Mrs. Hudson was in a tizzy. Just six months ago, she'd had to bury one of her boys and now the other was in hospital with a bullet wound! She was glad to hear that it hadn't been too serious; losing Sherlock had been hard enough. She called out to John as she fluttered into his room. There he was, battered and bandaged, but still smiling. And sitting next to him was… no, it couldn't be!

She gasped, "Sherlock?"

Sherlock beamed and said, "Mrs. Hudson! I've missed you!"

A gray mist clouded the old lady's vision and then everything faded to black. When she awoke a moment later, Sherlock had placed her in the chair and he was kneeling in front of her as John looked on from the bed, legs dangling over the side.

"Sherlock, is it really you?"

"Yes. I'm so sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I hadn't intended to give you such a fright," Sherlock said, stroking her hand.

That's twice in one day he's apologized for something and meant it. Death softened him up a bit. John said, "Are you all right? Should we call a doctor?"

Sherlock looked at him askance. "You stopped being a doctor?"

John rolled his eyes. "I can't take care of her when I'm connected to a morphine pump, you daft git!"

Mrs. Hudson smiled. She had dearly missed the sound of her boys bickering. "I'm fine, John. I just had a bit of a scare. And Sherlock Holmes, if you were my son I'd have a right mind to slap you! Making us all think you were dead! Do you know what you did to John and me? If you ever do anything like that again, you'll wish you were never born!"

"I assure you, Mrs. Hudson, one fake death is enough for a lifetime," he said, kissing her hand. "If you're too angry to have me return to Baker Street…"

"Don't be silly, Sherlock," she said, stroking his cheek. "I can't bear the thought of you leaving me again. When will you come back?"

"As soon as John is released from the hospital."

True to his word, Sherlock didn't leave John's side until he was discharged from the hospital the next afternoon. By then, the media knew of Sherlock's return and were crowded around the hospital's entrances trying to get photos of John and Sherlock. John's colleagues helpfully sneaked them out through the morgue. When they arrived at 221B, Mrs. Hudson was waiting for them and the smell of scones filled the flat.

"Oh boys, it's so lovely to see you together again! Sit down John! You must be tired! Now Sherlock, I want to hear about everything that happened to you while you were away."

Sherlock fidgeted uncomfortably. Telling her about everyone I've killed over the last six months is probably what John would call "a bit not good."

Mrs. Hudson said, "Not up for talking? Well, at least tell me about the hair! You look so different with it short!"

Sherlock gave a disgusted grunt and scrubbed his fingertips over his scalp. "Hateful, isn't it? I cut it so that it would be more difficult for Moriarty's men to recognize me – an unnecessary precaution, since they were all idiots. At the typical rate of human hair growth, it will take two and half months for it to return to its former state!"

Sherlock stewed for a moment, and then John spoke. "Since we're on the subject of fashion, I have an article of your clothing."

John went upstairs and returned a moment later with Sherlock's coat draped over his arm. Handing it to Sherlock, he said, "Mycroft sent it to me a few weeks after you jumped."

Sherlock looked like a child on Christmas morning. He stood up, threw the coat on, and spun about. "God, how I've missed this! The other coat was so pedestrian! But tell me John… why does my coat smell of your deodorant?"

John flushed, then folded his arms, gazed at Sherlock defiantly, and said, "Probably the same reason that your current disguise is an exact copy of my favourite jumper."

The following Saturday was a quiet one at 221B. John sat in his armchair reading and every few minutes, he'd look up at Sherlock using his laptop in the opposite armchair. He'd longed for that sight for months, and he still couldn't believe it was real.

There was a knock at the door and both of them turned to see Mycroft. "Sherlock, I hate to interrupt, but John and I have some things to discuss. Alone."

"You're kicking me out of my own living room?" Sherlock protested.

"Do not worry, dear brother, I shall only be a few minutes and then you may have him to yourself again."

"It's all right, Sherlock. I have some questions for Mycroft," John said, staring pointedly at the elder Holmes.

"I'll be downstairs with Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said, shooting a threatening look at his brother.

Mycroft sat down in the chair vacated by Sherlock. Before he could speak, John began interrogating him. "You knew about Sherlock the entire time. You saw how miserable I was. Why didn't you bloody tell me?"

Spinning his umbrella, Mycroft replied, "John, while you are a superb doctor, your acting skills leave much to be desired. Had you known that Sherlock was alive, you would not have been able to hide that fact from anyone – least of all Moran, who would have slain you instantly."

John gave a military nod. Need-to-know basis and I didn't need to know. "Fine. You knew about Mary from the first, didn't you?"

"No. I only suspected her from the first. I thought it too convenient that the person who could be the key to clearing Sherlock's name would also be an attractive female who immediately took a romantic interest in you. It took me some time to confirm my suspicions, and when I did I felt it best to apprise you."

"The file," John nodded again, thinking back to the row they'd had. "I never read it."

"I knew you would not, but I would have been remiss if I had not provided it."

John cocked his head. "So you knew she was dangerous, and when I kept seeing her, you did nothing?"

Mycroft sighed. "Being an elder brother requires a delicate balance between protecting one's younger brother and allowing him to learn from his mistakes. We may think we are assisting the younger ones by meddling in their affairs, but sometimes we do more harm than good. I feared that by forcing the issue of Miss Morstan, I would merely have pushed you closer to her and thus into Moran's clutches. Rather than continue to rail against her and endanger you and everything we had worked for, I chose to remain silent. I did, however, increase your surveillance so that if you were ever in danger, rescue was a mere text away."

Noticing John's wide eyes, Mycroft continued, "I assure you there were no cameras in your bedroom."

John thought for a moment. He remembered all the times he'd thought he was helping Harry, all the times he'd covered up for her, been her designated driver, and given her money, and the time he realized that the only way to truly help her was to allow her to suffer the consequences of her actions. He grudgingly admitted that he understood Mycroft's point of view.

"I bloody hate it when you're right," he grumbled. "For your sake, I hope I find all the cameras in the flat before Sherlock does."

"Not to worry. I had them all removed while you were in hospital," Mycroft said with a smarmy smile.

"Good. One more question: you arranged for the Yard to be at the warehouse that morning. Did your plan include saving Mary?"

Mycroft looked John in the eye and said, "Only if she had desired it."

In early January, John visited the cemetery. He started for Sherlock's grave out of habit, and then turned to the left, remembering that he was there to see Mary. He stood silently for a moment, collecting his thoughts.

"I didn't want to come here. But Ella – that's my therapist – convinced me that I needed to get this out, and talking to a headstone helped me once before, so maybe it'll help now."

Taking a deep breath, he continued. "I hate you, Mary. I'm so bloody furious that I can barely see straight and I wish you were still alive so that you could hear it! I'm not the sort of man who beats his girlfriends, but I think I'd be justified in making an exception in your case."

John rubbed the bridge of his nose. "You have no idea what you've done to me. After Sherlock jumped, I thought I could never be happy again. And then I met you and I was over the moon. I was so alone and I thought you helped me so much. And then… you threw everything we had away. Did I mean anything to you? Was I just a tool to save your daddy's reputation?"

"During my second tour, my best mate was killed in Afghanistan." John shuddered at the memory. "I forgave the man who killed him. I didn't want to, but I knew that spending your life hating one person is an excellent way to go insane. I don't really want to forgive you either, but I'll bloody go insane if I don't."

After a long pause, John said, "Someday."

When John returned from the cemetery, he found Sherlock in his black coat, turning up the collar. "Going out?"

Sherlock threw his hands in the air and shouted triumphantly, "A case! Lestrade thinks we've a serial killer on our hands! It's Christmas all over again! Come along, John!"

Sherlock dashed out the door, coattail flying and John dogging his heels. Later on, John would think of that moment as the second time he'd begun a friendship with Sherlock Holmes.

A/N: Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU to everyone who's reviewed, favorited, or followed this story! I wasn't expecting all this support and I'm very chuffed. Special thanks to KrisEleven, who beta read several important chapters.

Yes, I will write more stories in the future, but they probably won't be this long. :)