caused it to go on for some time, and it was only when John heard three distinct thunks from the floor below did they manage to quiet down.

"Ms Hudson still uses the broom, I hear." Sherlock noted, still grinning as he tweaked the strings.

"Hasn't needed to for awhile." John sat down in his chair, after picking up the keys and the phone and throwing them onto Sherlock's. "Though I don't think she'd mind as much if she knew the reason." He nodded to the violin. Sherlock finished tuning the strings, and picked up the bow.

The music that emerged seemed to warm the flat, perhaps from a chill it had carried for the past few years. John relaxed in the chair, smiling happily, if not a little tiredly. It was a simple tune, though as familiar as the skull on the mantle; Sherlock had composed it long before their arrival at Baker Street. In fact, John remembered it being played on the very first night he'd moved in. At three in the morning. He wondered if Sherlock understood the irony, or if he simply chose it at random. It was three in the morning, after all. If it had been any other night, John might have felt concern for the other tenants next door. However, that night, he believed they were long due for missing some sleep.

John chucked, and Sherlock let out a sniff of amusement, at the sound of a heavy broom falling to the floor from the storey below.