It had barely gone dawn, but John Watson awoke instantly to the screeching sound of an out-of-use violin. He could have screamed with frustration, but he could have cried with happiness. Sherlock Holmes was back. Sherlock Holmes was downstairs. The smell of coffee wafted up the staircase like nothing had ever changed, like those three years had not passed. It was as though Sherlock had never been gone.

John sat up, knowing full-well that he would not be able to get back to sleep. Wearily, he pulled his clothes on and wandered downstairs, to where the grinding music of the violin was accompanied by unsatisfied grunts.

The sight of Sherlock stood at the window in his blue dressing gown with his violin cradled under his chin was almost too much. The light that streamed in through the window was so familiar as it touched his every pore, and John just stared with his face the very picture of contentment. "Coffee?" Sherlock asked without looking round.

John was speechless for a second. "Yes, please."

"Well the kettle's over there," Sherlock replied.

"Is it boiled?"

"It was half an hour ago."

John gave an unexpected laugh, and Sherlock turned to look quizzically at him. "What?"

"Nothing," John sniggered. "Just… You come back after three years asking for my forgiveness and you can't even make me a cup of coffee in the morning."

Sherlock's smile crept across his face like the rising sun, slowly breaking across his face and illuminating the room in an instant. John internally fell to pieces. It had been far too long since he had seen that smile.

But it was gone before he'd had time to fully register its existence as Sherlock turned back to look out of the window and continued to nurture his violin back into health. Coffee, John decided, and he strode into the kitchen, a small bounce in his step.

He switched the kettle on, and got out a mug from the cupboard. As he did so, he paused and shouted across the room to Sherlock. "Do you want another coffee?"

"If you wouldn't mind!" Sherlock answered. "Black –"

"– Two sugars. Yes, I know." John closed his eyes and grinned. "I know how you like your coffee."

He set another mug down on the surface, next to his own, took the jar of coffee granules and spooned a teaspoon into each, then two sugars into Sherlock's. The kettle clicked as the bubbling reached its maximum, and John poured the steaming water into both cups. He stirred; his first, and then Sherlock's to avoid the possibility of even a hint of sugar in his coffee. He returned to Sherlock to find him sat in his chair, violin discarded on the desk, and his hands pressed together, his finger resting upon his lips. "Please sit down, John," he said seriously, all hints of light-heartedness gone from his stern eyes.

Now cautious, John took his seat opposite Sherlock. "I owe you an explanation, John," Sherlock began, holding his gaze.

John coughed and took a sip of his coffee. "Yes. You do."

"Can I tell you, from the beginning, or would you prefer a question-and-answer?" Sherlock asked amiably.

"Just tell me, Sherlock. And I'll ask questions if I want to," John said, settling back into his chair, adjusting his cushion to a more comfortable position.

"I told you that I was a fake. And you were right, it was a lie. I am not a fake." He said the word with disgust. "I am appalled that anyone believed me at all, but then, I did expect it. It was only human for them to doubt me.

"But why did I say it, in my very last moments? Why did I tell you specifically? It's because I had to make them believe that you had nothing to do with my death or my life. I had to make sure that no one ever suspected that you were affiliated with my supposed plotting. I had to keep you safe, John. Safe from the entire world because you would have been arrested, your career would have been ruined, and potentially people who were attached to Moriarty would have tried to kill you. I could think of no other way to ensure your ultimate safety.

"I went along with Moriarty's fabrication that I was a fake genius who hired an actor to make me seem like a mastermind, because it was the easiest option. You wrap lies up in reality and they become so much more believable. Everyone believed that I was a fake anyway, and telling them straight out that I was only confirmed their fears. I told you to tell everyone who would listen, because then they'd know that you had nothing to do with me. But you didn't do that, John. I wasn't really expecting that you would – your loyalty was too great, your faith in me too strong – but you should have trusted me and did as I commanded that you do."

"Commanded?" John interjected.

"Yes, John," snapped Sherlock. "It was a command, not a request. Don't interrupt."

"But I said I was going to ask questions," he protested.

"I didn't give you permission to ask stupid questions, though." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Can I continue now, or would you like to comment a little more on my word choices?"

"No, no. It's fine," John said quickly. "Go on."

"So, after clearing your name, I jumped from the roof of St Bart's."

"Why?"

"Moriarty was there. We arranged to meet, to end our game. I showed him that I knew the code to unlock the world, but the code wasn't real. It was an invention with no purpose whatsoever. Daylight robbery, he told me. That's how he got into the Tower of London. He just needed some co-operative people. Not exactly hard to find when sentiment is so common in people nowadays and you have enough money to pay £30 million just to get my attention.

"He knew it would end there, up on the rooftop. And so did I. The three remaining assassins had orders to kill you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade if they didn't see me jump from the rooftop. Moriarty unfortunately let slip that he could call them off, if he wished. He killed himself, so that I couldn't get him to say it, so that I wouldn't have a way out. He gave me a choice of myself or my friends, and I would never have chosen to save myself.

"I had to jump. And that wasn't a choice. You had to see me fall and even though it broke my heart to see you and hear you in total despair, I had to do it. I didn't want to hurt you, but it was either that, or you would die."

"But how did you not die? I saw you on the ground. You were bleeding. You didn't have a pulse," John pressed. "You knew that Moriarty would make you jump so you came up with some sort of plan to save yourself. How did you do it?"

"It's irrelevant, John."

John's eyes widened in disbelief. "Irrelevant?!"

"Yes, John. Irrelevant. Now stop interrupting me with stupid questions!" Sherlock barked with an exasperated gesturing of his hands.

"Sherlock –"

"Shut up, John."

John's jaw dropped open; something that Sherlock ignored entirely. "The question you should be asking," Sherlock said. "Is why I had to pretend to be dead for three years."

"Yeah," said John. "Why did you pretend to be dead?"

Sherlock's smile returned, and his eyes glimmered with mischief. "Being dead gives you a tremendous amount of freedom. No one can track you, blame you or catch you, because you technically don't exist. And of course, that's a very useful asset when you're trying to disable a spider's web."

"You were taking care of Moriarty's contacts?" John asked, startled.

Sherlock smirked. "Oh, I wasn't really 'taking care' of them, as such. The term I'd use would probably be 'destroying', but if 'taking care' works for you, then I'll accommodate for that."

"Sherlock," John said. "Were you killing people?"

"Absolutely," Sherlock said with serenity, leaning in to John, piercing him with his regarding stare, daring him to challenge. John did not rise to it, so Sherlock resumed his explanation, watching John's reactions very closely. "I had to disable Moriarty's assets, because they were a threat to me, and to you."

"And you came back now because it's over? Because there's no one left that I need protecting from?"

Sherlock pulled a face. "No, not exactly."

John sighed. "There's someone that wants to kill me, isn't there?"

"Erm… Yes, there is," Sherlock looked at John guiltily. "There's someone I missed. But it wasn't easy to find him. He was one of the central cords of the web…"

John snorted hysterically. "There's someone that wants to kill me, and you're worried that I'm going to judge you for not finding him before he decided to kill me!"

Sherlock jerked back. "Yes."

"Dear God, Sherlock," John sighed with laughter. "What is it like in your funny little brain?"

"I don't believe that memorising my words and spitting them back out at me will ever have any affect as it just shows how unoriginal you are," Sherlock said in a low voice. "And my brain isn't small, either."

John's only reply was to snort into his coffee. Sherlock pouted like a child, and John snickered again. "Oh, it's good to have you back, Sherlock," he beamed.

"Even if it means that someone's going to try to have you murdered?"

"Especially if it means that someone's going to try to have me murdered. Because I know that you're here to protect me. Not that you've done a very good job." John gave him a raised eyebrow. "All that effort to keep me safe and you still fail miserably."

Sherlock looked offended. "I kept you safe for three years! Isn't that enough?"

"Not really, Sherlock. If you were going to leave me, pretend that you'd died, break my heart and ruin my life, you could have at least kept me safe for a lifetime," John said jokingly.

But Sherlock's face fell, and he sat back into his chair with his right hand on his eyebrow, holding his shame back. Water shimmered in his irises, and his expression contorted into one of pain as he sniffled, just once. John felt instantly awful. "No, Sherlock, I didn't mean it. I wasn't being serious. It's okay, I forgive you. It's alright, Sherlock."

"No, John." Sherlock's voice was rasping and choked. "It's not. That's all true. What you just said then… It's all true. I should have at least… I shouldn't have ever had to come back. Because me coming back must have hurt you just as much as me leaving you did."

John leant forward, reaching out until his hand came to rest on Sherlock's knee, comforting him through touch. "Listen to me, Sherlock," he said with absolute conviction. "Nothing, and I mean nothing,was worse than watching you fall. Nothing was worse than seeing your body lying broken on the ground, and nothing more devastating than going to your gravestone every single week, praying that you would come back to me. Seeing you… Having you back… It's the greatest gift that I could possibly ask for. So don't ever feel that you shouldn't have come back to me. Not ever."

Their eyes were locked, and their silence absolute. Sherlock looked at John from beneath his dark curls, his expression totally dumbstruck, with his lips slightly parted as he gazed into John's steady, unyielding stare. His friend was like a rock, so sure and unmoving that Sherlock knew that he could believe every word he said when it was with such utter conviction. John's breath was steady, bringing Sherlock back down to Earth and into reality. John's love was something he could rely upon, always.

Sherlock was at once lost, for the first time in his life, for words. "Th-thank you, John," he stammered. Stammered? John was more than surprised, as was evident by how far his eyebrows had shot up his forehead.

"Okay," said John briskly. "So who exactly is trying to kill me?"

Sherlock snapped out of his flustered stupor in an instant. "Ah, yes," he said. "The man's name is Sebastian Moran. He was Moriarty's closest contact, and that's why it was so hard to even find out that he existed."

"Sebastian Moran," John pondered. "So, why does he want me dead?"

"Because somehow Sebastian Moran discovered that I was still alive. He probably realised that someone was killing all of his assets, and then deduced that it was someone who could get in Moriarty's way. That person could only be me."

"Modest," John muttered.

Sherlock gave him a withering look. "His realisation that I was alive made you an obvious mark. Moran knows that I want to stay hidden under the cloak of death until it suits me to reveal myself to be alive, and he also knows that I would kill myself to save you. By making you a target, he has ensured that I will be here to protect you, and that will make my existence known as more and more people see me with you. I cannot leave your side because I know that when I do, Moran will pounce."

John nodded slowly as he took the information in. Sherlock's theories were probably right, as far as he could tell. He was a liability. Sally Donovan would be laughing in his face. She'd told him far too many times that being friends with Sherlock was dangerous, but he hadn't heeded her advice to stay away from him. But he was in too deep now, and John wouldn't have it any other way.

"What can we do, then?" he asked.

Sherlock looked up at the ceiling in thought, before he looked back at John with amused eyes and said: "We can wait for him to make a mistake."

"Right," said John.

"And the biggest mistake he could possibly make," said Sherlock. "Would be for him to try and kill you now."