No way, John thought as he entered the large supermarket. Well, no harm in getting milk, I did need some for my tea anyway. Carrying his carton of milk to the checkout, John glared at the self – service machine for the first time in ages. Even after such a long time, he still ended up having a row with the stupid machine and had to resort to joining the long line for the cashier. The cashier's whiny voice penetrated his thoughts. "That will be two pounds, sir," she was saying. John propped his cane against the counter and dug his hand into his jacket pocket to retrieve his wallet. Suddenly, his mobile pinged. A sudden barrage of 'ding's followed, followed by strange looks directed at him by the people in the line. Murmuring an apology to the cashier, John felt his heart beat faster. He only knew one person with an unlimited texting plan, who texted him like that.

John, come back to 221B if convenient. If inconvenient, come back anyways. –SH

I need your assistance in an experiment. –SH

Thank you for keeping my violin, John. –SH

John? -SH

John. Please respond. –SH

I understand that we need to talk, John. –SH

That did it. John thrust two pounds at the cashier, and ran off forgetting to take the carton of milk. That wasn't the only thing he had forgotten. He had also forgotten his cane in the process.

John ran like he was being pursued by wild hounds. He rounded the corner and ran faster. 221B was in sight now. John flung open the door with a bang, the sound resonating around the building. That sent Mrs. Hudson hurrying out, but she didn't look at all distressed, or overjoyed. "John, dear, do try not to destroy my paintwork!" she scolded mildly. "Damn the paintwork!" John exclaimed, eliciting an indignant gasp from Mrs. Hudson. He groaned and leaned against the wall, covering his eyes with one hand. "Sorry. I am so sorry, Mrs. Hudson." He removed his hand and looked at his landlady. "Did anyone come in here in the last fifteen minutes?" Mrs. Hudson scrunched her eyebrows together in thought. "Well, there was one old gentleman who came in, asking for directions to, Charter Building, it was. I invited him in for a cup of tea, but he declined and hurried off."

Charter Building? That's where Ella's office is! Was Sherlock deliberately avoiding him? John felt a sudden rush of anger. He comes back after faking his death for three years, and now he tries to lead me on a wild goose chase? "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," he called, brushing past her and stomping vigorously up the stairs. John fell angrily into his armchair, legs giving out beneath him. A part of him was already convinced, Sherlock was alive. But he wanted an explanation first. Not to be lead all over London by his presumably dead friend.

That was when his mobile rang.

John let out a shout of exasperation and snatched his phone off the table. It was Ella, his psychiatrist. That's strange, John thought, Ella never calls me, she always follows her schedule. Frowning slightly, John pressed the answer button. "Ella, whatever it is, can we reschedule or something?" John wearily spoke into the phone as he rubbed a hand against his forehead. He groaned when Ella told him that she couldn't reschedule, and that she had to see him straight away. "It will help so much, John – "she began, but John cut her off agitatedly, hastily agreeing to go and see her. He hung up as soon as the sentence was out of his mouth.

The receptionist of Stafford Offices greeted him as John walked grumpily into the waiting – room and sat heavily down in a chair. "You don't have to wait for your appointment today, Dr. Watson," she told him, cheerily. "Please go right in." John nodded distractedly at her and stumbled into Ella's office. Something was going on. When Ella had called him, he thought there was something off. Ella never called him, not even when there was a particularly important piece of news she wanted to discuss with him. John silently headed straight for the plush chairs. He wanted to get the meeting over with as soon as possible. Strangely, Ella wasn't standing up to greet him, like she normally would, nor was she even facing him. John's eyebrows knitted together in confusion. He cleared his throat. "So… you called me to talk about something?" he ventured.

The chair swiveled round in one smooth, fluid motion. John glanced up when he heard the chair squeak, but he wasn't prepared for what met his eyes next. There, in the chair, sat Sherlock Holmes, wholly alive and with a small smirk gracing his features.

John was hit by a sudden rush of emotions. He found he couldn't say anything, his jaw had flopped open and eyes practically bugging out of his head. He tried to form a coherent sentence, but failed miserably, so he settled on staring at his best friend, seated in the black chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin as he gazed evenly back at John.

For a few seconds, no one said anything. Questions were exploding in John's head as he stared at the figure in front of him. Sherlock met his gaze, stony expression slowly fading, and the uncertainty behind his placid façade finally showing. "John?" he asked, quietly. John gaped. "But… Ella phoned me – "

Sherlock shook his head. "I wanted to speak privately with you first before returning to 221B."

John suddenly shook his head stood bolt upright, his hidden emotions flooding out all at once. With a mixture of relief, joy and anger painted on his face, he marched over to Sherlock and punched him. In the face.

Sherlock had expected that blow. So he sat still and took it. However, when John tried to punch him again, Sherlock quickly grasped his arms and fought for eye contact with his raging flatmate. "John, please stop. I will explain to you in due time where I have been, so please just calm – "John yanked his arms free from Sherlock's grip and glared at him, getting redder in the face by the second. "Calm down? CALM DOWN? You expect me to be able to calm down after three years of grieving and bloody believing that you were dead, you expect me to just take in the fact that you weren't this whole time, and you couldn't even drop a hint to let your best friend know that you were alive, Sherlock? Do you know what you put me through?" John turned away, shaking, his rant stopped, as if all the energy had been drained from him. He lowered his head and closed his eyes tightly fists clenched at his sides. "John, I – "Sherlock started, but before he could finish his sentence, John spun around and strode back over to Sherlock. Sherlock ducked quickly, assuming John would try to hit him again, but John reached out instead and pulled Sherlock into a bone – crushing hug. Burying his face into the familiar black coat that smelled faintly of cigarettes and coffee, John muttered something that Sherlock barely heard. "For once in your life, Sherlock, shut up and let me have this moment."

Sherlock tensed up as John hugged him tightly, but he soon relaxed into the embrace and awkwardly tried to hug his flatmate back. Everything was still, apart from the steady ticking of the clock and John's occasional muffled sniffles into Sherlock's black coat. Eventually, after what seemed like a century, John let go of Sherlock and roughly swiped at his face with his hands. "You still have to tell me what happened in the last three years, Sherlock," John said firmly, a slight touch of anger in his voice. Sherlock sighed. "I'd really rather not discuss right now – "he started, but John firmly shook his head. "You owe me an explanation after everything you put me through, Sherlock."

Sherlock met John's gaze for a minute. Then he dropped down on the sofa and acquiesced. "I suppose I'll start where I went to St. Bart's to meet Moriarty," Sherlock began, "he informed me had had snipers trained on three of you – Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and you. If I didn't jump, the snipers would have killed you." John's eyes had widened at this, but he didn't speak and gestured for Sherlock to continue. "Moriarty had a code word to stop the snipers, but before I could get it out of him, he shot himself. He had informed the snipers in advance that if he was in any way harmed, they would have to see me jump off the building, or else they would have pulled the triggers. So the only way to save you three was to jump." John suddenly felt dizzy. There was a sniper trained on him the entire time he was talking to Sherlock, pleading with him not to jump? But the next part of the story was like a punch in the stomach. "Molly helped me fake my death. She had designed a fake corpse, so lifelike that you would believe I was really dead. I – "John cut him off in a rush of anger. "You trusted Molly and not me? Your best friend? I could have helped you, Sherlock. This whole time, Molly knew and she never said anything?"

Sherlock was not expecting this outburst. He gazed at John for a few seconds, face black as always, before he spoke again. "Consider it, John. If you had known, would you have tried to follow me?" John grudgingly remained silent and pressed his lips together, looking down at his hands. "I was an army doctor, Sherlock," he muttered. "I can look after myself." Sherlock nodded, still looking at John, but said: "I didn't want to take any chances, John. You must understand -" "Understand what, Sherlock?" John interrupted. He buried his face in his hands. "I missed you," he mumbled. "A lot."

Sherlock remained passive, allowing John some time to collect his thoughts. "I apologize, John," he said slowly, trying not to anger his flatmate further. "But you have to understand I had to assure that Moriarty's ring had no chance of returning." John's steely expression softened upon seeing Sherlock's face, the blankness gone, uncertainty written all over it, a hidden concern slipping through his eyes. And to ensure he didn't strap a bomb to my flatmate again, threaten my landlady or try to shoot the one tolerable person in Scotland Yard who provides me with cases.

"Well… thanks, Sherlock," John said slowly, a smile turning the corners of his mouth. The small smile turned into a full – fledged grin as he registered the unspoken thought and added: "How's Mycroft?"

Sherlock scowled as John sniggered. "I care not about my dearest brother, John. I thought that would have been obvious. Now," he continued, with a slight hint of impatience, "about where I've been. I was tracking Moriarty's ring, ensuring they would not come back to further cause problems in England." All this was said with a steely look in Sherlock's eyes, and John decided he didn't want to know what had happened to the rest of Moriarty's ring. "So all this time you were tracking them down?"

"That is correct, John. Glad to see you're able to keep up."

John scowled and rolled his eyes, but smiled inwardly. His flatmate was back with his snarky attitude, and John felt oddly touched. Sherlock was protecting him? John finally let his grin appear, as he stood up and headed for the door, looking back at his flatmate. "I could do with a cup of tea," he declared, feeling strangely lighthearted.