Whew, this one is rather long. Took me almost 2 hours to write it. But I hope you like it and that I didn't make it too sad. ;)

Chapter 6

The end and the beginning

And there it was. The same picture, the same scene. Nothing he'd seen more often in the past months, in his dreams, his memories. Like watching a movie, when the disc was damaged and it jumped back to the same scene again and again.

Sherlock on the roof. One step. Falling. Dead.

Again and again.

Only this time, it seemed so terribly real.

John staggered backwards, but he managed to keep standing on his feet. It hit him like a sock in the eye: This wasn't a dream. He was totally awaken. This was real. Sherlock was really standing up there.

Of course it was crazy, of course it actually wasn't possible, but after all that had happened to him on that day, this suddenly seemed to be the answer to his questions. It really had been Sherlock, this man he'd seen at the other side of the river Thames. No imagination. And it almost becalmed himself to see that he had regained the control over his perception again so far as not to imagine seeing any dead people anymore.

Sherlock still stood up there, all calm, and looked down onto him. He didn't move, it almost looked as if he was a puppet or a cardboard cut-out. Like an insane joke of someone, who wanted to give John more nightmares. There really were enough madmen out there. But then suddenly Sherlock raised his arm and reached it out for him. Like it had been back then.

Suddenly a dreadful fear came over John that Sherlock might jump again. There was, of course, no reason therefore, but he got seized with panic and his legs obeyed to it.

He rushed towards the entry of St. Barts Hospital.

Nothing could stop him. Not the pain in his legs, which had become worse during the past weeks, not the fact that he bumped into two nurses and one doctor on his way upstairs and least of all their swearing.

John ran through the hospital like a madman on the lam and he didn't care about what possible consequences this could have, when he came back down later. If he came back down later. Because he was quite sure that, if he didn't find Sherlock up there and everything had been imagination after all, he'd look for an alternative route downwards. A more definite one.

Totally pumped out he reached the door that led to the roof. It was ajar. When he reeled outside, he had to hang on to the door frame not to fall over.

He looked around hastily and began to panic again, but then he saw him.

Sherlock still stood where he'd been standing a moment ago. He'd just turned around and now looked at John, even a bit amused.

„You didn't have to run. I'm really not in a hurry."

John starred at him. He wanted to say something, shout at him, cry, anything. But he was barely able to breath.

„Holy crap!", he gasped and slumped down right away.

Fortunately he didn't faint completely. He gritted his teeth and waited, until the thin black fog that clouded his sight had vanished.

Meanwhile Sherlock had come over to him and crouched in front of him.

For a while he just looked at John, while this one tried to find a steady rhythm of breathing again.

Then John reached out to grab Sherlocks shoulder. He just had to feel he was real. That he actually was here. And it felt real, no ghost. And this was painful.

„John, I'm sorry."

There was real regret in Sherlocks voice, real sadness. But still the first and only thing that John felt by himself was real fury. And there was nothing he could do to stop himself from saying the first words that came to his mind:

„You asshole! You damned, fucking liar! How could you?"

He didn't shout, it was more of a dry whisper. And John felt his eyes fill with tears.

„Let me explain", Sherlock began, but John had found his voice again:

„I suffered, you idiot! I was shattered! I was almost about to...I almost wanted to..." the rest of the sentence got lost in John's sobbing. He couldn't stop it, the tears ran down his cheeks. He covered his face with his hands.

Sherlock was still sitting there, helpless and waiting. He took a tissue out of the pocket of his coat and passed it John, but he pushed his hand away.

Finally he stood up and walked around on the roof, while John still sat at the door like the picture of misery. When Sherlock got close to the edge of the roof, he heard him screaming behind him:

„Don't you go one step further!"

Sherlock stood still. In this moment it became clear to him that John really feared he could jump again. That he really thought he would do this to him again.

He turned around and felt so infinitely guilty. He had the feeling that whatever he did, he could never ever make up for what he had done. That he'd let John alone for such a long time without giving him the faintest clue about his surviving.

There was no apology. No reconstruction of the progress of events. No Sherlock-Holmes-explains-his-ingenious-plan. Pain was the only thing he felt.

Slowly he walked over to John, who'd finally stopped sobbing and who looked at him now, hurt and disappointed.

„John, don't you worry, I'm not gonna jump today." He reached out his hand towards him „come on, stand up."

John hesitated, but slowly his anger vanished. He could see how much Sherlock felt sorry about all of this and even if he could not understand it, John finally took Sherlocks hand and allowed him to put him back onto his feet. His legs still felt a bit weak.

„How?" he whispered.

„I'd planned it to jump, I had..."

He stopped his explanations. He didn't care whether John knew about how ingeniously the plan was he'd formed to mislead Moriarty and how thoroughly he'd faked his own death or not. Boasting-off about his skills suddenly didn't matter to him anymore. He just wanted John to forgive him.

„I...I had to jump. Moriarty had threatened to kill you."

John gazed at him in bewilderment. „What?

„You and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. He had already instructed his snipers to shoot you, if I didn't jump. There was no way to stop 'em after Moriarty had shot himself."

„The papers said, the police had found out that you shot him."

John, since when do you believe what the papers say? And the police, those are all idiots anyway. This was what Sherlock normaly used to say in that situation, but he forced himself not to.

„I know. Moriarty'd planned it all. It should have ruined me. Drag my reputation through the mud and finally I should have died. Well, I think he succeeded in the first thing."

John still starred at him, but he said nothing. So Sherlock went on:

„And I couldn't tell you on the phone what I intended to do, because the whole time we were observed by those snipers. I wanted them to believe...I wanted you to believe I was really dead. I wanted you to think I was a traitor and a coward and therefore had killed myself. This was the only way I could be sure that Moriarty's accomplices didn't hurt you. And I couldn't just return shortly after that, because I feared they would immediately return and fulfill their orders. So I lured them abroad with the help of my brother and..."

„What? Mycroft knew about all this?", John ejaculated.

„Yes, I made him promise that he'd never tell you anything until the danger was over. As a matter of fact we succeeded in catching them three. Well, actually two of them. The third one is still at large and that's why I have to be very careful, but I'll take care of him as soon as I can. But, you know, that's why I need you. And, no, that's not the only reason I need you, I..." he stammered as if he didn't know what he wanted to say „I need you by my side, because...because...I had always thought I was best on my own, but then there was you and... I've never had friends and I never felt the need to have any, but you are a real friend, John. And you are the best and the only one I ever had and I ever want to have and I'm really, really sorry about what I've done to you.

And if you can't forgive me, that's ok. And if you want to punch me in the face and shout at me, that's ok, too. And if you tell me to go, then I'll go. But I hope...I hope you know that you really matter to me very much and I promise that I'll never let you down again and that I'll never lie to you again. Never ever, John, honestly."

When Sherlock had finished his speech, John noticed he had tears in his eyes, too. And John didn't get it. He had in fact never doubted that most of what the papers said was wrong and that Sherlock wasn't a traitor. But if what he'd just said was the truth, then there wasn't any reason to be angry at him.

And as he looked at his friend standing there, waiting for John to punch him, he suddenly only felt mercy.

He couldn't help it. He went over to Sherlock and threw his arms around him and hugged him as tight as he could. At first Sherlock seemed to be surprised, like he'd never reckon this to happen, but finally he returned the hug.

For a while they just stood there in silence. It was a feeling as if no time passed, as if no time had passed. Like the end of a terribly trashy, sad fairy tale. Maybe it kinda was such a thing.

Finally Sherlock released John.

„Let's go home, ok? It's a bit windy up here."

John pulled off a little smile and nodded in agreement. The sofa in front of the fire at Baker Street seemed to be a better place for further discussions.

And this time they both took the stairs on their way down.

Well, what do you think about this reunion? I look forward to your comments. :)

Don't worry, there are still one or two chapters to come. :)