A/N
Okay, so I know that I said Wednesday and it's still technically Tuesday (late hours I know), however, I received a most wonderful review from theimprobableone, that made me laugh and it also contained the first suggestion for finding Sherlock of the Fanfiction! The review did also happen to request a Tuesday posting day instead of a Wednesday one and since the review made me smile so much, I have acted like a Genie of Arabia and have summoned it so! (Or pretty much worked through the night like an elf to do so XD)
Anyway, thanks to everyone so very much for their reviews, alerts and favourites, you've made my week! Hope this chapter is okay and – oh! I almost forgot:

A WARNING: This chapter contains 2 medium-strong expletives, so if this offends you at all, please do accept my dearest apologies, they are used simply because of the character and the situation

Disclaimer: Today I went to search for Sherlock at the Diogenes club, expecting to find Mycroft and ask for him. A word of advice: NEVER EVER call the people in that place "old codgers". I am telling you this because a moment later I was arrested by two men in black suits from MI6 and am currently typing this from the back of a lorry. I have no idea where they are taking me or where my monkeys are, but I'm scared! Someone help me out of here!

John stood staring down the corridor. He had flown down the stairs, agony shooting up his leg but he'd ignored it, taking the steps two at a time. What if Mrs Hudson had been hurt? Things around here had been quiet since Sherlock had gone, too quiet, but if something happened and Sherlock wasn't around, it was up to John to have to defend Mrs Hudson. It was another reason why a job sounded unappetising; it meant leaving Mrs Hudson alone and after being in danger so many times before in 221B, the thought was unsettling, even with Sherlock and his cases gone.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he had almost crashed straight into Mrs Hudson, who had been backing away from the door, and she had given a cry, shocked.

"Mrs Hudson! Mrs Hudson, are you alright?" John said and he placed his hands on her shoulders, turning her to each side a little to check for any injuries. She nodded and seemed to gather the will to speak in her shocked state. John could have almost smiled at that. Mrs Hudson didn't look like it but when it came down to it, the lady was someone who had nerves of steel and a caring attitude to go with it and if there had been any woman that Sherlock Holmes may have admired in his lifetime, it was Mrs Hudson. And rightfully so to, John thought.

"He's at the door," she managed and she put her hand to her mouth, the appendage shaking slightly. A mix of confusion at what had scared her so and fury, for the same reason, made him turn. And that was where he was still stood, frozen, a few long moments passing as he stared at the figure in the doorway. He took in the tall, lean stature, the curly hair and, in an instance, he knew who it was. Sherlock Holmes was stood on the doorstep of 221B Baker Street.

John stopped breathing for a moment and it felt like his brain had just stumbled over itself as the information tried to process itself. He couldn't move and he was certain that that would be his state for a considerable time; his brain was moving so slowly that he could barely think about breathing, much less speaking or moving. There was a long moment of silence. Sherlock, it had to be him, it had to be, looked to be processing things just as much as he was and not just in the usual deductive way. He seemed genuinely unable to think of what to say, looking like he had originally had something planned out to say and then thought better of it when he saw John's confused, shell shocked face.

John's mind seemed to have to almost reboot in an effort to make a move and getting his vocal chords to work over the noise suddenly clamouring in his head was a difficult task. It couldn't be Sherlock. The logical part of his brain was rebelling, telling him not to believe it but then backtracking as his eyes contradicted that. It looked like Sherlock. John knew what his flatmate looked like, he still remembered it as plain as day and it felt like Sherlock. John never believed in ghosts but there was always a feel to a person you knew well, like what people called "auras" or whatever. The way the figure stood, just looking at him felt like Sherlock's presence did; a confident, intelligent air with the hint of lively energy that made him so energetic and determined. In a way it had to be Sherlock, even though everything John knew went against the idea. He thought about what he had said at Sherlock's grave. Just one more miracle. Don't be dead. Can you do that? Just for me? There was only one person John knew that could pull a miracle like that off and if Sherlock were to do it for anyone, John could only wish that it would be for his "one" friend.

"Sherlock," he managed to gasp out and the spell seemed to break, shattered dizzyingly. The figure in the doorway seemed to sense the shift in his demeanour and stepped forward, shutting the door behind him, walking through the little passage. Although the sunlight from the doorway was no longer there, the figure got clearer as he walked closer and each step made John's confused brain spark with the impossibility of it. It was Sherlock. He stopped closely in front of him and even with the darker lighting, John took in the long coat, devoid of blood, the hair still curled and not soaked in red, albeit it was longer since the last time he had seen the detective. He looked thinner, his usually well-tailored shirt and trousers looking considerably looser and his face looked even more angular than normal, the evidence of sleeplessness in the purple smudges beneath his eyes. But even under all this, it was most definitely, undoubtedly Sherlock Holmes.

"Hello John."

It took only two words to snap John back into reality and he shut his mouth from where it had almost fallen open, forcing himself to look away from the other man and to look to Mrs Hudson. Two words had been all it took for everything to flood back and John had to keep the choked quality out of his voice. Sherlock probably didn't realise it, Sherlock being Sherlock he never would, but they were the exact mirror of the two words that had haunted John's dreams; the last words ever spoken by Sherlock Holmes. Goodbye John. Yet now, here he was and the only thing he seemed to have to say was "Hello John"? The idea made John's throat clench both from the memory and from anger that that was all sHerlock had to say to him after 3 months of being missing. Of being dead, John corrected himself.

"Mrs Hudson," John forced himself to say, "You've had quite the shock, are you alright?" Am I? He thought. He was concerned for Mrs Hudson; the shock alone of seeing someone "back from the dead" was dangerous to anyone and thinking about it, John could do with a good stiff drink himself, never mind Mrs Hudson. Mrs Hudson nodded, her face still a picture of shock and disbelief.

"Yes, I'm alright," she said, seeing that John wanted her to talk, just to make sure she was all right, "Is that really you?" She was addressing Sherlock and John swore he could see tears welling up in her eyes. Sherlock had been a friend to her too and, in a strange way, the pair of unusual lodgers had almost become like sons to her. She had missed Sherlock and John would even go as far to say that she would happily live with the mess and the noise and the danger for him to be back and now, here he was, like a ghost standing in front of them.

Sherlock nodded. "It's me, Mrs Hudson," he said and the voice sounded like it always had to Mrs Hudson, fond and betraying the fact that Sherlock really did care for Mrs Hudson, no matter what he said, "I'll happily explain it to you but I think it would be best if you were to make yourself a cup of tea first and sit down, John here looks like he is going to get upset with me if I give you any more of a scare." The familiar humour was there and John almost smiled.

"That's probably a good idea Mrs Hudson," John said and she nodded. She looked Sherlock up and down one final time and then, with what sounded like a small sob, she stepped forwards and wrapped her arms around him.

"Where have you been?" she said and she sounded almost on the edge of tears. The question was rhetorical and it seemed to hang in the air long after she had removed her arms from Sherlock and sniffed, turning to hurry off down the hallway to the kitchen, her hand going up to wipe her eyes. It was another thing John admired about Mrs Hudson. She may have been alone, especially after her husband died, but she was still strong and John knew that it would never do for her to let someone see her cry.
John stood for a long moment after that, staring at Sherlock. He couldn't believe it. It was too impossible, he wanted to reach out and touch his arm, just to make sure he was real and it wasn't all just another dream.

"I am real John," Sherlock said, apparently catching onto John's disbelief. John felt like raising an eyebrow at that. If he was in a dream, that is exactly what his mind would tell him. Sherlock rocked back on his heels a little, waiting a moment before he shrugged.

"I expect I have some explaining to do," he said and then, a moment later, he gestured to the stairs, "I think you should probably sit down." It was a pretentious statement, implying that Sherlock knew his story would be so utterly unbelievable that John would need a seat and that he expected John to simply listen to him like they were simply on a case or talking about John's blog, even after he had been dead for 3 whole months.

Yet, Sherlock's eye flitted to John's leg for a mere second and John almost beamed as he realised that not only had Sherlock's deductive ability not faded or his knowledge of John and he had recognised the pain in his leg that was making John lean slightly, but it also betrayed his concern for John and the strain on his leg. John felt the corners of his mouth twitch and for the first time he in three months he felt like genuinely laughing and he barely managed to keep in a fit of giggles, the relief was so huge. It was like a weight, suddenly lifted from his shoulders and the world seemed so much bigger now, somehow and even better because his best friend was, as if by magic, back in it once again. He remembered the time on their first case when he had laughed with Sherlock here in the hallway, relieved to have got away with chasing down and stopping a taxi car in some insane fashion and something close to sheer joy washed over him. His best friend was back.

The thought spurred him on and through the confusion, shock, frustration, anger, joy and the million other emotions John was feeling, he somehow managed to follow as Sherlock Holmes climbed the stairs up to 221B.

John sat down, handing Sherlock the cup of tea. It felt strange doing something so normal again, something that three months ago he would have thought nothing of; giving Sherlock a cup of tea because he wasn't drinking anything again and Sherlock half-heartedly taking it. It felt so routine, so ordinary and yet it felt like he hadn't done it in years, not just months. Sherlock looked at the tea with distain, as he always looked at any food or drink, but John ignored it. Personally, he would have preferred something stronger, a lot stronger since he was pretty sure he was already hallucinating and it couldn't get any worse unless pink elephants turned up but since he hadn't allowed himself to have any form of alcohol in the flat since the incident, for fear of turning to dink like his sister, tea was as good as it was going to get.

Sherlock had looked around the room as he had sat down, surveying the half boxed-up state. Everything was familiar and apart from some of his possessions having been jumbled around, never quite making it into boxes, nothing had changed. The kitchen was cleaner, no doubt Mrs Hudson had something to do with that, but John looked to have substituted chemistry equipment with boxes and piles of unwashed tea cups. Sherlock smiled as his eyes took in the mess, his brain deducing details of John's life for the past few months, the lonely existence, the repetition in the packing and unpacking, the tea making. He took in the cane resting on the armchair and knew that his suspicions about John's leg were right and he tried not to feel guilty about that, trying hard to focus on how good it was to be deducing about his flatmate once again, the strange familiarity of it where he felt comfortable deducing about John, it was easy but there was always a strange satisfaction in revealing to John about what he knew. He was desperate to reel it off to John, the chance to show off after so long was incredibly tempting but he tried to ignore it, knowing that John was still struggling to process his sudden appearance. He watched the ex-army doctor as he lowered himself into his chair.

John's hand was shaking a little as he settled the tea down on the table and looked at the cereal bowl he had dropped on the floor earlier. It was a mess and probably dangerous but he thought that cleaning it up now seemed like a ridiculous idea, so he diverted his attention to look back at Sherlock, who was staring at him intently. Just the sight of his best friend was comforting enough and for a moment he wondered if he even cared about the answers Sherlock would be giving him, whether he should just be happy that his flatmate was back and that was all but there was a churning in his stomach, compelling him to ask. He was angry. For the first time in ages, he was angry again, even underneath the relief and happiness, there was a bubbling, boiling anger in his gut. Sherlock was alive and he here he was, pretending as if it was nothing, after letting him believe he was death for three months. John didn't know or care how justified it was to be angry at him but he was, the familiar roiling anger that had settled in the days after Sherlock had gone.

"Why?" he said. Sherlock looked as if he had been about to say something but at John's question, he stopped, tilting his head and frowning.

"I'm sorry?" he said.

"Why?" John repeated. Sherlock gave him a look as if the question was the most bizarre thing anyone had ever uttered.

"John, out of all the questions you could ask-" Sherlock cut himself off with a smirk, "Aren't you going to ask how? Or where I've been? They do seem the more important questions if you-"

"I want to know why," John said and he looked straight at Sherlock, meeting his eyes and not dropping the gaze. There was a choked, desperate quality to his voice that hadn't been there a moment ago. The churning in his stomach was pressing him forward, he had to know. "I want to know why you did it. Sherlock, I know you're not a fraud, the fact that you're here, now, that's proof-"

John's voice cracked a little and he had to stop, clearing his throat. Sherlock had performed a miracle to get back here and John didn't think he could stand to hear Sherlock say that what he had said on the roof was true, not after all this.

"I need to know why you said those things about you being a- a fake, Sherlock," John said, his voice shaking but relatively under control, "Why you… jumped. Why didn't you tell me you were alive? I spent the past three months thinking you were dead Sherlock! Why the hell didn't you tell me? I'm your bloody friend and you didn't even bother to tell me!" John's voice shook a little more with anger as he finished, his hands matching the shaking in his voice. The frustration and confusing settled on his chest was threatening to break free and he felt like screaming.

Sherlock was silent. John kept eye contact but it was harder than it usually was or at least, as it used to be. Something in Sherlock's eyes was reserved, holding back like he was locking part of himself away behind his eyes.

"I couldn't," Sherlock finally said. John waited for something to follow it and, when nothing did, he gave a huff of laughter.

"You couldn't what? You couldn't tell your best friend you were alive? You couldn't just come and see me or call me or even send me a goddamn text? I thought I had buried you! For God's sake Sherlock, do you even know what that's like to have to bury your friend?" Sherlock shook his head slowly but kept his eyes on John, like he was placating him, watching his every move for any sign that he was going to lash out or let go of his temper.

"You're going to have to do a little better than "I couldn't", Sherlock," John said. Sherlock sighed. He knew that he had more explaining to do than he thought John could take in his current state and he was tempted to recommend that John rested before he told him. In any normal circumstance, he would have done, however the situation was anything but normal. He had run over this scenario so many times in his head that he was sure that he had accounted for every outcome, however, John being John, had asked the only question he hadn't been prepared for.

How was he supposed to answer him without saying what really happened on that roof? It wasn't that John was in danger anymore, he had shut down Moriarty's operatives during his three months of absence, searching out the snipers that had been under Moriarty's control, however he saw no way that he could tell John why he had done what he had done when he didn't understand it fully himself. He had beaten Moriarty, not in the way he had hoped, and yet he couldn't understand what exactly had happened on that day. It had been sentiment, not logic or mind games that had toppled the great Sherlock Holmes from his pedestal. The so-called heartless Sherlock Holmes had cared perhaps too much and had literally taken a fall for it and that was something that Sherlock could barely understand, much less describe. And yet, in order to answer John's question, he would have to tell him that everything he had said on his "note" had been lies. He would have to tell him that he hadn't told him he was still alive for fear of any of the snipers he was chasing down got to him. He would have to tell him that he faked his death in order to save John's life, to save Lestrade's life and Mrs Hudson and the people who somehow cared about him despite how "friendless" he had always been.

"I couldn't tell you I was still alive because it was too dangerous John," he began and he sighed, knowing that it would be a long, difficult explanation; one that John would no doubt have questions about that Sherlock couldn't answer, "In order to defeat Moriarty I had to fake my own death"

"Moriarty?" John interjected. Sherlock frowned.

"Yes," he said.

"Not Richard Brook?" John's voice was full of relief and for the first time since Sherlock had seen him, his flatmate grinned, "I knew it. I knew it wasn't true. Moriarty was real; I knew you hadn't created him!" Sherlock almost smiled at John's exuberance and he felt an odd feeling not dissimilar to pride sweep him. Even after he had told John that he had lied to him, even when he had practically begged John to believe it was all fake, John had kept his undying faith, even when no-one else had.

Sherlock nodded. "I had to tell you that it was all a lie, to get the world to believe it. The only way to foil Moriarty's plan was to go along with it, I'm afraid telling you that was necessary," he explained. It wasn't fully a lie. By telling John what he had, he had saved John's life and therefore stopped Moriarty's final plan but Sherlock could see that John wasn't buying it completely. John knew that Sherlock was skirting around the question, telling him only tiny scraps of information and Sherlock could see that that hurt him. It was as if the only way Sherlock could ever protect his friends was by hurting them.

"So… you went along with his plan, made people believe you were a fake but… how did that stop Moriarty? And where is he now? If you stopped his plan then why did you fake your death, I don't understand," John asked. Sherlock knew that John could see the visible cracks in Sherlock's story and Sherlock made a mental note to never teach John to question witnesses as he seemed to have an unnerving knack for it.

"Moriarty wanted to see me destroyed," Sherlock said, "First my reputation and then me, hence the jump, all alluding to the "Reichenbach hero", remember, the "fall" he owed me? Giving him what he wanted, including faking my death, was the only way to get out of it, to fool both him and any cohorts he had. Unfortunately however, I regret to say that it didn't go exactly to plan. Jim and I had a scuffle and- he fired a gun at me and I was forced to fight him. There was a misfire from a gun that – killed him" Sherlock tried to keep the pauses from entering in but lying so blatantly was difficult with John's sceptical eyes looking critically at him, analysing the statement. He quickly moved on, covering his tracks. "Anyway, I knew this would anger any followers he had, therefore I followed through with my plan and faked my death, meaning that any followers did not come after me," Sherlock said.

John sat, listening. A part of him wanted to believe Sherlock, to not care about the slight pauses in the words or how Sherlock struggled now to meet his eye. The explanation seemed to fit but it was disjointed, strange for someone as usually elegant as Sherlock.

"You couldn't have told me?" he said, "You couldn't have just let me know what you planned on doing, that you were alive?" His anger hadn't died down and the idea of Sherlock lying to him only made it worse.

"It was too dangerous; it was possible that they might have come after you if not me. It was for your own safety," Sherlock said.

John gaped at him. "Too dangerous? After all the cases we've been on- Sherlock, I can't believe you would just- I deserved to know that my best friend hadn't in fact committed suicide in front of my eyes! I believed in you, I told everyone who would listen that Sherlock Holmes wasn't a liar and you can't even trust me enough to let me help you?" His anger peaked and John could barely stop his voice from shouting.

"You don't understand," Sherlock said, "John, it's complicated and-"

John didn't even remember standing but he was on his feet in flash and he heard his cup of tea clatter on its side as he slammed his hand on the table as he stood, the loud slam reverberating around the room.

"You selfish bastard!" he yelled and now he didn't even care if he was yelling, his blood was boiling and he could barely see through the veil of fury. It was like the months of grief had finally settled and the single thought of Sherlock not being able to trust him, after everything they had done made him flare up in anger. Sherlock looked up at him in shock.

"What?"

"You heard me!" John shouted, "You're a goddamn selfish idiot! You don't think I would have helped even if there was danger? I've done it before Sherlock, but oh no, you don't trust me enough to think that I'd want to help you when you needed it? Do you think it's been easy for me? I thought you were dead Sherlock! I buried an empty coffin, I've been to goddamn therapy!" His voice had risen to almost screaming and he kicked the table, the pain and stress and anguish of everything rushing up to meet him.

He spun around, turning his back to Sherlock and ran a hand through his hair. It was cut shorter than he usually liked it; he had cut it like that two months after Sherlock's "death", back to a short, military style, something familiar and regimental. He sighed and gathered himself, hands still shaking and he could feel his leg pounding pain up and through him sharply. He took another few deep breaths, slowly moving round to look at his friend again. He took in his friend's face in detail, seeing the purple bags beneath his eyes, the shuttered look and abnormally pale pallor. He looked almost ill if you looked at him close enough and John could see that, sat down, the weight loss was even more obvious. It seemed to click into place and John felt a soft swell of guilt. Looking in the mirror he would no doubt see the purple lining his own eyes from the nightmares plaguing his nights and he already knew that he looked rough from lack of sleep. Sherlock didn't just look as if he had spent three months mourning, he looked worse. One look at his friend and John knew for a fact that he didn't need to tell Sherlock what he had been through because, evidently, it hadn't been easy for Sherlock either.

He hefted a long, deep breath and nodded, as if agreeing to an unspoken question. "I'm sorry," he said, "I just-" He paused and gave a small laugh. "I guess I'm just glad you're not dead." Sherlock looked at him, as if surprised both by John's outburst and by his forgiveness and unexpected apology. Then, the surprise seemed to fade and Sherlock allowed himself to chuckle, joining John's laughter. It felt good, the mundane quality to something as simple as laughing was something Sherlock had never seen the value of and it was perhaps one of the reasons Sherlock liked living with his flatmate so much. The experiences John saw as so normal and every day was always boring and pointless to Sherlock, yet somehow John managed to integrate them with the way they both lived and in a way, it worked.

John's smile didn't fade even as he sighed and said, "So, go on then." Sherlock grinned, making John roll his eyes. Even that action made John's smile widen. He never thought he would miss being exasperated at Sherlock but every familiar emotion was like saying hello to his friend once again.

"How did you do it?" John said.

"Oh so now you want to know?"

"Sherlock, get on with it," John sighed, knowing that if Sherlock hadn't removed his coat upon entry, he would be turning up the collar by now.

"You see," said Sherlock mysteriously, "I never died." John let the silence hand unimpressively for a moment before he responded.

"I kind of got that part Sherlock," John retorted dryly.

"Ah, as usual John you are seeing but not observing," Sherlock scolded and John raised an eyebrow at the familiar taunt.

"If you're going to treat your faked death as a case, I will hit you," John warned.

"I don't doubt it. It is rather ingenious John, I think you'll like it," Sherlock said, the familiar boastful tone creeping in to his voice. The idea of hearing how Sherlock had created one of the worst moments of John's life didn't sound something he would like and he barely listened as Sherlock began to tell him how he had faked his death.

John caught snatches of the explanation, things about the homeless network and bicycles and Molly and John suddenly realised why Molly had identified the body herself. She had known all along that Sherlock was alive and hadn't told him. For a moment John had felt furious at her but it died down as he heard how Sherlock had made her promise to not tell another soul. The idea of having to keep that kind of secret made John pity her, the thought of such a burden pressing down on her made him feel guilty for getting angry at her.

The rest of the explanation however was drowned out by his thoughts and he let Sherlock's voice wash over him without focusing on it. It felt like old times, like sitting in his chair typing up their latest case, Sherlock reeling off an explanation as to why a stained glass window proved a person's innocence or why a garden gnome was the murder weapon. Sherlock was back and that was all that mattered. He wondered vaguely if Mycroft or Lestrade had known, like Molly and the thought of Mycroft's co-operation with Moriarty came to mind. He deliberated if he should tell Sherlock or not, if the moment was too perfect to ruin and if Sherlock knew or not. Don't tell him, he told himself. It wasn't his business to rat on Mycroft, it was up to Mycroft to admit it himself and take the consequences for it. He wondered if Mycroft hadn't called because he already knew about Sherlock. Maybe Lestrade had as well but that seemed unlikely, that the only person who hadn't known would be Sherlock's flatmate and best friend. He had needed Molly to make his "death" work and that was the only reason why she knew. It didn't make sense for anyone else to know.

"John, are you listening?" Sherlock said suddenly, louder, cutting through John's thoughts. John snapped back into reality and blinked at Sherlock, who was giving him a disapproving look, looking hurt that John had only been half listening to his gloating.

"Yeah," John said. Sort of. In all honesty, he was just glad to be hearing Sherlock's voice again, never mind what it was saying. Sherlock tutted, obviously knowing it was a lie. Sherlock's eyes scouted around, displeased with John's lack of focus and he latched onto his violin, right where John had placed it beside Sherlock's chair, afraid to move it in case his miracle had come true. The idea that it still seemed unreal and John prayed that it wasn't all one big, cruel dream. He watched Sherlock pick up the violin, long fingers dancing delicately on the strings, gently folding around the polished wood so carefully that John barely supressed a laugh. Sherlock loved that violin more than it was really healthy to, even after being away from it.

"Do you want a moment alone with her?" John teased. Sherlock glared at him and stood, swiping up his bow and then with a few swift actions, rubbed it lovingly along the strings a few times in a short, cheerful tune.

John smiled at that but Sherlock's standing position afforded him a sidelong long at Sherlock's worryingly thin frame.

"We should go out for a Chinese or something," John suggested, covering his concern and instinct to feed the stubborn detective with a nonchalant idea, "To celebrate". Sherlock shot him a small smile that told him Sherlock knew what he was trying to do but couldn't be bothered pointing it out.

"Sure," he said, "Tomorrow night. It's been quite the long day today." John saw the deflection of food for what it was but couldn't help but agree. He settled into the chair, rubbing his leg. He knew that he would have to clean up the cereal bowl on the floor at some point, feed Sherlock somehow, go check Mrs Hudson and maybe even call around people and inform them about Sherlock, but all of that could wait. For now, John Watson was perfectly happily to just sit, listening to his friend playing his violin and vaguely make the decision to begin unpacking Sherlock's things back into the flat as soon as possible. The sound of Sherlock's violin drifted around the flat and John closed his eyes.

Sherlock Holmes was back home.

A/N

So, how was that chapter guys? As ever, my sincerest apologies for all spelling mistakes, grammar, missing word and cheesiness issues in here, I know GSCE exams are no excuse but I do have a lot of them so my editing is non existent due to lack of time :S
I had so much I wanted to put in this chapter, I feel like I could easily have made it twice as long with all the feels I wanted to put in XD I originally was going to have John punch Sherlock like I always hope he will, however when you stop to study John's character I always draw the conclusion that he would have shock, then anger, which would dampen the anger enough to stop him from physically attacking Sherlock :D Anyways, if anyone disagrees or has any more points, feel free to say! Also, did everyone like how I dodged around saying how he got out of the fall? Lol, there are so many different theories I didn't want to take sides with anyone or make it too objective so I left it up to you guys to fill in ;P

Anyway, reviews are always appreciated and much, much, much loved. Also, just as a side note, who else is loving the new design of the review button? It's so nice and bright and it's all good :) Anyway, I really hope you enjoyed this chapter! Next one is out on Sunday, thanks again for reading!