Sherlock awoke several hours later. His neck was unbearably stiff as he sat up from his position, curled in John Watson's lap. John was snoring softly, his head tilted back. Sherlock easily deduced this was his first good night's sleep in a while. He kissed his sleeping John on the forehead and went to make a cup of tea.

After drinking it he gently lay John down on the sofa and went to fetch a blanket to lay over him. After he had made his love comfortable, he sat down and smoked a cigarette thoughtfully. As he blew O's up to the ceiling, he tried to think of what to do next.

If he were in his usual state of mind and his brain was not so muddled by his love for John Watson then it would have taken him less than half the time it did then to come up with a plan. He was going to restore his reputation as a genius, because there was no doubting that he was one. Moriarty was dead, of that he was pretty certain (although "pretty certain" was not enough for him to feel secure enough to take too many risks). The fact that his enemy was dead was certainly an advantage. Moriarty could no longer strap bombs to the man he loved or kill himself at stupidly inconvenient moments.

But how to prove he was actually a genius? Well, that would be more difficult considering A: most of the men at Scotland Yard thought he had killed himself six months ago; and B: they also thought he was the one behind every crime he'd ever solved. This was quite clearly not true, as many of the criminals he caught had confessed on camera or tried to kill Sherlock. He supposed that would not be enough to convince the likes of Sally Donovan who had continued to call Sherlock "the freak" in conversations with John long after Sherlock's supposed suicide.

He thought the best thing to do first would be to go down to Scotland Yard and admit he was actually alive. That was step one sorted, at least. He also decided that there were very few ways to prove that he was actually a genius and not just a very good actor, none of which would hold up legally or morally. So he thought the best thing to do would probably be just to tell everyone that he was back, and prove his genius somehow. Maybe get the ever charming Sally Donovan to pick a random person off the street and get Sherlock to do some deducing? Maybe just dive straight back in to solving crimes and prove that it wasn't him? He decided he would wing it and see how it went.

And then it hit him like a lightening bolt. He knew what he had to do, although he wasn't pleased about it. He would have to get Mycroft involved. Both brothers were high functioning sociopaths with brilliant genius and amazing deducing abilities, although Mycroft tended to keep quiet about his deductions where as Sherlock couldn't help but blurt them out. Mycroft could prove that he was actually a genius, couldn't he? So could their parents although Sherlock was even less willing to get them involved when they so favoured his older brother. Sherlock never got that, after all, he had always been much smarter than Mycroft.

Just then Sherlock realised that John had been watching him for at least ten minutes while he was thinking. When Sherlock noticed, John smiled sheepishly at him and yawned achingly.

"I've missed that." John said, standing up and flicking on the lights. Sherlock had been thinking so long it had grown almost pitch black inside the small apartment. Another thing he hadn't noticed, whoops.

"Missed what?" Sherlock said curiously, locking away his plans into their own room in his Mind Palace.

"You sitting there, entirely lost in thought," John smiled. Sherlock's stomach did somersaults when John smiled at him.

"I've missed having someone watch me," Sherlock smiled in return. "Although I've not been doing that much rational, sober thinking these past six months,"

"Where were you?" John asked, feeling much more curious now he was more awake.

"Molly's house," Sherlock answered, realising he still had the stub of his cigarette in his hand and sucking at it eagerly to no prevail.

"I visited Molly's house all the time!"

"I know, I heard your conversations some times. I would listen in; just so I could hear you speak." Sherlock admitted sheepishly. "I was in her spare room, mostly high or drunk or both. It was rough for me, too, John."

"I accept that," John sighed. "But, I thought you were dead. It wasn't so bad being on my own; I was on my own before I met you. It was just this time; I knew what I was missing out on! I knew exactly what life could be like, but it couldn't be like that because you were dead!"

"I know we can't just carry on as if nothing has happened, John, but—"

"No, we can't… but we can sure as hell try our best to!" John beamed.

Sherlock smiled, it might take some time, some grovelling and some bloody good detective work, but he knew things would return to how they should be soon enough.

But for now, he had to tell his dear brother that he wasn't dead. He plucked his phone out of his pocket and dialled Mycroft's number. It rang for a long time before he picked up, Sherlock deduced that this was because he was supposed to be dead and even the Holmes family get shocked sometimes.

"H—Hello? Sherlock it can't be you!" Mycroft stammered, confirming Sherlock's theory. Who said he wasn't a genius?

"Well, brother, it is," Sherlock winked at John, who was laughing from the other side of the room. "I need your help to restore my reputation, Mycroft,"

"But you've been dead six months!"

"Does this not prove that I am, in fact, a fully fledged genius and not a fake?"

"I suppose but how did you—"

Sherlock sighed, he had just explained this to John but decide he ought to cut his brother some slack; after all, Sherlock was the smarter one.

"Moriarty killed himself; I assume you found his body,"

"Yes and his prints only on the gun," Mycroft cut in.

"Yes, well, very good," Sherlock rolled his eyes, he was already growing tired of his brother. "I did jump from the building, but I also suspected that Moriarty would have me kill myself to save my friends. He had snipers trained on you, John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. I had Molly fetch a body from the morgue, the benefits of having a coroner as a friend I suppose, and dress it in clothes identical to mine. I also had John, who was watching, dosed with that H.O.U.N.D. drug from the Baskerville case," Sherlock paused in case his brother had an angry comment about hacking into secret files. Mycroft remained too shocked to reply, so he continued. "Molly parked a van full of mattresses and sheets just in front of the building and I launched myself perfectly so I landed on that rather than the much harder pavement. Molly then dumped the cadaver. John was hit by Molly on a bicycle which knocked him off balance, further disorientating his tiny mind," he paused before adding, "No offence, John,"

"None taken," John rolled his eyes exasperatedly.

"When he ran to the body, because he was under the influence of the drug, he saw what he expected to see: my body. It was, in fact, some man named David Franks who was a suicide victim from a few days previous. Are you following so far?"

"Er, yes," Mycroft sounded entirely baffled, but Sherlock continued regardless.

"Because Molly works in the morgue and knows me personally, she told everyone that there was no need to identify the body, especially since it was so disfigured from the fall, and Dave Franks was buried in my grave, no questions asked. I attended my funeral actually, lovely service, Mycroft."

There was only silence from Mycroft's end of the phone.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock looked at John with confusion. John shrugged. "Mycroft, are you there?"

A small squeaky voice whispered "You really are a genius!"

"Yes, yes, I know!" Sherlock beamed, his ego practically glowing. "So, anyway, brother, I need your help!"