Rating: K+ for mild language, some violence.

Warnings: Empty House material.

A/N: And the grand finale:"He had it comin', he only had himself to blame. If you had been there, if you had seen it, I betcha you would have done the same!" Mycroft deserves to be punched just as much as his brother, if not more.

Also, I'd like to think that Sherlock wouldn't leave John in the dark for three whole years...

Thanks for everyone who has viewed, reviewed, shared, favorited, followed, or commented this story. Hope you've enjoyed it as much as I have. Sadly, this is the end (for a while) as I'm studying abroad in Germany for the rest of the summer. Check out KCS if you want some better fanfiction than mine!

Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the inestimable Moffat and the BBC and other people who aren't me. The quote above is from the best song in 'Chicago'. As always, a tip of the hat to ACD.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

"Go away, Mycroft."

"Now, now, my good doctor…"

"I'm not your doctor, and you know better than most that I've been a Bit Not Good for the last, what, three years? Wonder why."

"Yes, John, of course. However…"

"However my ass. Go away Mycroft."

"I only have your best interests at heart, John, you…"

"Forgive me if I don't believe you. Your 'best interests' drove your brother to suicide."

"Yes. Well. About that…"

"What about? I'm not listening to your convoluted excuses or half-hearted apologies. Your fault. Get. Out."

"John…"

"No."

John raged past the umbrella man, snagging his ragged coat on his way down the stairs. If Mycroft wouldn't go, he would. He wasn't spending another moment in his insufferable presence. He would do something he wouldn't regret, but might have to spend a long time in prison for.

He ran straight into the tall man ascending the stairs, toppling them both onto the landing in a tangle of limbs.

From the top of the stairs, Mycroft called down, "You are early, for once, brother dear. How unusual."

Brother dear. My god.

John looked at the man lying awkwardly lying underneath him, taking in the dramatic black coat, the curly hair, the long, angular face, the piercing eyes… impossible.

"John…" Sherlock said as his friend hastily scooted away, back against the wall, chest heaving with unexpressed emotion.

"You didn't," Sherlock muttered. Then louder, "You didn't, Mycroft. You didn't tell him."

"It was safer if he didn't know," was the blithe reply. "And it was a bit obvious that you weren't actually dead, if the Doctor had cared to notice."

"You are a dead man walking, Mycroft." The not-so-minor government official paled slightly at the look of utter rage coming from his little brother.

"John," Sherlock said tenderly, countenance changing completely as he turned towards the trembling man. "A million apologies. I thought you knew. I am so very sorry. I never meant…"

"Sherlock." It wasn't a question, but it wasn't a statement either.

Sherlock went over to help John stand, only to be almost barreled over with an explosive hug. He felt something like a sob tremble through his purple shirt, but when John looked up, his eyes were clear.

Mycroft had made his way down the stairs, slowly, twirling his umbrella.

"Now. If you are quite finished, Sherlock, we have some important matters to discuss privately, namely…"

Both Sherlock and John turned on Mycroft simultaneously. John's punch left an impressive black eye, while Sherlock's blow was a little beneath the belt.

A few moments after Mycroft fell gasping on the floor, the ever-present, never-seen bodyguards swarmed the flat. Sherlock and John bashed their way through, flying through the two doors and out onto Baker Street. Sherlock led John through twisting alleys, up and down fire escapes, across rooftops, all at a break-neck, breath-taking, fantastic pace. It was just like old times, but better because they hadn't been able to for so long.

Eventually, it appeared that they had shaken off the last of Mycroft's men and they collapsed, gasping, against the wall in an abandoned building. They were both laughing like idiots, just like after their first chase, a lifetime ago.

"The look on his face…" John chuckled. "God, Sherlock, I'm glad you're back."

"The miserable prat deserved that and worse. He was supposed to tell you everything after a month, when it was safe. I never meant to hurt you, John. You weren't supposed to suffer like you have all these years, I didn't know... I couldn't contact you myself other than that one risky note. I trusted him, I thought you knew…"

"It's alright, Sherlock. You're back, you aren't dead, that's what's important. Wait. Note?"

"Yes John, you were busy punching me, disguised as a homeless man, when I slipped it into your pocket."

"Well, then, I don't feel so bad about punching Mycroft instead of you back at the flat. And why, when you were in disguise, were you being so… insufferable?"

"It fixed your limp, didn't it? And I never said I didn't deserve it."

"Damn right. Come on, let's get moving before those goons track us down. I want to take another swing at the British Government, it would be a shame if his eyes didn't match," John grinned evilly. Sherlock smirked back before dashing off into the darkness.