Mycroft and Sherlock seemed to be in a glaring contest. Mycroft was again reminded of when they were children. He was the elder brother by a fair number of years. He should be the one to stop this nonsense.

For the second time in half an hour, Mycroft's mobile went off. Thankful for the excuse, Mycroft broke eye contact with his brother (who would be looking smug now, Mycroft was sure); the elder brother pulled out his phone again.

John.

"By now John's realized what's been deleted, but he probably hasn't found everything that's been left," Sherlock even sounded smug to Mycroft's well-trained ears.

Mycroft silenced the incoming call, wishing his brother was a little less petulant.

"Why do you say that, brother?" Mycroft inquired, politely.

Sherlock made a huffing noise in response. Mycroft leaned back, waiting in silence for Sherlock to relent. Before anything happened, Mycroft's mobile started ringing again. Surprised, Mycroft looked down at it.

Sherlock.

Mycroft glanced at his brother before looking back to his phone. His face must have shown something.

"Brilliant!" Sherlock said, breaking his most recent silence. After another brief glance, Mycroft thought Sherlock was looking pleased, "Well done, John! Still… don't answer it, Mycroft."

Mycroft felt like a piece in a child's game. He wasn't a fan of the feeling.

Grumpily, John ended the call. Mycroft hadn't answered from John's number or from Sherlock's.

Stupid git.

"Guess I'm on my own, then," John said aloud. The words bounced around the empty flat, making him feel even more alone. The silence pressed on his ears. Abruptly, John stood and made his way to his computer to start the violin music. At least that would eliminate the silence.

As he was fumbling with his disc, he had the irrational wish to thank the anonymous texter for the music, although, of course, there was no way to contact him now. He hadn't received any texts from him for days.

Something dawned on John, then. There might be messages saved on the phone that were never sent.

Dropping the disc, John rushed back to the table and snatched up the mobile.

John opened the drafts and fought the urge to be surprised at what he found.

(I would like nothing better than to return this very moment.)

(That fit my response well enough. I find myself hoping that is truly how you feel. Let go of me, John. Convince yourself I was a fraud and move on.)

(Please try, John. It would make your life so much easier.)

It was like hearing one half of a telephone conversation.

(You would be justified in holding ill feelings towards me.)

John flicked through the first dozen messages, ignoring the prickling sensation behind his eyes. The messages didn't sound resoundingly like Sherlock, John tried to convince himself. Anyone might have written them.

(Do what you will with them. It hardly matters.)

(Mycroft could provide, but you wouldn't appreciate the implications.)

(Of course I knew. Harry insisted on showing you every news article even peripherally relating to me.)

Some of the messages corresponded with texts that John vaguely remembered writing. And the speaker referred to himself as—no. Of course he was trying to prove something or manipulate John.

(It is for the best.)

(I continually feel as though I should apologize to you. I cannot, of course. Not yet.)

(You're a soldier, John. You will survive.)

Whenever John saw his own name, he felt his throat tighten.

(The more who believe, the safer you are.)

(John. Accept their help.)

(I am trying to keep you alive.)

(You had to believe it, John. You were the one that mattered. In all of this.)

(Be careful, John.)

(John.)

(I knew I had impacted your life when I left it, but your safety was of paramount importance.)

It was becoming difficult to breathe. John's heart was hammering in his chest.

(It is not as bad as you may imagine.)

(John.)

Finally, John arrived at the last unsent message.

(I'm not dead. Let's have dinner.)

There were only three people (as far as John knew) who were aware of the significance of the phrase. And other than John, they were both dead.

John felt a wave of calm descend on him. It couldn't be.

After a beat, John realized he'd forgotten to breathe.

He sucked in air, filling up his lungs with it. His head felt funny. It was… wasn't… was… possible. John leaned back slowly into his chair and stared at the phone.

He was jolted from his reverie by three soft, evenly spaced raps on the door. He found himself on his feet and wading through a haze down the stairs and towards the door. He yanked the door open, his vision foggy.

Silence reigned between John and the dark figure in front of him… and then his voice roughly spoke his name. "John."

'Sherlock.'

John wasn't sure if he spoke aloud or not, but the next thing he knew, he was being guided gently to the ground in front of the doorstep.

'Just a magic trick.'

John shook his head to clear it and turned to look at the figure seated awkwardly next to him. He looked strange, all knees and elbows poking from under his coat. Not as graceful as normal. John's heart swelled. Sherlock. His friend had an odd look on his face. John couldn't place it.

"Sherlock."

Inexplicably, John reached out his hands. He needed to prove this was real. John's hands felt the rough fabric of his coat and then the dry warmth of Sherlock's hands as they engulfed his. They were seated not a foot away from each other, but John thought it felt like a great deal further. The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched up in a wry sort of smile.

"Sher—" John started again, but his throat closed off.

And then, John's arms wrapped themselves around his friend, and John felt arms wrapped tightly around him in return. Despite how awkward it should have been, hugging your not-dead best mate, John felt only relief at the tactile proof of the reality of the situation. Sherlock smelled of soap and slightly of smoke and metal and the wind in the springtime. John felt a hysterical laugh bubbling up from inside of him. John wanted to tell Sherlock that he had always believed in him; he wanted to say how different everything had been without him; he wanted to make him promise never to leave like that again, but Sherlock already knew.

"I am sorry, John." Sherlock's voice rumbled. John felt giddy at being able to feel Sherlock speaking. He was alive. John's face felt hot.

John's mind was at once buzzing and blank, full of questions and wishes but unable to clarify any of them. He opened his mouth, intending to try, but only a ragged breath came out.

Sherlock's arms tightened and they sat in silence.

Finally, John rasped, "Are you all right?"

John felt Sherlock chuckle deeply in response. "John."

The sound of his own name gave him a prickly sensation. He hadn't thought he would ever hear Sherlock speak it again. But he had. He was speaking. And he would again. John flexed his fingers, revelling in the tactile sensation.

"Let's go inside," Sherlock suggested, pulling John gently to his feet. Their eyes met. John felt far too happy.

"Your brother is a git."

"This can't be a surprise to you."

"Nope. Just don't want you to forget."

"Hardly a valid concern, John."

They both had ridiculous grins on their faces as they entered 221B together for the first time in far too long.

A/N: That's all for now! Let me know what you thought! I may eventually do a sequel, depending on the response (I have some other stories vying for attention in my mind at the moment, as well). Thanks again for reading, everyone!