Dr John Watson, previously of 221B Baker Street, now living in a tiny rented flat that he defensively called "cosy", was out for the count. Sherlock had been unsure what to do when his friend, who had thought he was dead for the past six months, fainted at his feet. Sherlock had, rolled over John and checked his pulse. Upon seeing that his friend was alive he deduced that the shock of seeing a supposedly dead man on his doorstep, and one that he had been very close to, must have cause him enough shock for his system to shut down. Sherlock had then dragged John into the apartment (the door had shut and locked when John fainted, but Sherlock was right about the key in the flower pot).

Sherlock had dragged John on to the sofa and made them both a cup of tea while he waited for his friend to come round. Sherlock had drank his and his unconscious companion's cuppa before John started to moan under his breath. His eyelids soon fluttered open and he sprang upright, as if he was lying on hot coals. He leapt to his feet, pacing the room and muttering incoherently under his breath. It was several moments before he stopped and saw Sherlock sitting in the arm chair with yet another cup of hot tea.

"Ah, John, you're awake at last!" Sherlock mused, handing him the mug. "Be careful, it's hot!"

"So it wasn't a dream…" John took the cup and held it at mouth level, but did not drink. Instead he stared, like a deer caught in the headlights, at Sherlock Holmes.

"No, I'm alive."

"So I can see," John finally sipped his tea, and sank bank down into a sitting position.

The pair stared at each other in silence, John's stunned and Sherlock's uncomfortable. Neither party were sure what to do or say to one another, after all six months had passed and Sherlock was supposed to be six feet under. John continued taking small sips of his tea, never breaking eye contact with Sherlock. Sherlock, slightly unnerved by this, but also unwilling to break eye contact, stared back, his head cocked to one side, waiting for John to say something.

Finally, Sherlock could take the silence no longer and stood up to go make himself some strong coffee. As he flicked the switch on the kettle he said, "Haven't you anything to say?"

"That's the problem," John muttered, putting down his cup and placing his head in his hands. "I have so much to say I really don't know where to start!"

"A 'Hello Sherlock' would suffice," Sherlock said as he returned with two mugs of coffee.

John took the one Sherlock had offered to him and inhaled the smell deeply, trying to wake himself up so he could realise that he was actually still safely tucked in bed and Sherlock Holmes was still dead. He couldn't be alive. This had to be a dream! But, no, when he looked up from the invitingly fresh coffee smell, Sherlock was still sat in the arm chair opposite him, with a curious look on his face.

"You think you're still dreaming, don't you?" Sherlock smiled, a little bubble of laughter escaping his lips. "Well, you aren't John, I'm really here! I'm alive and I promise you I'm back for good! I have a—"

But Sherlock did not finish his sentence, because John put down his coffee, stood up and hugged Sherlock as tightly as he could.

Sherlock was unsure how to react to this sudden physical affection. He returned the hug, of course, that was the social protocol after all. As John held him tight, his tears wetting Sherlock's jacket, he tried to deduce what the hug meant. But, he couldn't. There were so many possible meanings and Sherlock had never been too good with physical gestures anyway. So, instead, he hugged his old friend back, and let himself drown in the warm feeling it gave him.

Sherlock had just given John a pat on the back, when he suddenly pulled away and glared down at the consultant detective in the arm chair. Sherlock stared up at John, all affection and relief now gone from his face. Sherlock raised his hands up in defence, as John pulled back his fist and punched Sherlock as hard as he could. Immediately after doing that, he sank to his knees and put his face back in his hands, mumbling apologies under his breath.

"Wow," Sherlock clicked his nose back into place with a sickening crunch.

"I am so sorry, Sherlock, I really am I just…" he trailed off.

"You're conflicted, clearly."

"That's a good way of putting it, yes." John rubbed his forehead and lowered, but did not close his eyes.

"You can tell me, John. Tell me how you're feeling; I'm sure it's all perfectly rational!" Sherlock lowered a hand to John's shoulder, trying to comfort him but unsure how.

"I'm relieved that you're alive, I mean, obviously you were dead ten minutes ago so it is a huge relief that my best friend is not actually buried in that cemetery! And… I'm angry because you lied to me…"

"John, I can explain I really ca—"

"Shut up and let me finish, dammit!"

"Sorry, please, please, let me know exactly what you're feeling!"

"I'm sure you have an explanation, you're never without one. But, explain later and let me explain now!" John heaved a shaky breath. "I felt completely empty without you. I felt betrayed because, really, how could you do that to me god damn it Sherlock! Kill yourself in front of me and expect me to get on with it, really?"

"I—"

"I'm sorry, I really am. I just feel angry still. It'll pass, I promise! I'm so ridiculously relieved you're alive because, I need Sherlock Holmes, the fully functioning sociopathic consultant detective in my life."

With that, Sherlock Holmes did something entirely on impulse. His actions shocked even himself, but somehow it felt right! He leant down and took John's face in his hands. John blinked in shock as Sherlock kissed him tenderly. John, who was also shocked by this, shook off all other feelings and kissed him back as hard as he could.