A/N: It's been almost a month omg omg I'm so sorry I love you all for being patient. Yes all three of you(; okay okay no really I'm sorry. Muah. Enjoy.

This has like one bad word so. Barely. I had to. It's John, guys. I hope it's not too long.. and I hope it's worth the wait… I'd love feedback! Mmk go ahead and read now! ~ 3

It's been a whole month. John himself, Mycroft, Molly, Lestrade, and a couple other employers on the squad joined together to contemplate the huge perplexing mystery that is, Sherlock's death. For over 300 hours, they've been searching vainly. John was now at home, finished from yet another exhausting trip to the lab.

An envelope from the original folder (that was filled with Sherlock's information) stared at him on the counter across from where he was sitting on Mrs. Hudson's dining chair. Finally giving in, the agony unable to bare any longer, he grabbed it. Mycroft had asked him not to open it until he was utterly okay with Sherlock's death. Yet, the late man's brother claimed he had no clue what its contents were. He told John his worried claim was "'just in case' protection." Of course, john had his suspicions. Sighing, he finally ripped off the top in a jagged, rushed manner. He dumped the contents onto the dining room table, and tumbling out came a letter and a small package. They were both addressed to John. His eyes got huge, and he was unable to comprehend what exactly was happening; memories now flooded his aching head. He knew the handwriting. It was Sherlock's handwriting. He wrote this before he died. Well, "died," really; At least he assumed it was before he "died." He began to open the letter.

John suddenly stopped mid-opening.

What if this was from recently? Sherlock isn't dead; this could be from last month. Last week. Yesterday.

The very thought of Sherlock being alive, somewhere, writing to him, made John smile. Just a little. It made him frustrated at the same time as well, thinking about how he'd kept a secret. Why couldn't John just know? Of course, no one really knew. At least, John didn't think they knew. That's why they were trying to solve the mystery of his "death," right? No one could know except Sherlock, right?

His head pulsed with pain. He couldn't stand thinking this severely, and this scattered. He was going nowhere with his thoughts, anyway. He sighed and continued his previous task. It turned out to be a letter of medium length, filling a whole side and a half. He began to read.

My dearest John,

I suppose it's peculiar for me to be calling you that. After all, I've never actually shown any terms of endearment to you, have I? I also suppose you're fascinated with why I wrote you a letter. Well, I just need to get a few things off my chest.

Sherlock was right; John was confused, and definitely curious. Why the all of a sudden sentiment? He supposed the reason would turn up later in the letter.

First off, you know I'm still alive. I actually wrote this after my.. 'death.'

Well, that answers one of his questions.

But you see, I am in need to admit something; something huge. Before I say, please, don't be too irate with me.. Alright, John, here it goes.. Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly, all of them; they know. They know exactly how I survived.

"What?!" John shot up out of his chair, outraged. He paced, reading further, clutching the paper tighter in his tired hands.

Yes, in fact, they even helped me plan the whole contrivance. Hired actors for me and everything. They made certain that you were kept at a distance; made certain that I appeared as slaughtered to you as possible.

John was blazing beyond words or actions at this very moment. He couldn't believe his eyes at all; why would Sherlock do such a thing? "What the bloody hell- Sherlock! Three years, not very good timing!" He exclaimed at his paper, even though no soul could hear his words.

He winced a little at the faint voice at the back of his memory. "Not good?"

He kept on reading.

Please, understand I did it all for our safety; your safety. I had to. Or else... Moriarty would've killed you all. Snipers, aimed right at you three. Ready to pull the trigger at any given moment. Actually, don't tell the others... Especially not Mycroft; Heaven knows he wouldn't let me live it down. But... I was mostly concerned about you.

John started to cool off, sitting back down. He released his grip and smoothed the paper down a little. "Sherlock..." He said softly and sweetly to himself.

I couldn't of delt with myself if I caused your death. I'd live every day with such high regret. A dead man walking, if you will…

...Too soon? Sorry. Look, John, the point is... I'm sorry. I had my reasons. I had my doubts at first, but it was what I had to do. There was no other choice. Nothing. You couldn't know... It wouldn't of seemed real enough to call down the snipers. I really hope you understand. Oh, and John? One more thing.

Reading the last part of the letter, his heart began palpating rapidly, and he dropped the letter, which gracefully fell to the floor.

I love you, John.

See you soon,

-SH

He did a double-take, and his vision blurred. He couldn't believe it. Sherlock, actually showing emotion? Not to mention, this extreme of it? To him? Although, he was acting weird throughout the letter... 'Dearest John?' Caring about his safety so much? Hating himself if he let John die? John shook his head in disbelief. He left the letter on the floor. To anyone else, he was staring at the wall; to himself, a story of his thoughts poured out in front of his eyes. Emotions circled around his head so quickly, it made him dizzy: Confusion; Anger; Flattery; Unknowing what to do; a slight pang of doubt. What if Sherlock didn't write this letter? Could it of been Moriarty? No, it told in the papers he was dead. Suicide. But, perhaps, like Sherlock, it was all a faux? John put his head in his hands, wanting to give up. Wishing he never read the letter. Who knows how awkward it would be now? Does Sherlock expect him to feel the same way?

Does he feel the same way?

"John?" Mrs. Hudson opened the door with bags of groceries in her arms. "John, I've bought more tea! I also got a few things to make biscuits to go with it. Thought you'd like that." She raised her eyebrows as she viewed the man. John was up out of his chair, circling and pacing around like a crazy man. She threw her groceries on the table, and rushed near him. She put her hands on his shoulders in an attempt to stop him. "John, are you alright?" He, still dazed, blinked a few times to try and connect with reality once again. Sighing, he sat down.

"I'm fine." He looked up to her and shot a fake smile the best he could, but he wasn't fooling her.

"John, did you hear me? I've got tea and biscuits. Does that sound good?"

"Uh.. Uh yes, sure. Good." Mrs. Hudson sighed, and put on the kettle. She crossed over to him, sitting across from the anxious man.

"John, are you positive you're alright? You can tell me if-" John sharply sighed, annoyed.

"Yes Mrs. Hudson, I'm fine!" He half-yelled curtly, making the fragile woman jump. He sighed again, but this time more calm. "I'm positive. I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I'm just..." He sighed, hoping she'd make her own cover-up for him, not having an explanation to his bizarre actions without explaining everything. He smiled again, this time a little brighter, and it seemed to work on the other end; A curve mirrored on the landlady's face. "Mrs. Hudson, some tea would be wonderful." He tried to stay even and calm, not giving away any nervousness. She hopped up and nodded, muttering words of concerned gabber to herself. He sighed a little breath of relief. Suddenly, his phone buzzed again. Pulling it out of his pocket, he read the flashing screen.

I trust you got my letter?

-SH

John must've squeaked out loud, because he heard Mrs. Hudson's tin clatter to the floor. The poor man shot up to his feet, everything shocking him at once.

"I'm alright." He yelled to the kitchen, while reading the new message blinking on his phone.

I'd like to see you.

-SH

Mrs. Hudson stood, catching her fragile breath. John rushed to the door, taking his jacket and uttering a quick 'goodbye' to the puzzled landlady. He typed a reply as quickly as he could.

Where? JW

The reply was almost immediate.

Same as our goodbye.

-SH

He sighed to himself. That's Sherlock, He thought, Always speaking in clues and riddles. He tried to make himself laugh to cover the choke of sadness. Sighing, he called a taxi. When one finally pulled to a stop in front of him, he jumped in anxiety.

"St. Bart's hospital, please."

"Sherlock?" John now wandered the lonely rooftop of St. Bart's hospital, each step piercing his side from memories much too fresh to be dealt with. Even after three whole years. He dreaded this. He doubted this. He questioned whether or not Sherlock was actually behind this. Was it Moriarty? Or maybe the elder Holmes, playing a prank? Pretty harsh prank. John couldn't believe himself for actually doing this. He supposed the thought of seeing and talking to Sherlock was too great an offer to pass.

"...John?" That voice entered his head with both great pain and great relief. It was so far away in his mind, it almost seemed imaginary. He thought it was his own mind, playing tricks on him. John was far too scared to turn around. He opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't choke a single word. "John, it's me. Honestly, I know you haven't forgotten me in the mere three yea-"

"Mere?!" John found his words, back still facing away from the other man. "You honestly think three years is a small amount of time?! Sherlock, seriously. I would have thought that you'd have grown not to be as big of a-" He sighed, and turned around. "Sh-" He choked on his own breath. He couldn't fathom the figure in front of him. He was numb with shock; with sadness; with fury; with annoyance; with joy; with love- wait… Love? Did he honestly love him back? John shook his head. He didn't feel like thinking. Then, at that moment, he realized what a mess he was. Sherlock did this to me, was his logic. Filled with such rage, he ran towards the dark figure and threw a wicked punch. It knocked both of them back quite a bit. Sherlock stumbled, keeping his balance, expecting this entirely.

"John, while I deserved and expected that, I-" Sherlock was interrupted by sudden arms gripping him tightly around the waist. John wasn't letting go anytime soon. Sherlock hugged the blonde back just as tightly, ignoring the searing pain of his nose, happy to be reunited. He hugged as tight as he could, as did John. Neither said a word; neither Brit needed to. Sherlock's dirty shirt became damp with tears. They stood there silently for a long time. Both were equally willing, both were grateful. It was nice; but they both knew what needed to come next. They needed to talk.

Sherlock was the first to let go. Clearing his throat awkwardly, he spoke up.

"Uh… John? I'd like to uh.. apologize, actually." John let go and looked up at him.

"That's a first." John muttered. He couldn't tell if John was joking, or being serious. It didn't matter.

"Well.. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. At all. And.. well.. you know. I wrote it all down in that letter. I trust you've read it?" John nodded. "...All of it?" John nodded again, looking down awkwardly. Sherlock sighed cautiously. "I assume we can continue business as usual, though.. As partners." He winced at his own voice. "No no, not.. not partners, I meant.. I mean-" Sherlock's frantic trail of words was interrupted abruptly as John smashed his lips to the brunette's. Sherlocked kissed back gratefully, but also utterly shocked. He pulled away to view the broken man in front of him. He must've gave a questioning enough look, because John smiled a little and grumbled.

"There's room to be furious at you later, you bloody jerk. Right now…" An unsure smile appeared on his face. "I love you too, Sherlock."

Story end.