John was aware of his coworkers at the surgery looking at him funny for the first few hours of his shift. At first, John had to wonder if he might still have some breakfast on his face that he had overlooked, but upon taking a quick detour to the lavatory after seeing his first patient of the day, he didn't see anything out of the ordinary about his appearance.

So, the next time he caught his boss and fellow doctor staring at him, he decided to question her on the matter. "Okay, seriously, why are you and everyone else staring at me today? It's starting to make me feel more than a little self-conscious."

Doctor Fields smiled kindly at John and let out a quiet laugh. She was always so kind to him, and she had done everything possible to ensure he got as many hours as he needed to get by. She was also a very good friend, so when he heard that little laugh from her, he relaxed a little bit.

"It's probably due to the fact that none of us have seen you with such a big, genuine smile on your face in… God, I don't even know how long now. So, tell me: what has you in such a good mood today?" she asked curiously, taking a sip from her pink coffee mug.

John hesitated. Would it be alright for him to tell Doctor Fields about Sherlock's return before the news was made public? She was a good friend of his so if he impressed the importance of keeping it a secret, would there be any harm done? Deciding to take a leap of faith, John sighed and decided to go for it.

"Promise you'll keep this between us for the time being?" he ventured cautiously and in low tones so no one else but Doctor Fields would hear him.

"Of course."

"Sherlock wasn't actually dead these past three years. He… he came back to Baker Street early this morning." John couldn't stop the smile from spreading across his face.

Doctor Fields gasped. "I'm happy to hear it, of course, but… that still must have come as quite a shock to you, I'm sure."

"Oh, it did. But… I'm so happy he's back. I was angry at first, knowing he lied to me for three whole years, but now I just want to do something to make up for the time we lost. I want things to go back to the way they were before."

"If that's the case, why don't you go home a little early today, John? I know you were scheduled until six, but a few of your patients canceled their appointments for this evening so I think I can afford to let you go home at 4:30 instead." She winked at him. "That way you'll have more than enough catching-up time."

John didn't know what to say. He appreciated the kind gesture, of course, but he soon felt heat creep up into his face. That wink she sent his way meant she knew. Was he really making his feelings so obvious? If Doctor Fields could see how he really felt about Sherlock, didn't it stand to reason that Sherlock himself, who was much more observant than the typical person, would be able to see it more quickly and with more surety?

I don't want him to see it. I want to tell him myself. But… I don't know if I can.

Still, going home early was sounding better by the minute. So, after another minute of thought, John agreed. "Thank you, Jessie. I really appreciate it."

"No problem, John. Until then, though, you do have a few more patients, so don't clock out just yet, physically or otherwise."

Sherlock returned home from the Yard about an hour after John left for work at the surgery, which meant he was home alone until John's shift ended. He went and grabbed his laptop from the bedroom, bringing it over to the sofa and laying down with it on his lap. He clicked the bookmark that brought him to his website, checking to see if there happened to be any new forum posts from potential clients. There weren't.

"Of course there wouldn't be anything," he muttered to himself, blankly looking through his old case files. "News hasn't been out about my survival yet." How would people react when they found out he had faked his death the entire time? The story would be all over the news for weeks after Lestrade finally gave his press conference on the matter. After that, the clients would come pouring in. Ideally.

Satisfied that he had no new messages, Sherlock typed the address of John's blog into his browser on a whim and the page came up within seconds. No new entries there, either. The most recent entry—dated June 16th, 2012—made his stomach twist uncomfortably.

It read: He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him.

He couldn't wrap his head around it. After everything he said to John that day, after how difficult he had been, how could John still put so much faith in him? The corner of his mouth twitched up into a small smile. Because he's an idiot.

Sherlock went to a couple of fan sites and looked through them for a while, just to pass the time. He was amazed at how many threads there were entitled "I Believe in Sherlock Holmes." Apparently John's latest blog entry had struck a chord with a lot of people and he couldn't help but feel a bit proud.

"Touching, isn't it?"

Sherlock nearly jumped out of his skin when he realized he was no longer alone and he looked over his shoulder to see Mycroft standing in the doorway. He rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the laptop screen, paying his brother little mind.

"What are you doing here?" he questioned without much interest.

"I had Anthea drop your file off at Detective Inspector Lestrade's office a short while ago and since I was in the car with her, I thought I would stop by and see how things are going." Mycroft invited himself into the living room and sat down in John's chair (much to Sherlock's annoyance), crossing his legs and eyeing his younger brother expectantly. "How did John take to seeing you again?"

"About as well as you'd expect," Sherlock responded calmly. "He was in shock; he was upset. After I explained everything to him about why I did what I did, he relaxed a little bit, but it's still going to take time for him to completely forgive me, I think."

"The fact that he didn't punch you the second he saw you tells me that he's more relieved than angry, Sherlock," Mycroft noted simply, tapping his fingers idly on the arm of John's armchair. "He's going to be much happier now that you're back." Mycroft paused when he heard a door open and close downstairs and he smiled. "Speak of the devil."

A few minutes later, John entered the flat and upon seeing Mycroft, he frowned. "What are you doing here?"

"I think that question could go both ways," Sherlock said while looking over at John from the sofa. "I thought you didn't get out of work until six this evening? It's barely even five o'clock."

"Doctor Fields let me come home early. A few of my patients canceled their appointments for this evening so there was no need for me to stay until six," John explained, taking off his jacket and hanging it up on the coat rack by the door. He narrowed his eyes accusingly at Mycroft. "Thanks for keeping me in the dark about Sherlock, by the way."

"Sarcasm is very unflattering on you, John," Mycroft said in that oily voice of his, getting to his feet and checking his watch. "I must be off anyway. I have some important business to attend to. Do give me a call if you need anything, Sherlock."

"I won't," Sherlock promised, keeping his eyes fixed upon his laptop screen. Sighing, Mycroft bid the two men farewell and showed himself out, making his way down the stairs and disappearing from view. John relaxed somewhat when the eldest Holmes brother left and he looked at Sherlock curiously, smiling a bit.

"What are you up to?" he asked, waiting only a few moments for an answer before going into the kitchen to put the kettle on for some tea. "Checking your website?"

"Yes, but I didn't expect there to be any new cases just yet. Not until after Lestrade's official press conference on the subject of my return."

"How did that go, by the way? Was he as pissed-off as I guessed he would be?"

"After my initial text message, yes. By the time I got to the Yard, though, he'd calmed down for the most part. Once I mentioned the snipers, he was surprisingly understanding about what I had to do. Still… I could tell he was disappointed in me for not contacting anyone sooner about my survival."

"Can't say I blame him. He is one of the few people you can call your friend, Sherlock. He grieved as much as Mrs. Hudson and I, at the very least." John put the kettle on and leaned against the counter with his arms crossed, still able to see Sherlock from where he was standing. "Did he tell you when the press conference would be?"

"No. I did tell him to text me once he'd finished reading over the file though, so I'm sure he'll have more word on that topic soon enough." Sherlock fell quiet for a few minutes before looking over at John with questioning, pale-blue eyes. "I checked out your blog today, as well. You haven't posted anything in a long time."

John sighed and looked away, eyes downcast. After Sherlock had his fall, John hadn't seen the point in continuing his blog. There weren't going to be any further cases and without Sherlock, John's life was bleak and empty; boring. What was there to blog about: his dwindling emotional state?

"There wasn't any real point," he mumbled, trailing off.

"Because I wasn't here," Sherlock finished for him.

"Right."

"Well, you'll be able to start it up again soon enough. Actually, why not post a new entry right now?" Sherlock nodded over at John's laptop that was still sitting, untouched, on the table in the living room.

"And what the hell would I say? 'Sherlock isn't really dead, so I guess the joke's on me'?"

"Yes, aside from the bit about there being any sort of joke involved," Sherlock stated, setting his laptop aside and sitting upright on the sofa now so he could keep his eyes focused on John. "Lestrade never said we had to wait until he gave his press conference to let on that I'm alive; he only said that there would be one. People can know I'm alive, but they can't know how I'm alive until then."

The kettle unleashed a loud whistle and John went to take it off the stove, fixing his tea and double checking that Sherlock didn't want any before taking a seat near his laptop. He opened it and it came to life after a few moments. He logged into his blog and started a new entry, hesitating over the keyboard. He glanced over at Sherlock with an uncertain frown.

"You're sure it's alright if I do this?"

"Yes, John. You're forgetting that I had to take a cab to the Yard today and I'm sure a lot of people saw me when I stopped in the little café down the street for some tea and a small lunch. In fact, I know some people recognized me. They didn't approach me but going by how long they stared, I could tell they knew who I was."

Somewhat reassured, John started typing.

Update

Sherlock came back. He really, truly is alive. I can't say much on the matter now, but there will likely be a press conference on it very soon. Don't ask me how he did it. You'll get all of your answers then.

John clicked the "Post" button when he was finished and that was it. Word was out now that Sherlock was alive, and the news would no doubt spread like wildfire. For better or for worse, that remained to be seen. He left his blog up on the computer screen and leaned back slightly in the chair, picking up his cup of tea and sipping at it thoughtfully. He was vaguely aware of Sherlock's mobile phone going off, but Sherlock soon answered it. From the snippets of the conversation that John was able to hear, he knew immediately that it was Lestrade he was speaking with, and he watched Sherlock expectantly throughout the call.

Sherlock hung up a minute later, setting his phone aside and getting up. "The press conference is scheduled for Monday morning, as I expected it would be."

"Three days from now? Good. The sooner, the better." Absently, John refreshed the main page of his blog and his eyes opened wide when he saw the number of comments the post had already.

Seventy, and climbing fast, he mused. Let's hope telling people like this doesn't come back to bite us. John occupied himself with his tea for a few minutes, remaining silent and glancing at Sherlock every so often. He could still hardly believe he was back and sitting less than ten feet from him. He had missed the piercing nature of those icy blue eyes, the sharpness of those cheekbones, the delicate shape of Sherlock's lips… He had missed all of it.

"John, weren't you listening?"

John was jolted out of his thoughts by the sound of Sherlock's voice and he became aware of the somewhat dubious expression being aimed in his general direction. He smiled sheepishly.

"Sorry, just thinking… What were you saying?"

Sherlock sighed and shook his head, running a hand through his hair in an all-too-human gesture. "I asked if you wanted to get a take-away for dinner. And if you wanted to watch some crap telly with me while we eat."

Sometimes John could hardly believe this man was human, so seeing him do such mundane things as combing his fingers through his hair was something he always found almost hypnotic in nature. Then Sherlock spoke, and John was in utter disbelief. He wanted to watch television with him? Well, that was… new. The offer was a tempting one though, and John's smile widened.

"Sure. That's, uh… fine."

"Problem?" So, Sherlock had heard the confusion in his tone. Of course he had. Nothing ever slipped past him.

"No, no problem. It was just unexpected, I guess. I didn't think you liked watching television. You never really used to."

"There's little else to do at the moment, if I can be perfectly honest. My lab equipment is all packed up in boxes in my bedroom, and even if I unpacked all of it, I don't have any experiments in mind so I wouldn't be using any of it."

"And your violin isn't an option either?"

"Playing the violin isn't exactly a joint activity, is it?"

John's chest tightened when Sherlock said that and he stared at him with wide, thoughtful eyes. "You… want to spend time with me?"

Sherlock cleared his throat and for a second, John could have sworn he saw a light dusting of pink across those cheekbones of his. "Why wouldn't I? You're my best friend, John, and I haven't seen you in three years. That's a lot of time to make up for, don't you think?"

John's expression softened and his eyes shimmered slightly at the surprisingly heartfelt words. Sherlock was putting real effort in earning his full forgiveness for his deception, and that knowledge meant more to him than anything else. He swallowed heavily. "Well, er… we'd better get started then." He wiped at his eyes with the heel of his palm and cleared his throat in order to prevent it from cracking when he next spoke. "Should I call for take-away?"

"I'll do it. See if you can find something even remotely decent on television." Sherlock walked over to the table and easily found a few of the menus from their favorite take-away restaurants. Picking out a menu for the Chinese restaurant a few blocks away, he dialed the number into his mobile phone and rattled off their order to the oriental woman on the other end of the line. He didn't need to ask John what he wanted; he already knew what his favorite items were on the menu. A couple of minutes later, he hung up. "She said it would be here in about half an hour."

"Great. Aside from the news, there isn't much on the telly that looks good. Ah, here we go." He grinned when he found Doctor Who on one of the stations and he set the remote aside, turning the television toward the sofa before moving to the more comfortable piece of furniture.

Sherlock voiced his distaste for the show very quickly. "Really, John? I would rather watch the news. Or one of those stupid police shows."

John frowned at him, saying nothing. Getting the hint, Sherlock sighed and sat on the couch with him. If this was what John wanted to watch, then he supposed he didn't have much of a choice. If it meant spending time with him, he would just have to tolerate it for the time being. Half an hour later, the doorbell rang downstairs (apparently Mrs. Hudson had gotten it fixed while he was away) and signaled the arrival of their dinner.

Sherlock got up to answer the door, paying the delivery boy and thanking him briefly before making his way back upstairs. He set the bag of food on the coffee table and sat back down on the sofa, opening the bag and splitting the food between the two of them according to who ordered what.

"Did I miss anything important?" he questioned.

"Not particularly. You know, even though I've seen a lot of episodes with the tenth Doctor in them, I don't think I've ever seen this one."

"I don't even know how you could possibly sit through the others."

"Oh, come off it." John chuckled quietly and started in on his food, eyes fixed upon the screen. He was surprised at how quiet Sherlock was being. Ordinarily, he would be criticizing some small aspect of whatever was on television, but tonight he was doing very well at refraining from doing so. As the episode neared its end, showing a scene with the tenth Doctor on a beach with a tearful Rose, John had to swallow a lump in his throat. He wasn't normally brought to tears by watching television shows, but this particular scene hit him hard. He understood exactly how Rose felt, saying goodbye to the Doctor before he vanished from her life forever. He felt exactly the same on that day, standing on the street below while Sherlock said his goodbyes. There was only one difference: Rose told the Doctor she loved him before he disappeared. John hadn't revealed his feelings to Sherlock.

John had spent three years bottling all of those emotions deep inside, but now Sherlock was here. He was right here with him, just like before. He wasn't a figment of his imagination. What was stopping him from telling Sherlock how he felt now? The answer to that question was a simple one: he feared rejection. What if Sherlock took his confession the wrong way? What if things turned awkward between them and Sherlock decided to leave 221B again just to get away from him?

"John?" He was startled out of his thoughts when he felt a hand on his shoulder and he turned to look at Sherlock, immediately taking notice of the concern furrowing his brow. Once he was looking at Sherlock directly, the too-blue eyes beneath that wrinkled brow went wide with alarm. John didn't understand why until he felt Sherlock's thumb brushing lightly across his cheek. It wasn't until then that John realized there was a steady flow of tears rolling down his cheeks. Once he was aware of it, they only seemed to flow faster and his breath rattled out of him in quiet, subdued sobs.

"John, what… what brought this on?" Sherlock asked. He glanced briefly at the screen, at the sobbing Rose Tyler, and that was when he understood. "Surely it isn't this show that upset you so much? It's only a show, John: it isn't real."

"I'm sorry," John choked out.

"For what?" Sherlock sounded genuinely confused.

"I can't keep this to myself anymore. I tried, but I… I just can't, now that I have you back." Getting up all the courage he could muster, he grabbed the collar of Sherlock's shirt and pulled him forward, crushing his lips against the stunned detective's. John held the kiss for half a minute before pulling away and forcing out a soft laugh. Sherlock hadn't kissed him back. Sherlock didn't want him. He opened his mouth to apologize again, but Sherlock pressed the tip of his index finger lightly against his lips, stopping him. The detective was watching him very closely, his eyes staring intently into his. He was aware of his free hand lightly grasping one of his wrists as well.

"Your pupils are dilated," Sherlock murmured, his fingers pressing a bit more firmly against his wrist, "and your pulse is elevated. John, are you…?"

"Yeah… I guess I am." John sniffled and made to pull away, but the more he pulled, the tighter Sherlock's grip became on his wrist as though trying to keep him there. He remained where he was.

"Say it."

"Sherlock, I—"

"Say exactly what you're thinking, John. Don't leave anything out. If you do, I'll know." Detecting a lie was a very easy thing for Sherlock, especially when he was this close to someone. People often said eyes were windows to the soul. Sherlock didn't believe in such things as souls, but one thing he knew for certain was that eyes held truth. The brain could lie easily enough; the body was another story.

John inhaled shakily and let it out slow, gazing into Sherlock's eyes.

"I'm in love with you, Sherlock."

Sherlock's hand moved to the back of John's head then and he pulled him in close, capturing his lips in a kiss that was careful but also passionate. It took John a few moments to respond, the shock slowly dimming in his mind and being overwhelmed by relief. Sherlock broke the kiss after a minute, his lips remaining close enough to John's for them to brush together but not quite kiss. No words were spoken.

They just smiled.