Then, blessedly, finally, the phone rang.
Mycroft reached for it.
John, smiling broadly, snatched it up first. A brief glance at the screen flashing Brother Mine confirmed he could safely answer Mycroft Holmes's personal mobile. "Hello," he said, his voice full of the warmth of his smile, breathless with hope.
A rattling sigh crackled over the line. "John."
John closed his eyes at the sound of that deep voice, alive, breathing. "Yes, hello." He took a deep breath. "Hi, Sherlock."
Across from him, Mycroft's composure slipped, his eyes widening slightly.
"John," Sherlock repeated, relief and joy and something heavier permeating his voice. "You're alright? You're safe?"
He rose and started pacing. "Yes, I'm ok, Sherlock. I'm with Mycroft, in his fortress of a house. Are you ok? Where are you? No, no. How are you? What on earth are you doing? God, I've missed you. I'm sorry about all this, I'm sure it was a risky distraction."
Sherlock's laugh was half a choked sob. "You're sorry? I tried to keep you safe, and I thought…but you're alive."
"Yeah," John replied, sobering but unable to eradicate the soppy grin. "And so are you."
He thought he did an admirable job of tactfully not mentioning that Sherlock now knew just what he'd put John through a year ago. He suspected Sherlock hadn't had a clue just how deeply his death would affect John, and that had gone a long way towards John forgiving him the deception. But now he was done. Sherlock was alive, and John was alive, and he was very, very done playing the grieving friend.
"My death's just been faked too. Not voluntarily." He steeled himself, feeling pathetic and exposed in the pleading, but knowing, knowing how much better this would be, for both of them. Please. Please, "Can I come to you now? You know how much better we work together. I can help you end this, Sherlock."
"I need you to stay where you are, and wait for me, John."
John forced down the bitter disappointment. "Right. Right, no. Of course." His mantra of the past year ran through his head. Playing his part was important. Sherlock needed him to—
"John, I'm coming home."
John blinked, hardly believing what he'd just heard. "You're…"
"It's nearly done. The gang who kidnapped you worked for Moriarty's Lieutenant, Sebastian Moran. He's the last major player standing. Your disappearance was meant to draw me out. It worked. Or it would have, if they hadn't been idiots who clearly underestimated you. Now we'll have a distinct advantage."
The pride in Sherlock's voice warmed John straight through. He clutched the phone hard, grinning so wide it hurt. "When?"
"Stay at Mycroft's. His security is excellent. They won't find you, and we'll have a place to finalize our plans. I'll be there by morning."
John physically staggered. "Tomorrow?" he glanced at Mycroft, whose eyebrows rose at the word. "Yeah, yes I'll be here. Be careful. I'll see you in the morning," he said, delighted to be able to say those words, already knowing he wouldn't sleep a wink.
He could hear the answering smile in Sherlock's "Goodnight, John."
Knowing there would be plans to hash out, he offered the mobile back to Mycroft.
Mycroft took it with a considering look at John. "Sherlock. Yes." A sigh. "It's premature." He listened for a moment, then hummed thoughtfully.
John let the one-sided discussion of tomorrow's plans wash over him in a haze of relief and joy. Tomorrow. Tomorrow Sherlock Holmes would be back in London. And John Watson would be back at his side.