John came to, and before opening his eyes, recognized that his head was on something softer than the floor. Mrs. Hudson? he thought in his confusion.

John, John can you hear me? a masculine voice was saying that was all too familiar, but one he couldn't place at the same time. John! Its voice was rising. John opened his eyes deliberately. Unfocused, he found and locked onto the piercing blue-green lights among a pale profile with dark and shaking edges. Gradually, he started to remember what had just happened – and why his head might be resting on this man's lap.

"Sherlock, you – you can't be alive … you're dead," John muttered. He sat up and found that the top left portion of his head was throbbing, and winced in pain.

Sherlock was standing now, attempting to say indifferently, "I was almost concerned that we wouldn't be reunited after all." He was pacing, and even though John was still recovering, he could tell that there were hints of emotion and relief being suppressed in every word.

"Yeah, listen, this is all very convincing, so good job to whoever decided this would be a fun joke, but did you actually think I would believe Sherlock Holmes had come back from the dead? Not even he was that clever." Sherlock stopped pacing and looked at John on the floor, his face suddenly absent of any relief he might have had, and his eyes made so dejected that even sorrow would have befell the devil.

"Ice. You need ice, right? I'll get some." Sherlock swiftly walked into the kitchen to gather some ice from the freezer. "And maybe a cuppa? I'll put the kettle on. How about we try one of the new teas you bought today?" John was still entirely confused, but moved himself up to his chair and let the strange man take care of him. "Here." Sherlock handed John ice wrapped in a towel with an expression searching for approval. As Sherlock sat across from him, John thought of how unmistakably 'Sherlock' this man was, and knew in his heart to accept the stranger as Sherlock, even if his head didn't agree.

"How?" John asked plainly. "How the hell aren't you dead?"

"That's a complex question John. Suffice it to say I had a lot of help."

"Right. Good. Now that we've established that you're alive due to 'a lot of help', mind telling me why the hell it took you three years to come back?" John was getting emotional, and Sherlock started to move into a defensive position. "You thought it was fine to leave your friend for three years, to mourn for you – oh, wait, I'm sorry, flatmate. 'Cause it's not like a friend to go and commit fake suicide, all the while making his 'friend' believe that he's really dead!"

"John, calm down. I can understand that you're angry at me, I'm ang-"

"Angry, Sherlock? No. I'm hurt. I thought you cared about me, but that was stupid of me to think that. Everyone was always telling me you didn't have a heart. Did I listen? And oh yeah, I'm furious. But why should I be? I should have expected this, right?" John was standing now, expressing himself through violent gestures. Sherlock rose opposite to him, careful to be clear of the waving arms.

"No, John. I am sorry. But if you would hear me out, I can explain how it was necessary for me to enact such actions. I had hoped it wouldn't have taken this long."

"Necessary?" John paused. "Sorry doesn't cut it, Sherlock." John swaggered up to Sherlock with all the authority the captain could muster, and socked Sherlock across the jaw hard. Sherlock almost hit the floor, but caught himself and straightened in time for a repetition on the other side, from which he didn't recoil as effortlessly. Sherlock stood level again, locked in a stare with John. John visibly looked hurt, with his eyebrows drawn together, but he was searching Sherlock's face as he would have searched a soldier's who had done him wrong. Half expecting it, Sherlock received another punch across his right cheek, so full of force, he fell to the floor.

"Finished, John?" a quiet and shaking voice said from the floor. He slowly stood up, hand to his cheek, head low, and shoulders slumped. John stepped back and looked at Sherlock again, and saw that his whole body was disconsolate and remorseful; the 3 years had been as long-suffering as it was for himself – if not more so for Sherlock.

"Sherlock," John sighed, his face now soft with understanding. His eyes met with those of an apologetic boy's, and John was taken aback by how human Sherlock looked now. John found his feet shuffling towards the downtrodden man, arms opening to do what he had wanted to the moment he saw Sherlock in the chair. John solidly embraced Sherlock, and Sherlock offered no coldness or hesitation in returning it and wrapping his arms around John.

"John," Sherlock breathed, his voice cracking. They stayed like that, with John's head resting on Sherlock's chest, until it became uncomfortable to be standing any longer. Both of them sensing their own and each other's discomfort, they started to pull apart before Sherlock held John tight again and kissed the top of his head. John never felt more loved or more wanted, and knew that his love for Sherlock was unrequited no more.

"Sherlock," John admitted hoarsely, pulling away. "I'm glad you're back." Sherlock smiled at him. "You don't know how much I wished I would come home and I would find you sitting in your chair, or doing some bloody chemistry experiment in the kitchen. For being such a pompous idiot, God, I missed you. But you still haven't told me why you were gone for so long. Well, obviously because of Moriarty, but he died up on the roof … so why this long?"

"He wove a massive and intricate web. I needed to isolate and extinguish his little virulent sparks he created. Most of it could be done from here in England, but I did need to do some travelling for certain things. It took time before I could be sure that I had succeeded and exhausted every possible path … and to make sure that we would all be safe." He stared out the window to avoid eye contact with John, and to hide any emotion his face might fleetingly betray.

"Well," John yielded, "I'm glad you did that. Even though you could have at least let me know you were alive!"

"No, John! Anyone who knew would have been in danger and would have put me in danger if they were found out!"

"Obviously someone had to have known you faked it if you had 'a lot of help', right?"

Sherlock scolded himself. "Yes."

"Who, then? Someone you knew and could trust. Mycroft? Who else?"

"No, not Mycroft." Sherlock looked at his hands and the floor, avoiding looking at John.

"Sherlock. Who. Tell me," John pleaded in such a demanding voice that Sherlock could not refuse.

"Molly." He continued on hurriedly, " I asked her to keep quiet and I knew she would because she is the only trustworthy person who would be able to keep their mouth shut and emotions in control," he finished sharply.

John slumped against the wall and stared off. "She knew all along," was all he said.

"Yes. She did."

John covered his face with his hands. All of the time that they had spent together, when he told her how he wished Sherlock wasn't dead - and the time when he arrived through her window all torn up about Sherlock and she straightened him out. All those times. He started to get angry at Molly, now, but he couldn't - she had only been keeping her word not to betray Sherlock and protect him. It wasn't fair. None of this was fair, the way it had turned out.

Hands still covering his face, he thought aloud, "It's not fair." It was the only thought circling his mind, however childlike it sounded.

"I can see why you would view it as such," Sherlock said.

John's hands, he realized, were a bit sore from the abuse he had given them. They'll hurt even worse later, he thought. It would take a while to forgive and understand Sherlock completely, and John knew he couldn't be holding in any residual anger in order to do that. And this? This had rekindled it. It may have been misplaced and with no logical justification behind it, but it didn't matter. Even after the short beating Sherlock had received, he still didn't look hurt enough. John dropped his hands to his sides, and took a moment to decide where best to get him where it hurt. He was going to relish it this time.

John took a step forward off the wall, and stopped. Sherlock was facing him, opposite, in the clearing between the chairs and the sofa. With a hint of malice in his eyes, John suddenly lunged at Sherlock's stomach the way he had been taught in rugby so long ago, with well-focused force that knocked them both flat on the ground. Sherlock, clearly not expecting such a violent outburst, had the wind knocked out of him and lay gaping and gasping for air on the floor. Satisfied, John stood up and looked down on his friend. Friend ... Sherlock is my Goddamn friend! John let out a remorseful moan.

"Sherlock, I - I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have ... I just ... " He couldn't finish. He felt guilty and foolish for being so cruel. Once was enough.

"No, John. It's ok," Sherlock gasped, his breath not yet fully recovered.

"Sherlock, no. It's not. It's just ... things will be so different now - now that you're back. And - and what do I do to show that I'm glad you're back? I hurt you. I don't want any more of that - for either of us. We were both wrong - don't look at me like that, like you think you're a god who can do no wrong! You're a bloody prat, you must know by now. But I forgive you, Sherlock, I always have, because I -" he stopped; he didn't know if he could really tell all and give into his longing to let his heart be fully open to the one person who meant so much. He had fantasized about this moment for too long, but didn't know if he had the courage after all.

"Because you what, John?" Never before would John have dared to dream of discussing their relationship - the closest they had gotten was when Sherlock admitted John was his only friend. Nothing more needed to be said. But Sherlock had openly displayed what John hardly thought him capable of ever again - raw emotion. Sherlock hadn't been afraid to use words and action to imply his feelings. He wasn't the same man, and that made all the difference.

"I ... love you." Sherlock furrowed his brows, seemingly unable to understand the phrase once directed at him. "I mean that I love you as a friend, like no other friend I've had before, or will have. And in a way I could never quite get with any of the girlfriends I've ever had. It's just a way that's unique from anything else that I've experienced. So, um, yeah."

Sherlock silently contemplated this for a minute before finally saying "I understand," and giving John a tender look that thereby released him of his ephemeral stasis.

"Thank you," John said almost silently, even though the words echoed around the room. John slowly made his way to his chair while Sherlock stared out the window. A sort of calm, like after a windy downpour ,overtook the space where the minutes that passed did not matter and were not noted. After an indefinite amount of time, John found himself staring at Sherlock and taking in his very physical being, lazily still trying to make his mind believe that this was real, even though his heart had already told him so. Sherlock finally turned around, a faint smile on his lips. The oceanic eyes met its sky blue companion's in an assuring gaze, and finally, they felt like they were home.