Sherlock found his way into his former room, his breath catching at the state it was in.
His room had been nearly stripped bare of its contents,most of them shipped for storage at Mycroft's estate.
However, a few items remained.
There were a few stray boxes littering the shelves here and there.
His blue silk dressing robe was on it's hook on the back of his door.
His periodic table poster hung in its place across from his bed, which itself had somehow retained a duvet and some pillows.
His eyes rested on the most surprising sight of the day, his violin was laid out on the sheet, well polished and kept, despite 3 years without it's owner.
He delicately lifted the instrument, cradling it in his hands gently, as if it would dissolve in his grasp.
Hesitantly, he plucked a string, his face cracking into a grin as the sweet, perfectly tuned note rang from the chamber.
Hastily, he rosined his bow, drawing it smoothly over the strings.
In the kitchen, the former doctor jumped the sudden onslaught of sound.
His face broke into a grin of his own as the shrill cry of the violin gave way to the smooth ballad of Sherlock's favorite piece.
The detective came swirling into the room, his eyes closed, mouth open as he lost himself to the notes.
John leaned against the table once more, watching the detective twirling and moving to the trill of the music.
If ever evidence were needed to prove that the detective was, indeed, alive, it could be found here.
The blogger was captivated by the detective's motions.
All too soon the piece came to an end, Sherlock bowing to the laughing applause of the doctor.
"That was brilliant Sherlock! "
The detective set the instrument aside and swept forward, a chaste kiss placed firmly on the lips of his blogger.
"Thank you."
John nodded, eyes tight at the swell of emotion boiling from the events of the day.
"I ordered Chinese. May said it would be here in about half an hour."
Sherlock's smile fell.
"May? What happened to Lilith?"
The former doctor shrugged.
"Last I heard she and Ian- The Tesco guy that you hated- got married and moved to Liverpool."
"Liverpool? Why on earth would, never mind- what else has changed while I've been gone."
He was focused now, his eyes boring into his blogger.
God how John had missed that.
"A lot. Three years is a long time Sherlock."
"Like?"
John shrugged setting himself on the table top, his feet swinging off of the edge.
"Donnovan was promoted to Detective Inspector."
A twitch, barely perceptible, made it's way across the detective's cheek.
" Anderson is now head of forensics."
And full on scowl at that point.
" Lestrade nearly lost his job after the whole Richard Brooks business, though I suspect it was Mycroft who kept him employed."
And smirk returned.
This time it was John who frowned.
"Lestrade. He knew, didn't he."
Sherlock could see the fine line being drawn before.
"Not intentionally. Not at first. He was at Mycroft's shortly after my funeral. He was the reason that-"
John stepped forward his hand out, searching.
"Reason that you-"
The detective swallowed thickly, bracing himself for the inevitable hit his admission would earn.
"I was there, John."
"Look, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing,One more miracle for me. Don't. Be. Dead."
The doctor knew what Sherlock meant.
He smiled, placing a tender hand on the detective's arm.
"I got my miracle."
Sherlock sighed, surprised and relieved at his unexpected kindness.
The former doctor patted Sherlock's bruised cheek, earning him a hiss of pain.
"You're still a fucking arse for it taking so long about it, mind."
Sherlock smiled softly.
If this was as close to forgiveness as he got, then he could be content.
John smirked, not quite sure what to say.
His thoughts were interrupted, however, by the ringing of the doorbell downstairs.
Sherlock instinctively ducked back into his room, a mechanism he developed from three years of hiding in the shadows.
John didn't comment, simply shuffling down the stairs and throwing open the door.
In stepped Mycroft Holmes, A very apologetic looking Detective Inspector at his side.
"Where is he?"
The politician barked, earning him a scowl from both the Di and the former doctor.
"Who?"
Mycroft rolled his eyes.
"Don't play the fool Doctor Watson. It isn't becoming of you."
John held up a hand.
"Former doctor, actually. I've retired. And I have no idea who on Earth you are talking about. I'm the only man who lives Here, last time I checked."
He offered the pair his most assured smile, and was greeted by a scowl form Mycroft, and a wide eyed gape from the DI.
"Myc, Do you think-"
The politician simply banged his umbrella against the ground.
"Sherlock, Watson. I know that he's here."
Following his instincts, the former doctor put on his best mask of shock followed by easily summoned pain.
"Sher- Mycroft. He's dead."
The broken way the words fell from his lips softened the anger in the elder Holmes's eyes.
"Mister Watson. I-I'm sorry there seems to have been a mistake here. My, err, late brother-"
Lestrade pushed his way in front of Mycroft gripping John's shoulders tightly.
"He's alive John! Sherlock is alive! And Mycroft and I are just off to publicly prove his innocence. And Molly is bringing you dinner! He's alive John!"
John simply stared at him, squinting slightly.
"The two of you have gone, completely and utterly mad. I was there. I saw him fall. I checked his fucking pulse for god's sake."
He allowed some of his residual anger seem through, his predatory stance and steadily rising voice backing the two men down the steps.
"So until the corpse of Sherlock Fucking Holmes walks through this door. There is nothing that you can say or do to convince me that the man I love is alive."
With that, he slammed the door, locking it firmly before leaning against it, a hand over his face.
He managed to stifle his giggles long enough to make it back upstairs, where he collapsed into his chair in a fit.
Sherlock entered the room, clapping slowly, a huge grin splitting his features.
"That, was a very impressive job John. You are a gifted actor."
John stood, bowing.
"Bet if you'd have known about that then you'd have let me in on it sooner."
The words were said in jest, but the sting was still there.
"No. It would have put you in too much danger."
John shrugged, his arms out to the side.
"I'm still not seeing how that is, but I trust you'll explain it- and why you're so goddamn jumpy- over dinner."
Sherlock nodded, his expression solemn once more, though a hint of a smile curled at his lips.
"Then are you going to explain your sudden affinity for inserting expletives into nearly every sentence?"
The former doctor rolled his eyes, crossing his arms and squaring his shoulders.
"I don't think that it's any of your fucking business how many fucking expletives I put into a fucking-"
He burst into laughter then, his composure shattering.
"You have a point, Sherlock. You have a point."
There was yet another knock at the door, forcing the detective to jump, and John let out a long suffering sigh.
He walked over to the kitchen window, peaking out to see none other than Molly Hooper standing out side the door, a basket in hand.
"Go ahead and hide Sherlock. It's Molly. Attic is still open if you-"
He could here the near-silent footfalls of the detective racing up the steps to John's room.
"want to hide there. Alright then Watson. Show time."