3 very long, quiet years passed in 221b. The only visitors John ever had was Mycroft, who would check up on him once a month to encourage him to move out of the flat that was surrounding him with memories that wouldn't let him move on with his life. John hadn't touched anything that was Sherlock's. Books open on the floor had remained unread for 3 years and still every time John considered tidying up a bit the consulting detective's voice in the back of his mind would refrain him.

John had just got back from a long day at work as he sat himself down in his armchair. He never sat on the sofa, it didn't feel right to. Sarah had very kindly given John his job back at the hospital even though she had ended it between them. Ever since Sherlock's death it had felt like John wasn't interested in her anymore. She wasn't angry though. She understood that Sherlock was John's way of life and when he had died John had pretty much nothing left to live for. Sherlock was the one who gave John his driving power and a zest for life. So Sarah had ended the relationship but remained as much of a friend as she could to the soldier who lived each day with the same dull routine.

John had picked up the paper on the table and had started to glance through it. He didn't care much about what was going on in the world but it passed the time and it stopped him from thinking. He was reading something about the prime minister, who was that now? He couldn't remember, it doesn't make any difference to him who the prime minister is anyway, when he heard a key turn in the lock. He didn't even look up. It was the first of the month so he knew who it was.
"Hello Mycroft," he said unsurprised and uninterested.
"My dear doctor, don't tell me I look that much like my ghastly brother?"

The newspaper slipped through John's fingers and slid to the floor with a rustle. John stared at the man in front of him. No, it couldn't possibly be! his mind must be playing tricks on him! And yet he looked so real! The crystal blue eyes were shining and the black curls around his face were sticking out in all directions. The pale skin was covered in dirt and grime. John stood up, managing to resist the urge to faint. He walked towards the figure in the doorway, his legs giving way with every step he took. Without speaking he lifted his left hand and slowly touched the cheek of the ghost in the flat. It was solid, soft and smooth. He pressed harder; making sure his fingers weren't going to pass through the pale skin. John slowly brushed the pale lips with his fingertips and then slid his hand down the ghost's chest. He could feel the warmth radiating from the body. The figure didn't move, he just let John do what he needed to do for his brain to process this impossible information. (Well, maybe not impossible, more improbable.) John's eyes drifted back to the blue ones watching him,
"Sherlock?" A smile grew on the figure's face.
"Hello John."

Thousands of emotions rushed through John's head. He could not possibly describe what he was feeling; probably every feeling there was to feel! Love, hate, relief, danger, madness, confusion. Impulse took over. Before he could stop himself he had clenched his hand into a fist and in one swift movement, swung it across Sherlock's cheek in a sharp punch. Sherlock stood stunned for a moment but then nodded, understanding.
"I get why you're angry-"
"Well of course I'm angry! 3 years Sherlock! 3 YEARS! Wha- how- why?" John couldn't speak; all those emotions had risen into his throat and were choking him.

The sensation of wanting to faint overcame him again. Quickly he staggered backwards and landed with a thump in his armchair. Massaging his cheek Sherlock followed him and sat on the sofa that had been unoccupied for so long. He smiled as he noticed how little had changed. He could have sworn he had left that magazine open and upside-down like that on the last day they were here, the day they packed for Switzerland. How long ago that seemed.

John was dazed; he rubbed his forehead with his forefinger and thumb as he said,
"I don't understand..." he was unable to finish his sentence.
"No, well, I don't expect you to. You have thought me dead and now I turn up on the doorstep alive and well." The manner in which he spoke hadn't changed; he was still as pompous as ever. "I have so much to tell you!" He said excitedly. "You see-" He paused, then without warning he grabbed John by the shoulder and pulled him to the floor.
"Sherlock, what-"
"Shh!" Sherlock placed his index finger to his lips to silence John. "Someone is coming up the stairs."
"Yes well it's probably Mycroft," John said. "He visits me once a month since-"
"It's not Mycroft, I told him he wasn't needed anymore."
"What do you mean you told him? You mean he knew you were-"
"I can't be seen John; you need to get rid of them." Sherlock nudged John towards the door. Questions were buzzing around John's mind but he knew he would not get the answers until he had done as he was told so begrudgingly he got up and opened the door, seeing Sherlock duck into the kitchen out of the corner of his eye.

"Hello dear. I was just wondering if you wanted a cup of tea, or some dinner." Mrs Hudson smiled sweetly, but behind the smile, serious concern and worry about the tenant that was not adjusting to civilian life.
"No, thank you Mrs Hudson." She sighed, she expected him to say that. The smile became a frown on her old, kind face.
"Dr Watson, dear, I really feel I should keep you company. I haven't seen that serious looking man with the umbrella today, I know it's the first of the month, I was worried."
"I'm fine Mrs Hudson; really, I'm just busy at the minute. Next week, Monday, I will take you out to dinner, how does that sound?" Mrs Hudson perked up.
"That sounds lovely, thank you." Impatient John said,
"Yes well, see you next week then." Taking the hint Mrs Hudson turned to leave. She was smiling broadly, this was the first sign she had seen of John getting any better.

As he shut the door, John saw Sherlock reappear in the entrance to the kitchen. They both sat back down, John taking in a deep breath as he prepared himself for what was coming.

Sherlock fidgeted, putting his hands on his lap then together then back again. In the end he opted for clenching them together leaning his elbows on his thighs.
"It started with a text, from Moriarty. The final pip. It was going to be the last battle between the two greatest minds this world had ever seen." His ego hasn't changed then, thought John. "But after the pool, all I wanted to do was to keep you safe. The whole of my life I was reckless and I didn't really care what happened to me, but then you came along and suddenly I had something to live for, something I would give up everything for. You." He blushed slightly. "So instead of confronting Moriarty I took you to Switzerland where I thought we would be safe and where Mycroft could take care of Moriarty. But Moriarty found us," he faltered, "and I killed him."
"It was an accident," John interjected. He had never accepted that Sherlock was a murderer. Sherlock stared into John's eyes as he realised this, he had so missed John's devotion. He broke his gaze and continued his narration.
"Moriarty didn't go to Switzerland alone. He had friends. In particular a man named Moran. And he is the reason I have been in hiding for so long. He wants me dead and I knew I could not survive if he thought I was alive. So I faked my own death and made a living in Switzerland, every 6 months moving a little closer to home."
"And Mycroft?" asked John.
"I had to tell someone. I had no money, no clothes, Mycroft gave me everything I needed and he could do it without Moran finding out."
"I would have done anything!" Tears filled John's eyes, though he wasn't sure if it was tears of betrayal or tears of joy.
"I know you would. But it was too big a risk. I had to die; it was the only way to keep you safe." Sherlock went to place his hand on John's shoulder, but then seeing the hurt in John's eyes, retracted it. "I almost told you. In the phone message I left you. But I knew that Moran would find a way onto your phone messages, he had to be sure I was dead, so I didn't."

John turned his head away from Sherlock. That message was still on John's phone, he could never bring himself to delete it. Sherlock had said that he had loved him, and yet he hadn't mentioned anything of the sort now that he was back! All John had ever wanted was Sherlock's love, he realised that after he heard the message, and yet how could a someone allow the man he loved to believe that he was dead?

"In that message," Sherlock froze, "you talked about me saving you as a child. We knew each other when we were little, didn't we?" Sherlock relaxed, he wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed that John didn't ask about the other thing he had confessed in that message. He nodded as a reply to John's question. "After the bomb explosion, I had a dream. I dreamt of a town, of me and you as kids. We were outcasts but we didn't care because we had each other. They were the years I lost after the car accident weren't they?" Again Sherlock nodded. "Why did you never say anything?" Again John felt the betrayal, his heart ached deeply.
"I was told you were dead. Mycroft told me you were dead. So when we met I just thought it was a coincidence. But then you started having nightmares, nightmares about a crash. I went to see Mycroft and he told me the truth but he said that if I confronted you and brought back all those memories, I might lose you, and as much as I hated him I knew he was right. You were content with your life, your past did not seem to bother you, and so I said nothing." In a very low whisper John said,
"I questioned my past every day."