Sherlock had seen the way John had swayed on his feet, and moved quickly to catch him.
He quickly maneuvered the doctor to the couch, covering him with one of the blankets.
The whole process seemed eerily familiar.
Sherlock crouched beside his blogger, concern and pain filling his voice.
"Mrs Hudson. I had no-"
His voice cracked, his fingers digging into his hair as he tried to rein in his emotions.
"I had no idea that he had gotten this bad."
He took a deep breath.
"I don't know what to do."
Mrs Hudson paused; and ignoring the mess she had left on the floor, stepped over and wrapped her arms gently around the man.
"Sherlock. Neither do I. All I can say is that you need to give him time. He's been mourning you for so long. We all thought you were dead!"
Her voice was sharp, edged with raw emotion.
It cut deeply into the detective.
"He took it so much harder than the rest of us. He loved you, and he felt like he was responsible for your suicide."
She shook her head, flopping into the chair nearest the couch.
"The first time I caught him close to joining you –in the graveyard, I mean, I thought it was because he missed you; because he wanted to join you. That's understandable, I suppose, going after those you love."
She sighed heavily.
"It wasn't for that reason, though. Once I got him to sit down and hand me the gun, he told me that he couldn't handle it. That he felt guilty for pushing you into it, for cornering you."
She was back to tears now, as was the detective, who had placed a hand atop John's.
"The second time it was Detective Inspector Lestrade who caught him. A year ago today. About to leap off of Bart's."
She wiped her eyes and laughed dryly.
I had to call some old friends of mine out of their retirement to help me watch him. My sister was –still is, in the hospital, so I couldn't be around to watch him when he needed it. The Mayweathers were great with him. Brought him back to us a bit."
She placed a hand lightly on the detective's shoulder.
"He's been through hell. I don't know why you left, or rather, why you came back. I have no idea what you went through. But Sherlock, you broke him."
The man nodded, wiping his face tiredly, his hand tightening on his blogger's.
"Moriarty had people ordered to kill you, John, and Lestrade if I didn't jump. The only way for that to work was if I made it convincing, you know? So how better to convince the world than my only friend, John Watson."
He shook his head.
"Six months. That was how long I was supposed to stay dead. That was how long it was supposed to take for me to make things right again. Not three years."
Mrs Hudson shook her head.
"I figured it was something like that. Look, I'm going to clean up that mess, and then leave you two alone, yeah? Maybe go for a nice walk."
Sherlock stood for a moment, squeezing John's hand before turned to embrace his former landlady.
"Mrs Hudson. You do not know how much I have missed you."
She patted his back lightly, still slightly startled by the fact that he was actually here, actually alive.
"I think I have an idea, dear."
He pulled back, hands placed gently on her shoulders.
"I'll clean up the mess. You go on. Don't worry about it."
The woman nodded, and he gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek.
"It's good to have you home Sherlock."
She stepped away, picking up her serving tray before gingerly leaving the room.
Sherlock turned back to the unconscious figure on the couch, his chest tight with emotion.
He simply bent down, brushed his fingers gently over John's cheek, before planting a light kiss on his forehead.
He stood once more, going to move away, but a whisper came from behind him.
"Sherlock?"
John laid there, his eyes squinting at the impossible figure before him.
"Please tell me that I'm not still asleep."
Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head.
"No, no you're not. You are actually very much awake."
John shook his head, propped himself up on one elbow while he reached out with his other hand.
Hesitantly, Sherlock held out his hand, bending forward slightly.
John's hand touched his, the contact firm yet fleeting.
John gasped.
He was here.
He was alive.
After three years.
In the blink of an eye John was up, toppling the detective over with a sharp right hook to his jaw.
"Three fucking years Sherlock?"
Another hit, this one to his side.
"You made me believe you were dead for three fucking years!"
A trainer-clad foot connected with the detective's side.
"Do you know the hell I've gone through? How many times I've been put virtually under house arrest because I couldn't fucking cope?"
He knelt now, straddling the detective, his hands gripping the fabric of his shirt, and pulled him upwards.
"How much I fucking missed you?"
Their lips then collided.
John's mouth slammed against Sherlock's.
There was no passion, no finesse.
Just the sheer need to confirm that he was alive.
Truly alive.
John pulled back, pulling the detective into his arms from the floor, his tears were flowing steadily now.
"God Sherlock, I can't believe it's really you. All this time and I thought –but you came back."
John simply sat there on the floor, straddling the detective's waist and clutching him to his chest.
Sherlock, for his part, was thoroughly and completely stunned.
It was all he could do to just breathe, and wrap his arms around John.
His John.
Sherlock buried his face into the crook of the other man's neck, inhaling the scent of him.
Tea and wool and sandalwood, and that warm musk that was just John.
All John.
"John."
"It's all a trick. It's just a magic trick."
"Why didn't you tell me Sherlock?"
It was a whisper, laced with the bitterness of years.
"I wasn't supposed to. You had to believe John. It was the only–"
He swallowed, his grip tightening.
"The only way to keep you safe."
Sherlock drew in a deep, shuddering breath.
"I did try though, to tell you, that is. It was all a trick, John. Just a magic trick."
John sat back, blinking rapidly.
"Say that again."
Sherlock did, his hands still resting on his blogger.
"It' was all a-"
John shook his head.
"No. When you –in your, umm, your note. You said it's, 'it's all a trick.'"
Sherlock smiled, unsteadily, the pain in his jaw making the gesture painful.
"Three years too late Doctor Watson, you figured it out."
The other man simply rushed forward once more, pressing Sherlock into yet another kiss.
This one was softer, more forgiving, though not yet what they had previously shared.
"I want you to explain it all to me."
Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but was silenced by a look from his blogger.
"Not right now. Can I please –can we please just sit. I just–"
The words he needed to say weren't there, yet the detective understood.
He simply wrapped his arms around his doctor and held him close once more.
A reassurance that they were both alive.