Disclaimer: I do not own any part of Sherlock; it all belongs to the BBC, Ryan Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, et al. I write these stories purely for enjoyment; no copyright infringement is intended. All of the dialogue from "The Reichenbach Fall" likewise belongs to the writers.

Author's Note: Yes, I know, I need another WIP like a hole in the head – or in the wall. I can't help it. I'm beginning to find that character study is really what I do – my stories are not about the action so much as they are about why the characters behave the way they do. I love illuminating conversation, and there is a lot of it in here. Those of you looking for case fic, this is probably not going to be your cuppa – but this is unabashedly Johnlock, and also post-Reichenbach. Appearances by Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Lestrade, and Molly at the very least. This has not been Brit-picked by anyone other than myself, so corrections and kindness appreciated. As always, many thanks to the wonderful WickedforGood13, who is my best cheerleader, beta, and lovely friend.

Wounded With His Wounded Heart

My true-love hath my heart and I have his,

By just exchange one for the other given:

I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss;

There never was a bargain better driven.

His heart in me keeps me and him in one;

My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides:

He loves my heart, for once it was his own;

I cherish his because in me it bides.

His heart his wound received from my sight;

My heart was wounded with his wounded heart;

For as from me on him his hurt did light,

So still, methought, in me his hurt did smart:

Both equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss,

My true love hath my heart and I have his.

~Sir Philip Sidney, Song From Arcadia

"The stuff that you wanted to say, but didn't say it," Ella began softly.

"Yeah."

"Say it now," his therapist requested.

"I'm sorry, I can't," John said, swallowing hard as tears threatened to fall from his eyes yet again. He had lost count of the tears he had shed while he was alone, the hours he had spent awake at night, seeing Sherlock fall over and over again, but he'd be damned if he'd break down in front of other people. He could accept sympathy and appreciate it when it was expressed, but he wanted no part of anyone's pity. He was only here today because Mrs. Hudson had made the appointment (she'd found Ella's number in his phone; she'd obviously learned a little too well from Sherlock) and pleaded with him to go.

But the things he hadn't said – he wasn't sure he would ever be able to voice them, now. The person they were meant for was dead, and even when Sherlock was alive, John hadn't been able to find the words.

He tried.

When he was awake at night, sometimes he would attempt to write. Sometimes he started a blog entry, sometimes a letter to Sherlock, anything to get the thoughts out of his head. He began a million ways – with his impressions from the first time he had met Sherlock at Bart's, with the odd and hostile conversation he'd had with Irene Adler in the warehouse, with his own anger. But inevitably he would end up crumpling the paper into a ball and throwing it into the fireplace. Watching each of his attempts burn to ash seemed appropriate.

I will burn the heart out of you.

Moriarty had succeeded in that, and John wondered if he had known that he was destroying two hearts instead of one. He was sure the bastard would have taken a sick, perverse pleasure from the thought.

He hadn't succeeded in destroying Sherlock, though, not entirely. With the recovery of Moriarty's body and his phone, which seemed to be the only device he consistently used to run his empire of crime, Lestrade and the Yard had begun to dismantle his network, piece by slow piece. (Had Moriarty appreciated the irony that he was like Jennifer Wilson in any way?) Sherlock's name had been cleared. The Times had run a long, apologetic expose detailing Moriarty's crimes, his farce of a trial, and the accomplishments of the consulting detective who had made the ultimate sacrifice in order to bring him to justice.

There were two things that didn't make sense. The first was that Moriarty had apparently killed himself – a handgun was found with him, containing only his prints, and it was beyond John to figure out why. Had he killed himself before or after Sherlock had jumped? If it had been before, why had Sherlock still gone through with his suicide? John could only hope that somewhere in all of the information the Yard was uncovering on Moriarty, there would be answers.

The second strange thing was that Sherlock's phone, the one he had last spoken on and that John had distinctly seen him throw behind him, was not found on the rooftop. Greg wondered whether there had in fact been someone with Moriarty and Sherlock, someone else who was there to ensure that Sherlock jumped or otherwise ended up dead, or someone who was meant to carry on Moriarty's work in the event of his death and had retrieved the phone before the police got to the crime scene.

Greg also wondered whether John could have been mistaken about where Sherlock had thrown the phone. John knew he wondered, wondered whether John's perceptions had been distorted by fear and grief, but the DI never said anything to him, just as John never enquired about the progress the Yard was making with pulling apart Moriarty's web. Greg sent him occasional brief updates without being asked – another flat raided, another associate charged and jailed, another hard drive found. It was meager comfort, a sharp splinter of satisfaction in otherwise cheerless days.

John also never asked how much Mycroft involved himself in the work Greg was doing, even though he was sure the elder Holmes was devoting every moment of his days to the same end, with all of the frightening, ruthless intensity of which he was capable.

John didn't want to know. He wasn't sure he would be able to tolerate Mycroft's presence ever again. He was certain the man must still be keeping tabs on him, but John wanted nothing to do with him.

He'd come perilously close to punching Mycroft at the funeral.

He thought Sherlock would have been amused if he had.

If he wasn't trying to write on the nights he couldn't sleep, or woke from nightmares of blood on the ground and blank, lifeless blue-grey eyes, he found himself simply wandering around the flat. He hadn't moved many things – hadn't been able to – and so he would wander, running his fingers over the skull on the mantelpiece, over the arms and back of Sherlock's chair, over the microscope and Erlenmeyer flasks in the kitchen. More often than not, he would end up on the leather couch, cradling Sherlock's beloved Stradivarius as though it were the man himself.

After three weeks of insomnia and numbness and grief, he feared for his own sanity.

He gathered up the absolute basics of what he needed and left, finding a room several miles away that was much like the one he'd had when he first returned to London.

It allowed him to exist, and that was all he needed now. All he expected.

He took precisely three items that had been Sherlock's: the skull, the violin, and Sherlock's blue dressing gown.

Neither Mycroft nor Mrs. Hudson said a word.

Shortly after he had been to see Ella, he and Mrs. Hudson made a visit by themselves to the cemetery.

He knew Mrs. Hudson was grieving, too – Sherlock had been like a son to her, which was part of why she was so angry now – but he was grateful when she left him alone. He wasn't sure how much longer he could have kept his composure in front of her, not with the black granite slab standing ruthlessly in front of him.

It came over him all at once, in one overwhelming, painful wave, that this would be the closest he could ever be to Sherlock from now on – and frankly, he couldn't bear it. So he tried again. Tried to find some of the words that had been eluding him for the past few weeks – for the past few months, really.

"Um, you – you told me once that you weren't a hero. Um - there were times I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this, you were – the best man, and the most human – " John struggled to find another noun, then gave it up as a bad job "– human being that I've ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, and so – there."

He walked carefully toward the headstone, touching his fingertips to it gently, as though Sherlock could feel the tentative caress.

"I was so alone, and I owe you so much," he choked out. John began to walk away, but it was almost as though he could feel Sherlock's specter hovering near him, and he turned around in desperation. Had Sherlock been standing there, John would have grabbed him by his lapels, but as it was, all he could do was look at that hateful stone as he pleaded.

"There's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me," he gasped hoarsely. "Don't be dead. Would you do that – just for me? Just stop it. Stop this."

John allowed a few tears to fall as he bowed his head and put his hand over his eyes – but he would never leave this spot again if he allowed himself to completely break down, and so he straightened his posture into an erect military salute before leaving.

He didn't look back.

Sherlock had brought him alive again, and he couldn't allow that to go to waste – no matter how much he might want to.

John attempted, over the next few months, to put his life back together, to function in spite of the aching void in his chest that Sherlock had left behind. He still worked for Sarah at the surgery – and in fact, she was immensely relieved to have someone on staff as dependable and regular as John had become. That spring and summer saw a rash of illnesses and outbreaks that overwhelmed the medical offices of London, and between them, Sarah and John coped with the onslaught of patients. John fell back into his RAMC habits, eating and sleeping only when absolutely necessary and tending to one case after another until late in the evenings.

It was not lost on John that he had taken to abusing his body as badly as Sherlock had abused his, something for which John had often chastised him roundly. However, there was no one to worry about him save Sarah and Mrs. Hudson, and the long hours and continuous work kept away his psychosomatic limp and hand tremors, though those same hours did nothing to improve the condition of his shoulder.

He still went to have tea with Mrs. Hudson every so often, and she kept him updated on the progress of cleaning out the flat. She had boxed up Sherlock's lab equipment and had someone from St. Bart's come to collect it – since Sherlock had spent so much time in their lab and morgue, Mrs. Hudson thought it was fitting that his equipment should go there. John smothered a smile at Sherlock's voice in his head, pointing out all the ways the idiot techs at Bart's would undoubtedly misuse his things. John knew Mrs. Hudson meant well, and he didn't want to hurt her feelings by pointing out the detective's probable opinion of her reasoning.

Mycroft had, according to Mrs. Hudson, come by in person to remove Sherlock's possessions shortly after the funeral. John was frankly surprised that Mycroft had taken the time to do such a thing himself, but apparently he and the ever-present Anthea had spent several hours packing Sherlock's clothes and books, case files and laptop, and Mrs. Hudson had asked them to stay for tea. Mycroft had said that his mother wanted some of Sherlock's things, and he wanted to add some of his brother's unique library to his own collection.

"He looked terrible, the poor man," Mrs. Hudson said sympathetically, on a day roughly six months after Sherlock had died, as she and John talked over tea and scones. "As thin as Sherlock used to be – except he's not quite as tall, you know – and simply exhausted. He said he's been doing everything he can to deal with the people who hurt Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson's voice shook a bit, and she wiped away a tear as she took another sip of tea.

"Yes, well, he might start by looking in the mirror, then," John said sharply, unable to contain his bitterness. "No doubt he wanted Sherlock's case files for all of their notes; he always did want to know more than Sherlock would tell him."

Mrs. Hudson watched him keenly for a moment, then set down her cup and saucer with a decisive click, covering one of John's hands with her own.

"You should at least try to forgive him, John," she said gently. "I know all of the publicity before Sherlock died was terrible, although I don't know exactly what led Sherlock to – to do what he did, and I know you don't either. I don't know how much Mycroft had to do with it, even though you clearly hold him responsible in some way. I do know they didn't entirely get along. But John" – and she squeezed his fingers, making John look up at her – "he has lost his brother, probably the only person in the world who was remotely like him and could understand him. It's not any easier for him than it is for you, even though your relationships with Sherlock were – different," she finished, hesitating just a fraction of a second over the last word.

John smiled slightly, both to acknowledge Mrs. Hudson and at the irony of what she had (almost) said. He knew what she thought – what everyone, apparently, had thought – and the ridiculous thing was that it hadn't been true at the time. He had scarcely begun to come to grips with his feelings for his flatmate, much less decided whether to do anything about them, before Sherlock had been torn from him. Even had he been brave enough to do something – say something – there were no guarantees that Sherlock would have reciprocated. Sherlock had a complicated relationship with emotions at the best of times, and he really did seem – had seemed – to be married to his work above all else, no matter how high his regard for John had been. John felt tremendously honored to know that he was – had been – Sherlock's closest friend, and maybe, in the end, he would have decided that was enough, and never said anything at all. It had been enough, come to that – Sherlock had saved him in all the ways that mattered. Even if John spent every day of his life wishing for one more conversation, one more chase, one more evening in Baker Street – and he knew he would – the eighteen months he had spent with Sherlock shone like a bright star over all the rest of his life.

"I'll work on it, Mrs. Hudson," he finally said to his former landlady, taking another sip of his own tea. She was right, after all; Mycroft had lost Sherlock and must have been devastated, though he would hide it from the entire world before admitting to it.

"Good," she said, patting his hand before standing and going back over to the stove to put more water on.

"And you know, John, you can come back whenever you like," she added after a moment. She turned back toward him, and John could see the tears in her eyes. "You don't have to, of course, but I don't have any plans to immediately rent the flat again. To be honest, I can't imagine not having at least one of you upstairs," she admitted, her voice trembling.

John rose from his chair and enfolded the older woman in a hug. God, he loved this woman like a mother, and it was so hard to see her hurting this way, even if he understood it more than anyone else.

"I'll think about it, all right?" he murmured. "I need a little more time, but. . . I'll think about it."

"I would love to have you, if you want," she replied, and John gave her another squeeze before letting her go.

When he got home, John showered, wrapped himself in Sherlock's dressing gown, and collapsed in his reading chair for the rest of the evening.

There were days, still, when the grief was just too great.

The one-year anniversary of Sherlock's death found John still undecided about moving back to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson missed him, and in all honesty he missed her and the flat, but he still wasn't sure he could stand to be there without Sherlock – not to mention that he couldn't really afford it. He had put a good bit away since he had been working so much at the surgery (and since he had no social life to speak of), but he would probably need to get a flatmate eventually, if he moved back – and the idea of that still felt like betrayal. Baker Street was Sherlock's; it was where Sherlock belonged, whether John was there or not, and replacing him with someone else was impossible.

The anniversary also found John back at the graveyard, for the first time since his visit with Mrs. Hudson directly after the funeral.

It was cold, but not unbearably so, and it wasn't raining. John had come prepared, wearing a jumper and a heavy coat and carrying a blanket to sit on. He spread the blanket out in front of Sherlock's headstone, and slowly eased himself down, placing a bouquet of deep purple calla lilies directly underneath Sherlock's name.

"Hello, Sherlock," he said quietly.

John simply sat for a few minutes, letting the peacefulness of the place sink in. He could appreciate the prettiness of the cemetery in a way he'd been incapable of doing before.

"You know, I have no idea if you like flowers," John said finally, the corner of his mouth turning up. "Much less if you care about where your headstone is. I doubt it, given how many times you've said your body is just 'transport' – but it's nice here. And the flowers remind me of you. They're – vivid, like you. You always appreciate beauty when you actually take the time to notice it."

John knew he was still talking in the present tense, as if his friend was actually sitting across from him, but he didn't care. It felt right, in a way that speaking in the past tense never did – and given how often he heard Sherlock's voice in his head, he wasn't sure he would ever feel as though the detective was truly gone.

"I'm sorry I haven't been back," he went on, his voice becoming quieter. "It's been hard – in some ways it doesn't feel like it could possibly have been a year ago, but in other ways it feels like ten. I miss you. I miss all of your insanity – running around London after you, coming home to find you shooting holes into the wall, hearing you play at three in the morning. I don't miss the body parts in the fridge," John said with a tiny smile, "but I miss everything else."

John stayed for a few more minutes, not saying anything more, and when he rose to leave, he once again brushed his fingertips over the gravestone, the feeling lingering in his nerve endings as he walked out.

He was simultaneously completely unsurprised and utterly irritated to see a black car waiting for him. Mentally throwing up his hands, he stalked over to the car and climbed in the back, sending a glare at Anthea.

"I'm not at all happy about this, for the record," he growled at her.

"Yes, I rather think he's expecting that," Anthea said dryly, unfazed as ever as she tapped her Blackberry.

John crossed his arms and simply sat back to wait, recognizing the route to the Diogenes Club after a few turns. He tried to fathom what Mycroft could possibly want. Mycroft Holmes was not the type to indulge in sentimentality – in fact, John was fairly certain that Mycroft's response to the anniversary would simply be to work harder than ever – so John had no idea why he was being summoned. Still, he would try and be civil. It was the least he could do, on this day when his own heartache was so close to the surface.

Contrary to his usual custom, Mycroft was waiting outside the Diogenes when the car pulled up, standing straight and immaculately dressed at the bottom of the stairs. When John got out of the car, Mycroft wore an expression which, in another man, might have been wariness, but to John's battle-trained eyes, simply looked like someone braced for a reaction – or a storm.

"Mycroft," he said neutrally. He kept his expression carefully blank, but he knew his eyes were cold and Mycroft could read his displeasure.

"Dr. Watson," Mycroft said with a nod. He could clearly tell that John was in no mood for pleasantries, and so he inclined his head and the two men began to ascend the stairs together.

Mrs. Hudson was right, John noted – Mycroft was shockingly thin, especially for a man who, a year ago, had a slight paunch and extra weight in his jowls and neck. Though he was as meticulously groomed as ever, there were dark circles under his eyes, and his skin was of a color and texture that raised all of the alarm bells in the medical side of John's brain. Before he could think about it too much, John reached out a hand and put it on Mycroft's forearm.

"Mycroft, I'm not pleased to be here and I won't pretend I am, but I have to tell you, you look terrible," John said in concern. "You've lost at least two stone, maybe three. I can't imagine the last time you had a full night's sleep, and you're showing signs of malnutrition and dehydration. If it were anyone else, I'd be putting them on two IV drips and giving them sleeping medication about now."

Mycroft gave him a smile that, to John's surprise, seemed genuinely amused and appreciative, if a bit dry. "Ever the doctor," he said with a small shake of his head. "I promise you that I will be much better able to take care of myself after today. It has been – a very long year," Mycroft admitted. "But I will endeavor to bring myself back to health now, Dr. Watson. If it will reassure you, you can leave instructions with Anthea."

John stopped on the top stair in amazement, and Mycroft turned to look at him. "I just might do that," John said slowly, wondering if he had stepped into an alternate universe. Since when had Mycroft Holmes been willing to take medical advice from him?

"I'm sure she would appreciate it. She does worry about me," Mycroft answered, again with that surprisingly genuine smile, and John shook his head, shelving his confusion for later contemplation.

"Mycroft, are you going to tell me why I'm here?" John asked, trying to return his focus back to the original problem. "I don't want to fight with you, today of all days, but I really would prefer to be left alone. Surely you can understand that."

"I can. This shouldn't take long," Mycroft said, and he led the way into the club, turning a corner and leading them through the silent reading rooms until they reached the sitting room where John had met with him on several other occasions. Mycroft reached out to turn the doorknob, but then hesitated, turning back to face John with an expression that was a truly alarming mixture of fatigue, guilt, and sadness.

"John," he said tiredly, "this may turn out to be yet another transgression for which you cannot forgive me, but I hope, in the end, you will see that it was for the best."

John opened his mouth to question the other man, but before he could utter a word, Mycroft opened the door and went in, leaving John no other option but to follow.

As he stepped into the room, John's attention was immediately drawn to a tall figure standing in front of the windows. His heart was in his throat almost before he registered what his eyes were seeing – light gray suit, dark brown curly hair, slender hands, a profile like Sherlock's, exactly like Sherlock's – and he could only stare, unaware of Mycroft slipping out again behind him.

The figure turned completely toward him, and a roaring began in John's ears. He could see differences, small differences, with a clarity that was almost overwhelming – a tiny scar on Sherlock's right temple, another peeking out from under his shirt collar, over his collarbone, small lines at the corners of his eyes that were new – but the face was otherwise Sherlock's. John slowly shook his head, his combat reflexes taking over as his hands steadied and his voice cracked through the room like a whip.

"What is this? Who are you?" he demanded.

And then the apparition spoke.

"It is I, truly, John," the figure said. "You are not hallucinating, I assure you."

And it was his voice, his, the deep, rich baritone that John still heard in his mind and in his dreams, but it was wrong, still wrong, because Sherlock had never sounded so pained or apprehensive or hesitant or gentle.

John shook his head again in denial. "I don't know what kind of sick game this is," he ground out, speaking between clenched jaws and gritted teeth, "and so help me, when I find out what Mycroft has to do with this there will be hell to pay – but you are not Sherlock Holmes. You are not."

The man hesitated before taking a step forward, but stepped back again as John flinched, the reflex somewhere between striking a blow and shrinking away from an unwelcome touch.

"You are not!" the doctor roared, staring down the look alike with a ferocity that was truly frightening as his hands balled into fists. "I watched him fall, I watched my best friend fall to his death and watched his head bleed out over the pavement, so don't you dare try to tell me –"

And all at once John wasn't in the Diogenes Club at all, but staring up at Sherlock, his Sherlock, on the edge of the roof at Bart's, feeling the nausea and terror in his stomach as his brain finally started to understand what Sherlock meant to do, hearing the painful breaks in the detective's voice through the phone, his words through what John was sure were tears.

Keep your eyes fixed on me. Can you do this for me?

There was a sickening jolt in his stomach as he watched Sherlock toss the phone away and dive off of the ledge, his eyes pinned to his friend's falling form for an unreal handful of seconds that felt like hours, before the horrible thump and crack hit his ears. He was running, running toward the body on the ground but someone plowed into him, throwing him to the ground on his bad shoulder, making him hit his head and dazing him, making it a struggle to stay conscious and fight his way back to his feet, work his way over to the crowd on the sidewalk, only to fall to his knees again as someone – him? – turned Sherlock over and he saw the staring eyes, the blood pooling under Sherlock's curls and running in rivulets through the pavement seams – and someone was trying to talk to him, calm him down, was saying his name even though he hadn't told them his name –

"John," the voice said urgently. "John. Breathe."

John gasped, and he came back to himself as suddenly as though someone had covered him in a bucket of ice water. He was shaking and sweating, and the man who looked so eerily like Sherlock and yet didn't was gripping his upper arms and had backed him against the wall in order to keep him from falling. The man was still speaking to him in Sherlock's voice.

"Deep breaths, John. Slowly," the voice instructed, and John, feeling his lungs burning from the lack of oxygen and his limbs still trembling with adrenaline and shock, tried to comply with the command, consciously fighting back the panic and grief of the flashback, fighting back the anger and confusion created by the man standing in front of him. He sucked in a long breath and released it, then pressed his lips shut and inhaled through his nose the second time, doing the same for the third – and reeling again as his olfactory sensors were overwhelmed by the scent of Sherlock, warm and spicy and utterly unmistakable.

John closed his eyes, still breathing deeply, and when he finally opened them again he saw nothing but blue-grey, blue-grey eyes that were wide and intent and worried. Finally feeling as though he might not be dreaming, John raised a shaking hand to the face in front of him, tentatively cradling one angular cheekbone as his fingers met solid flesh.

"Sherlock?" he whispered.

Sherlock simply nodded, and John withdrew his hand abruptly as he realized what he was doing. Sherlock's fingers relaxed on his biceps, but didn't let go, and John found that he was grateful for the contact, if only to reinforce the reality of what he was seeing.

"I – I don't understand. How?" John asked incredulously.

"A carefully orchestrated series of illusions, John – although the fall itself was real enough," Sherlock admitted grimly, a shudder going through his tall frame at the memory. "Braces, padding, a bulletproof vest, real blood in my blood type that Molly took from the hospital supply, a very rare drug called morticyazine to produce the effects of cardiac arrest. A suit jacket and Belstaff coat can cover a great deal. I was hoping not to have to do it, of course, but I had planned for the possibility. Molly filled out the paperwork to make my death look real and cleaned up the actual wounds I sustained."

"Molly," John repeated numbly. His shock and anger at what had seemed like a cruel joke was nothing to the rage that was beginning to course through him. "Molly knew you were alive."

"No," Sherlock corrected decisively. "She knew I was alive when I left the hospital. She did not know where I was going or whether I would live after that, which was exactly how I needed it to be. And in fact, it made little difference anyway, since I was not sure of either of those things myself."

"You weren't sure…" John started to repeat what Sherlock had said, his tone still disbelieving, before he checked himself almost automatically; he knew the detective hated repetition. "And Mycroft?" he demanded.

"Mycroft knew nothing until about two months after my 'death,' when I started leaving dead bodies for his agents and the Yard to find," Sherlock said bluntly. "It wasn't until the third or fourth one, probably two months or so later, that I took the time to get in touch with him, as I was sure that by then he would have figured out what was happening. He had, of course," Sherlock added almost absently, his eyes focused on something in his mind rather than on John.

"Dead bodies – Sherlock, whose dead bodies?" John said, his voice cracking almost hysterically as he tried to process all of the new information and at the same time not lose his temper completely.

Sherlock let him go abruptly, then, and John immediately felt cold without the warmth of his hands. The consulting detective's face arranged itself into the well-remembered expression of impatience and exasperation, and suddenly the Sherlock John knew was back with a vengeance.

"Oh, don't be obtuse, John," he snapped in vexation. "The bodies of Moriarty's henchmen, the major players in his organization. Why else would I have planned for my own death, faked it as realistically as possible when there was no other option, and spent a year away from you and London, running from one country to another?"

The silence that followed Sherlock's outburst was deafening, and John didn't even realize he had swung until his fist connected with Sherlock's face, sending Sherlock sprawling to the floor.

"You sodding git. You absolute wanker," John said, standing over Sherlock and breathing heavily with the effort of controlling his fury. "You did this for your bloody game with that psychopath? You risked your life, you faked your death, you let me grieve for you and mourn you, all so you could go running off and best him?" John's voice rose steadily, shaking with betrayal, and he was quite sure he had never been this angry and hurt in his life. He had never thought Sherlock capable of being so duplicitous and disloyal, would never have believed that Sherlock could treat him with such callousness.

Sherlock looked up at him from the floor, and this time his eyes were wide not with concern, but with the realization of his mistake and some other, undecipherable emotion that John couldn't identify. Then, to John's complete and utter befuddlement, Sherlock began to laugh. It would have made him angry all over again, but there was something slightly hysterical in the deep chuckles that unsettled John and set his teeth on edge. Something was wrong here.

When Sherlock's laughter ended with a muffled groan, and the detective seemed to fold in on himself in his position on the floor, another kind of awareness flooded John's already prickling senses. He dropped to his knees next to Sherlock and reached out a tentative hand.

"Sherlock?" he said hesitantly. "What is it? Where are you hurt?" A frisson of alarm went through John as he realized that he might have exacerbated other injuries when Sherlock fell to the floor from his punch – it would explain, in fact, why Sherlock had not stayed on his feet, if he had less control of his body than he was used to.

"Cracked ribs," Sherlock gasped, his breathing shallow. "I'll be all right, just – give me a moment. Forgot how much it – hurts to laugh."

John cursed mentally. No wonder he had fallen – twisting his torso with the punch would have been agonizing on cracked ribs. It also shed some light on why Sherlock had not supported John's weight during his flashback and panic attack – Sherlock had used the wall for support, and used the strength of his arms to keep John upright without putting too much strain on his ribcage.

"Let me see," he ordered, his hands already reaching for Sherlock's suit jacket and shirt buttons.

Sherlock sat up slowly, one arm curled around his midsection, and shook his head in a weak protest. "Mycroft's physician has already seen to it, John, there is really no need –"

"Sherlock," John said again, his tone brooking no argument. "Let. Me. See."

Sherlock closed his eyes and cautiously shrugged out of his suit jacket, then unbuttoned his dress shirt. John had been right about the new scar, he saw, a slender white slice over Sherlock's collarbone, but he hissed as he saw the bloom of purple, blue, and yellow around Sherlock's ribcage. The bruises were vicious, likely made by both fists and boots, and combined with the ribs had to pain the detective immensely. John let his fingers ghost over a few of the worst ones.

"Have you been keeping your lungs clear? Taking deep breaths? What pain meds are you on?" he asked, his mind whirring as the medical questions came automatically.

"Yes, I have, and Oxycontin, briefly, followed by high doses of ibuprofen," Sherlock replied, his tone a bit terse but clearly acknowledging John's need for information.

John nodded, keeping his eyes flickering over Sherlock as he absorbed that. Of course giving Sherlock Oxycontin for any length of time wasn't a good idea, given his drug history – ten days was usually the maximum prescription allowed even for someone with no history and no addictive tendencies. As long as he had been preventing any mucous from building up in his lungs, that was the most important thing.

He caught sight of another bandage, through the white material of Sherlock's shirt, and gently touched his forearm. "And this?"

"A knife," Sherlock said succinctly. "Courtesy of one Sebastian Moran, the last person I … dispatched. Moriarty's second in command. It should be fine. Minimal scarring, with any luck."

There was a pause, during which they were both looking at each other, John doing more injury assessment and Sherlock taking in John's expression, his eyes, some of the emotions written so clearly on his face. John was aware of that direct gaze even as his brain was cataloguing the new scars that he could see, calculating the amount of time it should take Sherlock's ribs to heal, and thinking about alternatives for the ibuprofen; Sherlock wouldn't be able to stay on that forever, but he would need something to ward off the residual pain for several weeks yet. He was also shockingly thin, easily as thin as Mycroft, which on his taller frame made him look almost emaciated. He had clearly slept and been hydrated, probably by force if John knew Mycroft at all, which was the only reason his coloring was better than his brother's. He would have to eat consistently for some time, though, even to attain his normally slender and muscled physique.

Eventually, he looked back at Sherlock and nodded, a silent note that he was done with his examination, and Sherlock rebuttoned his shirt before slowly easing back into his jacket. John offered a hand to help him stand, and it was only then, when they were both standing, that Sherlock broke the silence that had enfolded them.

"I am sorry, John," he said quietly, and John looked up at him, astonished. He could count on one hand the number of times Sherlock had verbally apologized to him. Sherlock saw his look and his mouth quirked up at the corner, amused and rueful. "There is a great deal you don't know, and I am explaining it all very badly. I have been so absorbed in this, so determined to be done with this bloody business and come home, that I forgot for a moment just how much of a leap I am asking you to make."

It was in that instant that John realized that neither of them had let go of the other's hand, and his fingers tightened around Sherlock's involuntarily, even as his breathing quickened just a fraction. He had been so far in doctor mode before that he hadn't thought about the fact that he was seeing Sherlock's body – but now just the one point of contact was threatening to make his head swim.

"I'm sorry I punched you; I clearly overreacted. Just don't disappear on me again, please," John said, giving Sherlock a small smile of his own. "Having you return from the dead is about all the shock I can take today, I think."

"Understandably," Sherlock said, again with the warm half-smile that John knew was completely genuine. "Come here."

Sherlock tugged John over to the sofa and they both sat, still keeping their hands linked between them, though neither of them chose to comment on it.

"It was not about the game," Sherlock started. "It might have been a game to Moriarty, but it was a game of the most deadly kind, and by the time I was up on that rooftop, I had long since ceased to see it as such, and saw it instead as the web of a man who simply had to be stopped. It might interest you to know that our dear friend Jim shot himself in the head before I jumped."

John blanched. He had wanted to know what happened, but it hurt more than he expected to hear that Moriarty had already been dead, and yet Sherlock had jumped anyway, had faked his own death in front of John's eyes when the criminal they had been seeking was no longer a threat. "I knew he had killed himself – the forensics proved that – but then why did you still jump? Why would you still go through with it when he was already dead? When all I could do was stand there and watch you die?"

"Because in death he beat me, too, at least in that moment," Sherlock said tightly, and John realized belatedly that Sherlock's fingers were trembling. It was not easy for him to relive this, to talk about this – there was much more here than John had initially believed. "If I had anticipated that, if I had known he would be willing to go that far, I might have been able to stop him before he pulled the trigger. If I had, this whole charade would not have been necessary."

Sherlock gently disentangled his fingers from John's, and when he raised both hands to cup John's face, John could only stare back at him. Feeling that intense gaze drill into him left him dizzy, brought him back to the moment when Sherlock had been trying to get him to remember the Black Lotus cipher, and all he had been able to feel were Sherlock's eyes and hands – it was like that now, but he knew why Sherlock had done it. Sherlock needed him to remember, needed him to see what had really happened.

"Do you remember what he said at the pool?" Sherlock asked, his eyes intent on John's. John swallowed; how many times had that voice, that sentence, echoed in his head and his nightmares?

"I will burn the heart out of you," he whispered, and Sherlock nodded.

"He meant it, John. It wasn't just about humiliating me, making me look like a fake, discrediting my skills. It wasn't even solely about wanting me dead, though he certainly wanted that, enough to kill himself to ensure it. He wanted me gutted, left with nothing and no one."

Sherlock paused, and John could see the anguish flicker through his eyes before he continued. "I baited you, that day at the lab – I wanted you to be angry so that you would do exactly what you did and go to Baker Street – but I was also trying to tell you, in the only way I could."

"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me," John murmured. He closed his eyes as complete understanding finally washed through him. "I am such an idiot."

The pads of Sherlock's fingers tightened on his cheekbones. "You are not. You are not, John," he said fiercely. "You care – and that is not idiocy, no matter what Mycroft might think and no matter how long I tried to convince myself that it was. I owe you a thousand apologies for all of this, and one of them is for twisting your heart to my advantage. If the worst happened, I didn't – I didn't intend for you to see it. But when you showed up – I still tried to tell you."

John replayed the conversation he had relived so many times, slowly going over the lines in his head, for the first time in a year not feeling the soul-wrenching agony of knowing that he would never see Sherlock again. When he reached the correct point in the conversation, he sucked in a breath, knowing he was right. "'It's just a magic trick.'"

Sherlock nodded, another one of those truly kind half-smiles gracing his features. "I didn't know for certain, but – I hoped it would be. If you figured it out afterward, I wanted you to be able to hope, too."

John's throat closed up. Sherlock was still Sherlock, but this strange – strange tenderness was new, new and brilliant and terrifying for John's vulnerable heart. It was as though whatever hell Sherlock had been through in the last year had stripped away his reserve, made him willing to open up to John and show more of the emotions that John had always seen under the surface of his cold and abrupt demeanor. John wondered if what he was seeing was his alone, whether Sherlock was also different around Mycroft or Molly, and some terribly selfish part of him hoped that this Sherlock was all his.

Sherlock seemed to sense that John couldn't speak, because he took another long breath before he continued, his hands still never leaving John's face. "There were three snipers, John. Moriarty left warnings – IOUs – one on an apple, at the flat, when he paid me a visit the day of the verdict. That one was for you. One at the Yard, for Lestrade. One at Baker Street, for Mrs. Hudson. That day at Bart's, the snipers had all three of you in their crosshairs – and either Moriarty had to call them off, or I had to jump. That was their signal to leave. If I was dead, the three of you lived. And we went several rounds, he and I – I was so close to getting him to give them whatever code he had set up," Sherlock growled in frustration, "and he knew that I was. He put a gun in his mouth so that I wouldn't succeed, so that the only avenue left to me was to jump. He was willing to die as long as I did, too – and he had found precisely the right way to make it happen."

"My god," John breathed. He could feel the color draining from his face as Sherlock explained, and by the end he just felt cold all over, his mind in turmoil as he tried to comprehend such an impossible choice. He raised his own hands and placed them lightly on Sherlock's forearms, still needing to feel the detective's flesh under his fingers – and needing a counterpoint to Sherlock's hands on his own skin. "Sherlock, I never imagined –"

"Of course you didn't – and I didn't want you to," Sherlock said determinedly. "No one but Moriarty could have dreamed up such insanity. That was the entire point – everyone had to believe I was dead, even you, John. As long as the world believed it, as long as the people closest to me believed it, then you were all safe. Not only that, but others were safe, too. Harry. Clara. Mrs. Hudson's sister. Angelo. Lestrade's children. And before you ask, John, Molly was safe from the start because Moriarty had deemed her unimportant – he had gone through with the charade of dating her, after all, and watched me dismiss her out of hand that day he was in the lab, saw me utterly ignore her. She didn't matter, or so he thought, and therefore I could go to her when the need was greatest. I've never been so grateful for my own rude and antisocial tendencies," he added wryly.

Feeling slightly more brave, now that he was starting to understand, John slid his hands up to Sherlock's own and entwined their fingers, bringing them down so that their joined hands rested between them. Sherlock offered no objection at all, and John felt his own hope grow just a little more.

"What about Mycroft?" he said curiously. "Why didn't he go after Mycroft?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed in a way that told John he was dissatisfied with this aspect of the case, if case it could be called. "Neither I nor my dear brother have truly been able to figure out the answer to that question. Moriarty knew of Mycroft's existence; he told me so on the roof of the hospital and in any case his network was everywhere – but perhaps he thought it too risky, to try and go after the British Government? Perhaps, again, Mycroft was unimportant to Moriarty because he apparently was utterly unimportant to me? Mycroft and I have a contentious relationship at best, and you have seen our animosity firsthand. If Jim truly wanted to do as he said, take away everyone who was dear to me if I didn't kill myself first, then naturally he would go after those who seemed to be closest to me. To the outside world, Mycroft has never been on that list. It was fortuitous - Mycroft proved himself invaluable, once he knew I was alive, making sure I had money and passports and clearance at my disposal."

"It is also possible that Moriarty wanted to leave Mycroft alive, leave Mycroft knowing that he had been bested and had helped to destroy me," Sherlock added thoughtfully after a moment. "That idea would have been very appealing to him."

John could say nothing to that. It was true, for one, and for another Sherlock clearly knew what had happened between Mycroft and Moriarty. Whether or not Sherlock forgave his brother was up to him, and from what John had seen, Mycroft had certainly exhausted himself in assisting Sherlock, perhaps to atone for what he had done. John himself wasn't sure anymore how he felt toward the elder Holmes; he would need time to figure that out. Mycroft had made a terrible, heartless mistake, and he had kept the knowledge of Sherlock being alive to himself – but since that secrecy might very well have saved all of them, John wasn't sure he could fault the man.

"And so being alone not only protected you, in this case, but protected me, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, and Molly, and Mycroft," John summarized succinctly, his voice shaking. "Sherlock . . ."

He trailed off, not sure what he wanted to say or how much he could say without revealing his feelings completely, but thankfully Sherlock stepped in to the conversation.

"Quite," he nodded. "I walked away from Bart's having no idea whether or not I would succeed in taking down the rest of Moriarty's network, or if one of them would take me down first. Molly knew I was alive, at least temporarily, but she didn't know if I would stay that way, and had all of this gone on long enough, she would have assumed I was dead; perhaps she has already. Mycroft didn't know until several months after the fact. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson still don't know. And of course, it was important that everyone I was hunting also assumed I was dead. They weren't expecting me to come looking for them."

"Where did you go?" John asked softly, and suddenly every bit of Sherlock's exhaustion showed on his face.

"Everywhere," he answered wearily. "Everywhere from Paris and St. Petersburg to Morocco and the Ivory Coast. Japan. Thailand. Brazil. Even Canada and the States. I started with the snipers and worked my way up. I wanted the immediate threats to you removed, and after that I focused on the key players, the linchpins. The minions, the hired muscle, would simply move to another organization or job if Moriarty stopped paying them, but the ones who could take over, who could keep running his empire – I wanted them dead. All of them. I wasn't about to spare anyone who could come after you," Sherlock finished. Just for a moment, his eyes turned hard, fierce, and John saw all of the ruthlessness and determination that had driven him to do something so desperate, to risk his life in a six-story fall and then risk it over and over again in the twelve months that followed.

"And if you died in the process, no one would be the wiser, since you were already dead," John whispered, and Sherlock inclined his head in agreement.

"Mycroft would have been the only one who knew for certain, and the few others who cared would have already finished their mourning and moved on. It seemed . . . kinder, as well as the safest way," Sherlock said, hesitating a bit over the idea that anything about his false death could be considered kind. John knew where the hesitation came from, and he smiled humorlessly.

"'A bit not good,' that – but nothing about it was even remotely good, so maybe it could be considered a saving grace," he quipped, striving for lightness – but the statement came out more solemn than he intended, and John almost forgot to breathe as the phrasing struck him and he once again locked eyes with Sherlock. A saving grace – somehow, despite all the horror and grief of the last year, they were both here, they were both alive, as were the other people they loved. It was all thanks to the careful, swift planning of Sherlock's genius mind and the willingness of his selfless heart, the heart he kept so carefully hidden and guarded under logic and sarcasm and cutting remarks, rudeness and arrogance and impossible behavior.

Neither of them could look away as John's comment hung in the air. Sherlock was studying him intently again, and John gazed back at him just as fixedly, waiting, though he had no idea what he was waiting for – but John saw the instant when something changed in Sherlock's eyes, some last wall of resistance came down and caution was thrown to the wind. Sherlock lifted one pair of their joined hands and rested them against his cheek.

"You were still alive. That was all the grace I wanted," Sherlock murmured, and John thought his heart might burst.

He shifted position just enough so that he could lean forward and rest his forehead against Sherlock's. "I never would have stopped mourning for you, you idiot," he murmured back, his voice thick with tears. "You saved me long before you fell from that rooftop."

In the next breath, he closed the few millimeters of space between their lips, kissing Sherlock with infinite gentleness and yet with all of the pent-up longing that he had thought would never find expression. Sherlock made a soft noise in the back of his throat, and then his long fingers were sliding through John's hair, holding John in place. John felt dizzy with the sensation; Sherlock's lips were so soft, the feel of him brand new and yet utterly familiar, as if John had kissed him a million times before and simply didn't know it until this minute.

They kissed until they were both desperate for air, learning the taste and texture of each other slowly, reveling in the wet slide of their tongues and the soft brushes of their lips. When they finally broke apart, panting, John reached out and stroked Sherlock's cheekbone, doing freely now what he had been too afraid to continue earlier.

"I love you," he said softly. "Just in case that wasn't clear."

Sherlock smiled, a full smile that was, John thought, quite simply breathtaking in its happiness, and his hand found John's again and held tightly. "I love you too, John. I should hope that would be quite obvious."