Hello dears.

I hope you liked the Preface, but the real story begins now. This story is therapy for me, because I don't think I can go a year without Sherlock and without knowing what happens!

It will be angsty, it will have a lot of sexual tension and John/Sherlock lovin.

Enjoy!

-ACR

A train to London, early morning in June. The year is 2013. A man is sitting, alone, black hair chopped recently short. He's wearing a suit, covered up in a grey coat. He looks out the window and clutches his umbrella, the nerves get to him despite himself. It's going to rain today, it seems, and he hasn't been in this city in a very long time.

He picks up his phone and dials a familiar number; the only number he really uses.

"Yes?" The voice of his brother chimes, already annoyed.

"I'm on the train, I'm nearly there," He looks once more out of the window.

"I'm begging you, not to do this, Sherlock." Mycroft frowns on the other end, "The risks are too high. You made your choice, a year ago, to stay away. I thought you would respect that."

"I've weighed the chances of being recognized," Sherlock cocked his head, "And I'm taking my chances. I'll make sure no one sees me, if it makes you feel any better."

"Fine. I know I can't stop you. You're impossible."

"You said John will be out of his house soon?"

"Yes, he'll be gone to work within the hour. Be careful."

Across town, 221B; a tiny apartment. John Watson wakes up and lies in bed, the images of his nightmares still swimming in his head. The fall of a body, the blood on the face, the lifeless eyes. He knows immediately what today is, but he pushes it out of his head. Time to get up, go to work, have a normal day. So he does. He gets up and heads to the kitchen to make food, trying to ignore all the strange furniture; the emptiness he feels anyway.

As he's toasting bread and boiling water for tea, his phone rings. He glances at the ID, and lets out a shuddering sigh before answering.

"Yes, Lestrade?"

"Good morning, John," Greg's fake and cheery voice came through, "How are you feeling today."

"Great." John lied.

"I called to tell you not to eat a big breakfast today, the bodies of last night's case are rather… mangled."

John took out his toast and threw it in the garbage, "Fantastic."

"Indeed. Another one of the butcher serial killings, the fifth in the last few months."

"Two bodies, same as always?"

"Yes."

"And still no leads?" John poured his tea and knew the answer.

"No," Lestrade faked a laugh, "It's funny really. Cases like these make me miss him more than ever, you know? He would… He'd have it cracked by now."

John was silent, gripping his spoon with painful strength, "Lestrade."

"What?"

"He…" John gulped, "He died, and all you did was try to arrest him because you thought he was the one behind all those cases you couldn't crack."

"I…" Lestrade felt embarrassed, "I know. And these cases, the impossible ones, are just a constant reminder that I was so, so wrong. I'll never doubt him, you know that. I'll always believe in Sherlock Holmes."

John closed his eyes and sipped his tea carefully, "I'll see you at work."

At the train station, Sherlock hailed a cab. As it pulled over, he sat down inside.

"221B, Bakers Street, please." He set his umbrella down next to him.

"Alright," the cabbie glanced at him through the window, "Hey, do I know you from somewhere?"

Nervousness gripped at his stomach, "I don't believe so, no."

"I'm sure you're right."

Mrs. Hudson greets John at the bottom of the stairs. He smiles at her while he pulls on his jacket and scarf.

"Are you going to visit his grave today?" She says, and his stomach sinks. Another feeling to ignore.

"No, why would I?"

"John sweety," she looks sincere, "Its one year, today."

He frowns at her and ties on his scarf, "The world still moves on without him."

Though that's not entirely true.

He leaves, shutting the door behind him only as Mrs. Hudson realizes he hasn't taken an umbrella. She frowns and then sighs.

"I'm sure he'll be fine."

John begins his travel down the street towards work.

The cab pulls up to 221B and Sherlock steps out, taking it all in. The building is… familiar. But at the same time, it isn't. It's had some work done, maybe. Or maybe he was just expecting different. His mind never really fails him, but today feels like a haze. In his pocket, a beep rings out. He takes it out and reads the text.

He's not inside. –M

He approaches the old wooden door and rests his palm against it, feeling and touching and remembering. Then he takes the door handle in his hand and opens it slowly. He glances around, making sure no one is there, before embarking up the stairs.

John keeps walking, but he's only walked up a block when he looks up into the sky to see the dreary clouds. He frowns, debating whether to keep walking, try to beat the rain. Or maybe even hail a cab. But he has time, so he turns around to head back to his apartment for an umbrella.

The door to Sherlocks old apartment opens easily and he walks inside. To maybe anyone else, the apartment would look mostly the same, but not to him. He sees the difference and it takes away his breath, a momentary realization of the change that has happened since he left. Most of his things are gone, replaced with new things. A new desk, with a new computer. Two bookshelves full of books, none of which Sherlock recognizes. Even the furniture, besides Sherlocks old chair, has been replaced. Paintings now adorn the walls, pictures of the sky and dreary forests. Sherlock nearly wonders if John even still lives here, but he can sort of… smell him. And there's not doubt that this is his home.

No woman lives here though, it seems John has remained single. The thought makes Sherlock smile. Then something catches his eye, mounted on the wall next to an unfamiliar painting above the fireplace. Sherlock approaches, his mouth slightly ajar. His old violin, now hanging on the wall. Underneath it is a plaque that reads:

In memoriam of Sherlock Holmes.

He smiles sadly and runs his fingers along the strings, removing it from the wall. A quick tune and it will be good as new. Maybe he has time for one more song.

John reaches the door, glad he didn't try to keep walking to work as it has started drizzling outside. As he comes inside, he sees a navy umbrella that Mrs. Hudson had left out for him. He smiles and takes it. As he's about to walk outside again, he hears a strange noise coming from upstairs. The sound of a violin playing.

He stands there, listening; it's one of his favorite songs, one of Sherlocks favorite songs. Then, shock washes over him. An odd, sort of haunting feeling. He hasn't heard the violin being played here in… a year.

Carefully, he takes a step up the stairs. As he's walking, fear begins to take him. Maybe the fear of ghosts, but more the fear of expectations, the unknown, of what awaits in his apartment, playing the song he hasn't heard in so long. Even greater, perhaps the fear that he's finally going insane.

John opens the door to a sight he's seen a hundred times, maybe. The tall, slender figure standing at his window, playing out sweet symphonies to the town, lost in a different world. It is something John probably ignored hundreds of time, or pretended it annoyed him. But how many other times did he stand in the other room, listening and enjoying every second of it. How many times did he compliment Sherlock on his playing? Twice, maybe three times. It was something he regretted deeply, to this day.

Only today, hearing it meant something different, something haunting. Because this was the music of a dead man.

Definitely crazy. Or do crazy men, know they are crazy? The haze was coming now, fast. Perhaps a dream.

"Sherlock."

The words escape his mouth before he has time to think about them, in a single breath he didn't know he had been holding since before he reached the door. The tall man stopped playing, and turned around slowly. The blue eyes met his, and electricity ran through Johns body. This was not the face of a dead man, this all felt too real.

The two men stared at each other from across the room, not able to stop looking, but neither willing to make a move or take any step. John himself, Sherlock realized, looked so far from normal. He looked more gruff then he had been before, with longer hair now, if maybe not by much. He had dark circles under his eyes, almost like when he had first met him. Those were the eyes of a man haunted by nightmares. Sherlock knew from Mycroft, that John had been re-attending therapy since his own "death", but this hit him so much harder than its knowledge. To actually see what the aftermath of his leaving looked like – painful.

Sherlock made the first move. He took a few steps across the room towards John, which made John jump. The comprehension of his dead friend being in front of him was hard enough, but this was happening too fast. John's little movement of fear seemed to make Sherlock stop in his tracks, staring into the terrified face of his old companion. He felt his own face begin to disintegrate. This was such a bad idea.

John watched as Sherlocks ghostly face began to mirror sadness, and something else… maybe fear, mixed with tension and perhaps a hint of relief. It all felt rather human, and John gripped the door-handle, unable to understand how- why this was happening to him. He didn't notice the tears dripping down his face. But Sherlock did.

The tall man took a few, slow steps forward. When John didn't seem to care, he quickened his pace, and then stopped in front of him. He slowly outstretched his hand towards Johns face, wanting to wipe away the tears there. But John looked terrified, uncertain. So he held his hand an inch away from them and looked at his old friend with hope; hope he wouldn't be rejected now.

John felt so aware of the hand, inches from his face. Every tiny and fast beating of his heart was screaming out, "this is real, someone has answered you prayers." He finally gave into his urges and leaned into the hand, whose warmth was unexpected, and yet so wonderful. Since Sherlocks death, John had been wary of physical contact. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson and her little pats of encouragement was the only contact he had felt in this past year. He even denied the handshake of Lestrade after a job-well-done. So his face, resting in Sherlocks hand, wasn't just new, but shocking in how much he felt like he needed it. He closed his eyes and enjoyed it, his own hand coming up to hold Sherlocks to his face. This certainly felt like the best dream he'd had in a long time.

John looked so peaceful, his eyes shut as he laid against Sherlock. But he looked so perfectly sad. Sherlock ran his thumb across Johns cheek, wiping away a tear that was resting there.

John didn't know he was crying. "Shit, shit," his eyes flew open and he pulled away. He walked past Sherlock as he rubbed his face, and the tears he didn't know he was shedding. It was almost embarrassing, seeing Sherlock and crying like this. He couldn't make them stop, this certainly wasn't how he ever thought he would react. He looked up and met Sherlocks face, broken from rejection. Then, it hardened into a face of uncaring that John had always known was a lie. Sherlock coughed and gestured towards the couch.

"Can we sit down?" Sherlock asked. His voice, deep and tired sounding, brought back a whole wave of sadness. Something as simple as a question, brought back all the feelings he had been pushing down inside.

Sherlock was surprised when John nodded. He thought he would have run away by now, pushed him away and hated him, maybe. He had often thought of how his reunion with John would be. He had always expected to see John happy, moving on and away from the fact Sherlock had died. Part of his hoped for that, John to be happy. But a tiny, selfish part of him, was happy John was so broken right now. That perhaps, he had actually meant something to the only person he had ever, really cared for.

John walked past him, and sat down on the couch. He purposely avoided eye contact, and Sherlock didn't blame him. After a moment of hesitation, the thought came to him. Maybe he could walk out that door, leave John alone forever now. But he fought back the urge, and closed the door before joining his friend on the couch.

They sat on opposite sides, at first. Sherlock looked at John, who was staring at the violin that Sherlock had replaced on the wall.

"What?" Sherlock asked quickly.

"I-" John gulped, still unsure if he was dreaming but it felt a hallucination "I haven't moved that since I put it up there."

"Oh?" Sherlock looked away. Everything else was gone, it seemed. The violin looked like the only remainder of what had once been his home, too.

John must have read his mind, "I have a lot of things I haven't touched." He put his head in his hands and closed his eyes, "One of your scarves, the red one. It's still in the closet. People aren't allowed to sit in your chair. They had to pry your phone out of my hands so they could take it away…" John squeezed his face together, failing to hold back a new wave of tears.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, unsure of what to say or do. He moved closer, once again running his fingers across Johns cheek nervously. He wasn't sure, really, how to deal with human emotions. It was then that he noticed John was trembling.

"You're shaking," Sherlock breathed.

"Yeah." He looked at his feet, "I tend to do that, now."

"Why won't you look at me?"

John turned harshly and looked at him then, a look that gave Sherlock chills up his back. He didn't expect for this to affect him, he didn't think seeing John cry would make him want to.

"I'm trying to make this hurt less, if it's a dream."

"Isn't it a good dream?" Sherlock tried to smile and failed.

"No," John looked away again, new tears coming, "Because I still wake up and you're dead."

Sherlock's mouth fell open in shock of the honesty. He hadn't expected anything like this. He reached over and took Johns hand in his, squeezing it.

"This isn't a dream."

"I saw you die!" John stood up, pulling away, and once again throwing Sherlock into a pit of rejection. He cross the room, anger boiling in him now. Everything he wanted to say to Sherlock and never could. Nights he had stayed up crying because he couldn't handle it. Blamed Sherlock for so long because of how he felt.

"I-" Sherlock started.

"You left me!" John turned and glared at him, "You left me alone. You died, I saw you die. I saw your body and now you are here." The hot tears were running fast. If this was really a dream, he was going to get out everything he was feeling. If it wasn't a dream, he was going to scream it anyway.

Sherlock stared at him, trying to remain calm. He shook his head, standing up, "Everyone dies."

"Not you!" John shouted, "There were so many things I needed to do. Needed to say! You left me all alone, to live in this bloody place by myself. And now you're here, saying you haven't been dead at all. Months of trying to get over it, move on, and I never could. I could never throw out that stupid scarf or that dumb violin. Every time I get a text, part of me expects it to be you. Every time I open this door, I expect you to be sitting here with your stupid, smug face and all your… you-ness!"

They stared at each other for what felt like an eternity, before Sherlock started chuckling deeply.

"What!" John frowned at him.

"It's funny because, you don't know how many times I nearly texted you. Maybe just to scare you, or let you know that I was fine. But I didn't."

John didn't say anything.

"You had to think I was dead," Sherlock sat back down and put his head in his hands, "If I had stayed alive, stayed here, you all would be dead."

"What?"

"Three guns," Sherlock stared at him, "Three. One pointed at your head, one at Mrs. Hudson, one at Lestrade. The only person, with the way to keep you alive, was Mortiarty, and he killed himself in front of me. The only way… the only way that they would leave you all alone is if I died. If I jumped from that building and…" He couldn't bring himself to say the rest. Just thinking about it brought back the memories, and tears were close.

John stared at him. The idea that Sherlock pretended to die to protect him was absolutely stupid. Because it hurt John a lot more when he thought he was dead.

"Why couldn't you have told me, then? About your plan?"

Sherlock shook his head gravely, "Because I realized- then, it was Moriarty. But tomorrow, it could be someone else. This is just a reminder that I might be… special, but I'm not the only one. And as long as I am here, I will continue to put you in harm's way."

"I think I deserve to be able to make that choice for myself." John frowned. The haze was lifting, this was beginning to be… real.

"And I don't?" Sherlock locked eyes on him, "I know if I gave you the choice, you stay with me every time. But one day, I come home and you are dead- or worse, you've finally turned against me… Then I lose. I'd rather die, rather you move on and be happy and live a normal life without me."

John released a breath and closed his eyes, "Then why did you come back today?"

"I needed to see for myself , how things were going, a year after my death. All I knew was what Mycroft told me. That Molly is dating a good man, that Mrs. Hudson is doing well and she's very happy. That Lestrade continues to be a bumbling idiot about cases, and that you're working for him now, you took Andersons job after he quit, congratulations." Sherlock laughed, "But he told me lies, too. That you were engaged to be married, happy, moved on. And all I wanted to do was see for myself, you were never meant to find me here."

"I'm not… engaged," John took a few steps closer and sat down across from Sherlock.

"I know."

"I mean," he looked out the window, "I couldn't even date. How do I explain the nightmares to someone, explain how my best friend killed himself and the world still thinks he's a fake. Most importantly, how do I… How do I love someone again, if they might just… die."

Sherlock momentarily ignored the word 'love', "You don't think I'm a fake?"

"I couldn't think you lied to me, even when you told me you lied to me." John smiled then, a real smile, a genuine one.

Relief filled Sherlock, "I'm… glad."

"Wait, Mycroft knew you were alive?"

"Of course, who do you think set things up for me to go into hiding, for me to fake my own death?" Sherlock mused, "Molly helped, too, of course. With the body and such."

"I'm gonna kill them." John sighed. That made Sherlock start laughing, which as always, made John start laughing. He had nearly forgotten this, how much better he felt just being near him.

"You're awful calm about this." John laughed, "For someone who's been dead for a year."

"I'm happy," Sherlock smiled at him, "Truthfully, I actually am trying not to cry. It's interesting."

"Feelings? Doesn't sound like old Sherlock."

"You'll find that I'm not the old Sherlock. I've had too much time to think about all the things I'd say or do or feel if I could see you again, just come back to this place." He looked around.

John looked up at him, "Me too."

Sherlock met his eyes, "What would you do if this was the last day you could see me again?"

"Is it?" He asked nervously.

"God, I hope not."

"Then it doesn't matter, right?" John smiled despite himself and stood up, "Come on. I think we should talk to Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock stood up and stretched his hand out to stop his friend. John looked at him.

"Please, tell me."

"No, you're here and you aren't leaving so it doesn't matter." John turned away. The answer, rather frightened him. Something he didn't talk about with his therapist, though she had long and often tried to get him to fess up. Though, at the moment, he wasn't sure if he really knew that answer at all. All he really knew was that; by some means, he had a second chance with Sherlock and he wasn't going to blow it. He also wasn't going to just let it all go right now.

Sherlock watched him turn and pause. He cocked his own head curiously and watched as John turned around.

"Can I do one thing, I wish I had done?"

"Of course." Sherlock breathed.

John approached him and wrapped his arms around his waist, pulling Sherlock into a hug. He had never done it before, and he always wished he had. Sherlock smiled and wrapped his arms around John too. After a few moments of breathing, John pulled away and offered up a quick smile.

"Lets go."