"Does it look infected to you?" Mrs. Doyle asks showing a deep cut on her arm. John examines it and shakes his head. The cut isn't fresh or red or developing any odd colours or smells.

"No. It looks like it is healing perfectly."

"Are you sure?" She points at it again.

John nods. "Yes. Just go home. If you are still concerned, come see me in a week."

She nods and totters off through the door. John slumps in the chair behind his desk and sighs.

The haunting blue grey eyes.

The violin's melodious song.

His hand shaking with the gun.

Sherlock can't be back. He just can't be.

John holds his head in his hands and just tries to breathe. It doesn't last long. He hears a knock on the door.

"Come in." He says, gathering himself together.

Sarah pokes her head in. She's covering the last patients straggling in. Their secretary had to run home. Something about her children exploding a blender.

"All right?"

"Yes."

"Good because I've got someone to see you."

"No more little old ladies." John jokingly begs. "Please."

She laughs and shakes her head. "It's not. It's not even someone who is sick."

John's head jerks up. "Not Sherlock?" He lets out bitterly, forgetting that no one knows that he's alive. Mycroft hasn't been answering his calls, but he's sure Mycroft was in on it as well. Bloody Holmes brothers.

Sarah gives him a patronizing stare. She's noticed his sudden change in attitude. "John. I told you whenever you want to talk."

"No. I'm all right." John forces a smile. "Who has come to see me?"

"A woman." She says consulting the name she scribbled on a post-it. "Molly Hooper."

"Oh, yeah?" John brightens and tells Sarah. "Yeah, she's an old friend. Tell her to come in."

A couple seconds later, Molly comes in looking like old Molly, a little shy with her hair tucked behind her ears. Sarah nods at John and closes the door. John gestures at to one of the chairs in front of his desk, but Molly stands.

"Molly, you can sit. I've told you the other day. I'm not angry with you. I completely understand why you lied, how he persuaded you." John comes forward and sits in one of the chairs he pointed to.

Molly follows suit and sits in the empty one. She twists her hands in her laps.

"John, he didn't persuade me. He needed help."

John barks a laugh, "Sherlock never needs help. He's bloody Sherlock Holmes."

"He needed it this time." Molly frowns as she watches him. "He wants you to know-"

"Molly," He holds his hand up to stop her. "Please Molly, stop. Sherlock, he knows how to twist words to get what he wants."

"John…"

"No Molly. I can't hear it anymore. All the things he does are only to his advantage. That's who he is." He rubs his head in tired frustration. He gestures at a stack of paperwork on his desk. "I'm sorry Molly. I really have to get it done."

"Oh." Molly says. She gets up quickly as does John. He moves to give her a hug. "I didn't mean any of my anger toward you."

"I know." Her eyes are shining. "It's just-ah-he hurts too."

"W-what?" John's eyes flicker as he watches her. "Sherlock, he-"

He lets go out of the hug and collapses back into the chair, confused by her statement. Sherlock was always an enigma, but especially with feelings and emotion. John still never quite understood how Sherlock truly felt after the death of Irene Adler. Was he sad about her death or was he more annoyed that he never got to complete the game between the two of them? Sherlock always put how he felt into little boxes to concentrate on the task better, but usually he forgot to unpack them later. Eventually they would get covered in dust.

"When I cleaned him up," Molly still stands a little taller this time. "He was so distraught by your sadness in your eyes."

"Me?"

Molly laughs. "Oh John, you both don't understand how important you are too one another.

"I -" John fumbles for what is trying to stay.

"John," She kneels to where he sits and looks him in the eyes. "He did it to protect you."

"Protect me?"

Molly hesitates in her answer. "I-I can't tell you why because it's not my place. Please John, please talk to him. He wants to explain badly.

"I-"

"Mycroft can't keep Sherlock cooped up there much longer. He isn't Rapunzel."

John arches an eyebrow. "I don't think Sherlock would get that reference."

"But you do. You know what I mean." Molly gets up and brushes off her knees. "He going to get out and when he gets out, you'll lose your chance. The press will find him and interrogate him. Everyone will come. Those fans, the cynics and those obnoxious reporters. They will come to you and ask you how you feel."

John snorts. "I'll just say Sherlock is a berk."

"John." Molly glares at him. "Yes, he can be like that. I won't say he isn't, but think about it, why hasn't Sherlock stormed out looking for a case yet? Why is he sitting in his chair like a child put out?"

"Because that's who he is." John says, but he knows it is only partially true. Sherlock would have announced his return by now so he could get cases again. He would be itching to solve the Winters murder that was three months old if he hadn't already solved it when he was away. The internet is available everywhere. Sherlock loved to keep busy and the best way to keep busy was with cases. And then John gasps. He knows what's changed. "He's waiting for his blogger."

Molly smiles. "He's not just waiting for his blogger. He's waiting for his friend. His best friend."

"I can't go tonight." John murmurs. It wasn't a lie.

"W-why not?" Molly frowns. "You just seemed so eager!"

"I have dinner with Mary. Paperwork."

"Mary would understand. Paperwork can wait." Molly is bouncing on her heels. He knows she just wants him to say yes to ease the past three years of her tailing after Sherlock, but John can't say yes that easily. He too is a stubborn man.

He shakes his head. "No. He can't think I can drop everything. Soon though, all right? In the next day?"

She nods in defeat. "All right." She hangs around the door "You promise?"

"To ease your worries more than his." John says walking to the door to let her out. He gives her another hug." Molly, I will speak to him and Molly,"

"Yes?"

"Thank you." He hopes she understands what he means by just these two words.

"I-" She can't seem to finish so instead she just nods. He knows she understands. For him, there will never be enough thank you's to properly thank her for all that she has done and continues to do.

x-x-x

"You first."

John sits twiddling his fork, unaware of his guest and their statement. He's thinking about Molly and what she said.

"You don't realize how important you are too each other."

"John!"

"Ah-what?" He looks up at Mary who nudges the hot plate toward him. Their appetizer had arrived and he hadn't even noticed.

Mary sighs. "John, you need to sort it out."

"What?"

She leans in and clasps his hand. "I can see it's tearing you apart."

"Mare, I made a life without him and then he waltzes back in thinking it can go back to the way it was. No." John shakes his head definitively.

Mary laughs. "Fat chance I'll let you go back to bachelorhood, but I also know something about leaving things behind. Sometimes you have to go back and look just to make sure you are absolutely sure you can live without it."

"I think I can. I did it for three years."

"No you haven't."

This is something that he loves about Mary. She is never dishonest.

"I've seen it. I saw it when you spoke to Mike or Mycroft and Anthea, but especially with Lestrade or Molly or Mrs. Hudson, people that knew him with you. People that silently or not so silently grieved for the loss of their friend. You moved on you say, but John you didn't see how you looked when you saw him."

"And how did I look?" Johns leans his chin on his and her hands, listening to her.

"Haunted at first, but when you came home, you looked like someone whose wish had been granted. Like someone who had found happiness that they didn't know they still could find."

"That's not true." He squeezes her hand back. "I have happiness with you."

"Thank you for that, but John, don't deny yourself that feeling of happiness. Those three years have made you to be a better and stronger man, but maybe not wiser."

"Hey!"

"Listen," She rubs his hand affectionately. "I've known you for two of them and it's no secret that you've faced many demons, but love," She squeezes his hands one more time and looks at him with her deep blue caring eyes. "Give Sherlock a chance."

x-x-x

John tosses and turns in his sleep. Mary sleeps soundly next to him.

"Even with all your tricks, you don't understand one thing. It's how death grates on the living."

John leans against his pillow and stares up at the ceiling. Sherlock didn't understand what it was like those three years. When 'his death' had happened, John had not been prepared to start all over again, but he had had to. He worked back to a job, to looking healthy, to a relationship… to a life. Even when he saw past echoes of the detective, he learned to appreciate it and move on. John had told himself as well as Ella that that was what you were supposed to do when someone died. He was proud of himself that he could see how far he had come. However…

"I can't let you destroy it in a second because in the end, we both know I could and would."

The truth is, as he tosses in his bed and looks at the alarm clock, he knows he could throw it all away and that's what scares him because he did miss how the world looked when you were friends with Sherlock. Could he just forgive Sherlock like that?

No. He knows that would be the hardest part. He tosses again in his bed. Could he really keep living knowing that Sherlock still roamed the streets, terrorizing the Scotland Yard with that stupid turned up collar of his?

"Sometimes you have to go back and look just to make sure you are absolutely sure you can live without it."

Maybe forgiveness could be possible when weighed against everything else that he could lose. John sighs and tries to close his eyes to catch some sleep. Tomorrow, it's time to walk back into the firing line and see if he's willing to get shot or if he will run for cover.

x-x-x

He puts his key into the familiar 221B slot and pushes the door open. He hears the telly in Mrs. Hudson's flat. He pokes his head in to see her flicking through the paper as the news played. He coughs.

"Oh John. " She says softly. "I can't believe. I-I saw him yesterday. A little thin for my liking, but," She holds onto John's hand. "He's alive. He wonderfully alive. Isn't that something?"

John smiles. "Yes. Yes it is absolutely something."

She lets go. "Don't be too hard on him."

John tilts his head in confusement. "That seems to be what everyone keeps on telling me. Why would I be hard on him?"

"Because he did a thing that wasn't very kind. Give him a chance to explain."

"You know why?"

She nods and John sighs with frustration. It had to be one hell of an explanation that no one had even tried to explain to him.

He excuses himself and goes up the steps, curses to himself for being back here and then finally pushes the door open.

Sherlock is sitting in his chair, thinking.

It's like time hadn't gone by and John had just returned from work to find Sherlock thinking about the latest case, except that's not true because no one in the world is aware of the marvel that is Sherlock Holmes still existing in the world, let alone in this flat.

Mary is right… he did miss this. He missed feeling alive, this buzz. His mind drinking in the image of Sherlock Holmes breathing made his heart beat wonderfully. The chase could go on. Albeit a little different, but there is now a chance to run in the streets with a madman again. There never used to be.

"Well I only came back because you owe me an explanation. Molly and Mrs. Hudson even Mary say I owe you a chance."

"You don't think you owe me one?"

John shrugs. "I haven't really made up my mind."

Sherlock's eyes open and then he looks at him, deducing him. There in that moment, John knows he can't live without Sherlock, no matter the answer, he knows he can't live without him.

"Moriarty wanted you dead." Sherlock finally says.

John walks forward and collapses in his chair that forms to his body. It's like he has never left. "Yeah? He's wanted that before and you still let me help."

"He had a sniper on you and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. People that I cared about."

John lets this sink in. He thinks back to the pool with the red laser sights on his heart and on Sherlock's brain.

"You've shown your hand there, Doctor Watson."

"Still, I could have defended myself."

"John," and there is this pleading in his voice that John has never heard. "I didn't know where the sniper was. So many obstacles and with just one little call and he could have snuffed you all out like a candle. I hated him for that. He killed himself on the roof, that idiot." Sherlock sounds a little annoyed if anything now. There would be time to ask him about this later. Sherlock continues.

"The only solution was to become dead because then, then they would leave you alone..."

"Well yeah, good on you. That's what happened. "

"John, stop it!" John looks at him. He can feel a Sherlock tantrum coming. He's out of practice from them, but he still knows them well. Sherlock gets up from his chair and waves his arms madly. John notices a scar on the back of his neck. This wasn't the time to ask. "Stop harboring this hate for me! Scream at me! Hit me! Stop trying to keep it all in."

"I won't do any of those things." He says calmly from his chair.

"So why won't you do them, John?"

"Because you were gone for three years and I still don't why? Fake being dead for a month, sure. It was just a couple of snipers after all. Shouldn't be a problem for you?"

Sherlock sighs like he used too when John couldn't see the solution that was right under his nose. He crawls backs into his chair and curls to face him. "Because - because I took down Moriarity's entire network so no one, no one could ever hurt the people I care about again. Well," He pauses. "I can't say that for the rest of the world of criminals."

"Well that's great." John shakes his head, half relieved and half annoyed. "Except, let's hear my side of the story. My story doesn't have gun chases or international mobsters, but mine is just important for you to hear as well. Just to be clear. You have to know what I went through."

Sherlock's lip twitches and John feels alive seeing something he never imagined to see again. Sherlock nods and John continues.

"I was so distraught the first year. I was quiet, lost a bit weight. It made me look unhealthy and quite frankly, I just didn't care. I sat in this chair, wasting away; just staring out the window, hoping you'd come back. Then I grew angry and miserable at people who were jerks that continued to destroy you. Then I drank a bit. I almost broke Anderson's wrist," He saw a flicker of a smile on his friend's face. "And that wasn't me. I didn't want to win a war with curses and punches. I didn't want to become new tabloid fodder. It just made me tired. I then decided that I knew the truth that I wanted: Sherlock Holmes was never a fraud. I have been working quietly with Lestrade to prove you were never a fake. Quietly, because Lestrade and I aren't supposed to be focusing on a dead detective when there are real illnesses and murder afoot. Actually we were sill working because let's be honest, most of the world still thinks you're a fake."

He rubs his chin thinking. He can see Sherlock sitting in his chair, hands steepled under his chin again.

"Good thing you're back, should make things easier or not," He pauses thinking about one person's reactions, "Because if I don't kill you, I'm sure Lestrade is going to." John laughs and finishes his thought. "See, I made peace with people who've helped me or hurt me and I moved on."

Sherlock smirks. "John Watson's War. My brother called it."

"Yeah he would say something like that." John rolls his eyes and Sherlock snorts.

"Stupid isn't it?" Sherlock says. "He does love a good cliché." He nods to his violin case. "Thank you for taking care of it."

John scratches his neck and shrugs. "How could I not?" The violin was Sherlock. Mycroft had been right two years ago. If anything was Sherlock it was his violin. That night when he had given it to Mycroft, it had killed him. Mary would never admit it, but once in a while John had been known to listen to classical music to fall back to sleep to when he had awoken from nightmares of bodies falling.

"You said you were angry. If you truly were, you would have let it be donated to some ghastly child who would have destroyed it. Or let someone use it as kindling." Sherlock muses to himself in horror while John just watches him.

"Come here." John sighs as he gets up from his chair.

"What?" Sherlock tilts his head, brought out of his discussion with himself.

"Come here you giant idiot." Sherlock gets up and faces John, towering over him. John laughs again. "I've missed this height difference." He embraces Sherlock suddenly, which catches Sherlock off guard who tenses. "I thought you didn't forgive me."

"Shut up."

Sherlock hums a little approval. "My brother always kept me updated."

"Yes I'm aware of that. He an Anthea never did let up on it."

"Because if they did, you would have done something stupid. It would have all been for nothing if you did something stupid."

"Like killing myself?"

Sherlock tenses again, but says, "Yes. Yes that would have been extremely stupid."

"When one is angry or sad, we humans tend to do extremely stupid things." John lets go, "Just tell me. How did you do it? How did you survive the fall?"

Sherlock's eyes twinkle. John knows he's been dying to tell someone and not just anyone. "You really want to know?"

"I'll damned if the press finds out before your best friend does." John heads away from Sherlock and he can feel the detective following him like a puppy, "I'm not leaving," John calls, "but I'm gonna need something to drink. Tea?"

He turns around to see Sherlock smiling. "But of course. There's milk in the fridge."

The streets of London hum below as John Watson busies himself by making tea and Sherlock Holmes takes the violin out and plays.

Well that's it. Hope you enjoyed it!