Hello all! Kathson here, back from hiatus and updating for you. Hope you all had a lovely holiday and New years! Thanks so much for all the lovely reviews. Enjoy!

Sherlock

"Here." Sherlock looks up and sees John all but thrust an ice-pack wrapped in a tea-towel at him. The doctor is avoiding his eyes, his lips pressed tightly together as a sign that he is still furious at Sherlock, but at least he isn't shouting anymore.

The detective accepts the pack with a muttered 'thanks' and pressed it against his now certainly swollen jaw, groaning with relief as the cold immediately numbs the throbbing while John sits down in his armchair.

Silence descends upon them, a pressing, tense silence, during which John avoids making any eye contact with Sherlock, yet never taking his eyes off the detective.

Sherlock fiddles a bit with a corner of the tea towel, not sure where to start, where to look, where to put the hand that isn't pressing the ice-pack to his jaw.

"Tell me why." It's a very simple request - no, not a request, an order - but Sherlock hears every question John is asking.

Why did you leave, why did you hurt me, why didn't you let me help, why didn't you tell me, where have you been... The unasked questions buzz around in his head and he wills himself to calm down, take a deep breath and force the questions back and down.

"Sherlock." Dangerous now. John is getting impatient, impatient in a way that tells Sherlock that if he doesn't come up with a damn good explanation, he'll find himself out the door in no time.

"He was going to kill you." Sherlock blurts it out, just like that, because it's the most simple and effective way to start his story.

When John raises an eyebrow, Sherlock starts babbling. "Moriarty. He had snipers, three of them, ordered to shoot you, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson unless he called them off or they saw me jump and I had anticipated something so I had Molly help me fake it, but then I realized that if I were to turn up again, they might come back and finish the job and I couldn't let that happen, John, I wouldn't have been able to live with myself if you died because of me and I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry, I wanted to come back, I really did, but I had to finish it, I had to take them all out or everything would have been for naught John and I, I-"

Sherlock's voice breaks and he suddenly realized that his breathing is accelerating, short fast breaths forcing themselves out of his lungs, making the room spin and his vision blacken as he desperately tries to calm down, to regain his control.

And then he's pulled against a warm, firm chest, a strong arm around his waist and a hand forcing his ear against John's chest, right where his heart is. The ice-pack drops to the floor, but Sherlock doesn't care, focusing on the calm, steady heartbeat he can hear through John's jumper as the doctor holds him tight. Slowly, his breathing evens out and Sherlock finds himself calming down, sighing contently as he pressed just a tiny bit closer to John, his John, who keeps on holding him until he's calmed down.

John

When Sherlock's breathing finally steadied to a normal rate, John released. He didn't want to, it he was honest with himself. A desperate urge to cling to him was eating at John's iron control.

He had Sherlock back, by some miracle, and he didn't want to let him go again. But he did, for various reasons.

Before all of this Sherlock had very severe personal boundaries. He would disregard other's without a thought, but penetrate his and you were lucky if he reduced you to tears.

Sherlock's defense system was vital to him and John wasn't about to risk what friendship they still had left for his own foolish desires.

But he also doesn't want to delude himself. Yes, Sherlock is alive. He's home. But this isn't going to be easy for either of them. They won't be able to slip easily back into their previous routine and lifestyle.

Not when the memory of Sherlock's leap and bleeding skull are still as sharp as they were the day he witnessed them. Not when three miserable, desolate years hang like thick smog between them.

As he backs from Sherlock he thinks he glimpsed something, disappointment, perhaps? But with a breath it's gone and he's sure it's just his addled mind.

He draws a steadying breath and tries for a smile. "I think I need a cup of tea." he murmurs and turns from Sherlock. He can't resist laying a gentle hand on his arm as he goes.

He brews the tea on auto-pilot. Sherlock has moved to the living room, allowing John his space for a few moments. A rare glimpse of consideration on his part, but an important one.

They're both about to face on the most intense experiences of their lives head on. John needs a few moments to collect his thought and ensure he's fully in control of himself.

He doesn't want to slip up and clock Sherlock in the face again. But the anger is still bubbling under the surface. He doesn't want to break down into sobs. But the months, piled into years of grief are still dammed within him.

But most of all he doesn't want to weaken and kiss Sherlock. Because while grief and anger where festering inside him for the past three years, another emotion grew. Well, it didn't exactly grow because it already existed inside him. But it all came to light, a rush, a realization, with sudden, painful clarity after his supposed death.

A shadow of the thought, almost a premonition, circled his mind in the months before Sherlock's jump, but he shoved it aside with stalwart determination. But after Sherlock's funeral it all came crumbling down. He loved Sherlock, he'd realized and the sentiment still rings true, but right now he most certainly doesn't want to act on it.

"Friendship first" he reminds himself as he brings two steaming mugs into the living room. "Salvage whatever we've got left. Make sure we're still good. Maybe after the dust has settled." he tells himself.

Sherlock takes the mug and murmur a 'thanks'. Whether it's for the tea of for being so understanding through the entire ordeal, John isn't sure.

But he doesn't linger on the thought. Instead he asks the question he's been wondering to himself for the past three years. "Where have you been?"