The hands on him hadn't loosened, as if afraid to let go of him. John half wanted to struggle against them, half wanted to just sit back and let himself be held—but in the end his instinct took over and he twisted around, trying to see who was holding him back so tightly.

Something so familiar, and yet so foreign...

Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed it. That head of dark curls, that piercing gaze, those cheekbones...

It felt as if his lungs had disappeared.
The blood in his veins had become the arctic sea, freezing so quickly he couldn't move.

It couldn't be.

There was no way.

It wasn't possible.

He was dead.

Dead.

Suicide.

Gone forever.

Sherlock was the first to break the silence. "Don't. Please. It's not worth it. I realise you're confused, but you have to understand-"

"You're alive." John could only stare at him dumbly, uttering the only words he could think of.

"Yes, well, I... Wanted to tell you, really did, but there were... things. Long story short, not dead." He managed a smile. "But I really didn't want to have to do it like this. I never wanted you to go this far."

"You..." John took a deep breath, the ice chunks in his blood giving way to molten magma and a sharp swirl of confusion. "YOU JUMPED OFF A BUILDING. I WATCHED YOU. I FELT FOR A PULSE, BUT THERE WAS JUST-"

"About that, I do feel bad for having to-"

"I MOURNED FOR YOU! MY LIFE FELL APART! I HAD TO GO ON FUCKING MEDICATION BECAUSE OF YOU!"

"I know-I can't sleep at night because-"

"YOU LIED TO ME! YOU MADE ME THINK YOU WERE DEAD, AND YOU LET ME GRIEVE! YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THAT WAS LIKE!"

"I suppose I should say something, but you really don't know-"

"NO, THAT'S RIGHT! I DON'T KNOW! SO WHY DON'T YOU TELL ME WHY-RIGHT NOW! I WANT TO KNOW WHY, SHERLOCK!"

Sherlock was almost fidgeting now, clearly highly uncomfortable, but John was too worked up to appreciate it. "It was for your own good. Your honest reaction was vital for it all to be believable. I really couldn't risk telling you."

John had pushed himself back and straightened up, staring the detective in the eye and trying to keep his jaw set firmly. "My own good? I was going to die today."

"Yes, well... That was a bit of an overreaction on your part..."

In the span of less than three seconds the fury in John's blood boiled over, and he launched himself at the detective, tackling him in a fit of uncontrollable rage that blocked out all other thoughts in his mind and numbed him to the core, for the moment. They hit the rooftop with a heavy thud, Sherlock sprawled on his back and John very nearly kneeling on his chest with his hands around the detective's throat.

John could hear the blood pounding in his ears.

He wasn't going to let go.

Sherlock put up no resistance, though he certainly could have, and the lack of fight only served to make John madder.

He wanted him to hit back.

He wanted his anger to be justified.

He wanted to let it all out.

FUCK.

FUCK SHERLOCK HOLMES, THE FUCKING HEARTLESS, COLD-BLOODED BASTARD—

He happened to look down, and as fast as it had come on all his anger froze as he stopped and sat back quickly. "Oh god—Sherlock, you're—" John's eyes widened in horror as a dark red streak began to soak through the detective's shirt, just over his ribs.

"It... Em... Just re-opened an old cut. It's alright." Sherlock tried to sound reassuring through his chokes and gasps for breath, but the result was the exact opposite. "John, really. I'm fine."

"Let me see."

"Hardly necessary. Nn.." He hissed in through his teeth. "No. No, it's fine, really."

"Did you...? Was it because-"

"No." The detective shook his head quickly. "It wasn't me this time."

John's level of confusion was increasing by the second, and by this time he had begun to worry too. The red was spreading...

Without waiting for Sherlock's consent, he pushed him back onto the concrete and undid the first several buttons on his shirt with a doctor's practiced hands.
"Jesus..." John's brow furrowed in concern. "What war have you been through...?"

"An inner one for the most part, if you must know." Sherlock scowled at the perceived violation and struggled to get out from under John's hands and sit up. "But in all honesty..."

"You look like hell. What happened?" John couldn't help but glance again at the pattern of scars, scratches, and bruises that crosshatched the detective's chest and torso, some more recent than others.

"It's all in the past. It's not important. What matters is that I'm back now." Sherlock asserted staunchly, straightening his back and buttoning his shirt up again.

"Sherlock..."

"Work. It was work. I didn't do it-I know you're thinking that, but I didn't. Casework."

"Do... Do you promise? None of it?"

The detective paused on the last button. "...Is that what you want to hear?"

"Only if it's true."

"Then... no. I can't promise that. But like I said before, the majority is from work."

"All this time... You've been out there... Going on with your life, working, even, and you couldn't even bother to drop me a line. Nothing. Not one phone call. A text, even. It wouldn't have been that hard. Just a simple, 'hey, by the way, I'm alive!' would have sufficed. anything."

"I couldn't. Not yet. I was going to let you know, eventually, once I'd got everything sorted-"

"I thought you were dead!" John struggled to speak, let alone keep his voice steady, drawing in a deep breath.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you."

"YOU KNOW THAT'S NOT—"

Sherlock held up a hand, shaking his head. "No, I meant... I am. Sorry. To... have let you down. I suppose. Disappointed you." He paused. "...Stop looking at me like that. It's not as if this is the very first time I've ever apologized in my life. I just haven't needed to before this. Except..."

John's eye's followed the detective's to the edge of the roof, and another burning question suddenly formed itself in his mind. "Was any of that real? Any of it?"

"You mean, what I said? Aside from the obvious... yes. I meant everything I said. Even if it wasn't true."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means I wasn't acting. I'm not completely dead inside, you know." Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed wryly.

John just stood there for a few seconds, collecting himself. "Don't joke about that. I've seen too much to laugh at it. You don't have to make light of it."

"Yes, I do have to. If I don't, who will?"

"But it's not a laughing matter, Sherlock."

He tilted his head. "You've giggled over crime scenes before. What's the difference?"

"...I shouldn't have done that. That was inappropriate. But the difference is... It's you. You still don't seem to realise this, but when I first came home, from Afghanistan, I... wasn't... in the best of shape. I had a limp, and I was having trouble adjusting to civilian society again. I hardly had anyone in London who I could go to, and even up until I ran into Mike Stanford again I really didn't know anyone. But then I met you. And, I'll admit, I hated you, too. Just, for all of the disgusting experiments, and because of how arrogant I thought you were, and because of how difficult it was to get through to you about important things... And I hated you because you were a dick to yourself. All the talk about your body being like a machine, and you didn't even hardly bother to take care of it. Drove me mad. Because I cared about you, and you didn't care about that. What was I supposed to do? But despite how you drove me crazy, you also kept me sane. And then you went and did something like... that. Do you see, Sherlock? I'm not laughing because I care too much. And don't you dare laugh at me now."

"...I'm not laughing." He was quiet for another few seconds. "I am sorry, John."