AN: So, I took down Adriana, because that honestly needs a lot of work done. In the mean time, I decided to draw up a little reunion-fic. Have fun!

Disclaimer: nothing is mine, except the plot.

Who's speaking?

Doctor John Watson is just about to head home after a particularly long, hot and exhausting day. Of course, most days in South Africa are long and hot, and most days in the hospital are exhausting, having to deal with every injury or disease imaginable, varying from malnutrition to broken bones to AIDS. In the two years he has now been working at the hospital he has lost at least one patient every day and miraculously saved one every other day, but emotionally trying as that is, there is nothing else he'd rather be doing right now. He needs exhaustion, welcomes it, in fact. He needs something to distract him, to fully absorb every last bit of his attention and leave him with nothing but deep and dreamless sleep in the nights that follow. Most nights he is lucky enough to stumble into his bedroom, fall onto the bed and not leave until the next morning, reasonably refreshed.

Other nights, not so much.

And he had needed to leave London, of course. What good was it to try and go back to a normal life when every corner, every alley, hell, every flippin' street held a memory? When you saw long, dark coats swirling by everywhere you looked? Where you glanced suspiciously at every cab, chinese restaurant or swimming pool? Or every luxury black car, for that matter?

He had applied for the first medical job he could find in the most remote country he could think of and he'd been on the plane to Johannesburg before you could say 'vuvuzela'.

And now here he is, two years later and he is slowly starting to actually enjoy his working life, instead of deeming it a necessary evil. He has always wanted to make a difference, the reason he joined medical school in the first place, and here, one single man who knew exactly where the bruises on a young girl's arm are coming from and could therefore figure out why she is suddenly tired and nauseous in the morning, can make all the difference in the world. No one said his job was cheerful, but John Watson has lost cheerful a long time ago and by now, only cares about compassion.

He has left his office and heads for the door, when the receptionist calls out to him. 'Dr. Watson? Dr. Watson! Phone call for you!'

He turns around, surprised. 'For me?'

No one ever calls him here. Patients are dealt with by the receptionists, and all the other people who could possibly want to contact him call him on his mobile.

'Who is it?' he asks as he walked over to the desk.

The receptionist shrugs. 'Didn't say his name.'

'Well, go ahead and ask him, would you? I'm not taking phone calls from strangers.'

The man does as he was told, and grows visibly pale at the answer. He turns back to John. 'He says he's from the British Government.'

The world grows impossibly quiet as John tries to take this in. Only one person in the entire world would introduce himself like that and the good doctor has absolutely no idea why, since he has not spoken to him in three years. Their last conversation had ended with John storming out of the Diogenes Club.

'Dr. Watson?' the receptionist asks.

John swallows. 'Put it through to my office please. I'll take it in there.'

He slowly goes back into his office, still in a cloud of confusion, and picks up the phone.

'Hello, John,' he hears a familiar, drawling voice greet him. 'How have you been?'

'Mycroft. What the hell is going on?' he asks, already feeling the unresolved Issue (yes, it deserved a capital I) between them creeping up on him, accompanied by the anger and resentment that are never far behind.

'I take it from your colourful greeting that you are doing well,' the voice drawls on, like the Issue never happened, or was just a little, capital-less issue, easy to be resolved if the other party would just listen. 'You also seem to have the impression that something is 'going on' (John can practically hear the comma's falling into place), instead of this being a call from a friend.'

'You're no friend of mine, Mycroft. Not anymore. If you ever were.' Damn. That makes no sense at all.

Mycroft chuckles. 'You seem to be losing sense there, doctor. And you were of to such a good start. There is in fact a matter that has come to light that I'm sure you would find interesting.'

There is nothing left in Britain that possibly could hold any interest for him, but he is not going to tell the British Government that. The sooner this conversation is over, the better.

'What is it?'

'Do you remember the Richard Brooke case, a few years ago?' Mycroft asks innocently.

'You mean the case where your brother, after being smeared by the press, committed suicide by jumping off a rooftop? Yeah, I remember.' It is low, but apparently, Mycroft is not above foul play either.

'I tought you might. And you never wondered if there wasn't something… off? Something that was not right?'

'The entire case was off, Mycroft. Get to the point.' John is rapidly losing patience and gaining fury, as the memories of three years ago start playing before his eyes again. Sherlock, a small figure on a rooftop. Then falling, flailing helplessly with his arms. The crack as he lands on the unforgiving pavement. His body, limp and lifeless, and his eys, staring into nothingness, all the fire in them gone forever .

Mycroft has started an answer, probably getting to the point in his own twisting and turning way, when someone on his end cuts him of. John does not recognise the voice or what it says, but the intention is clear: stop playing around and get on with it. He hears a huff and something along the lines of: all right, no need to make a fuss. Then:

'Sherlock did not commit suicide, John.'

John is to worn out to even try and begin to understand. 'What do you mean? He jumped. Voluntarily. He died. Seems like a suicide to me.'

'That is two out of three correct, John, but unfortunately, the one you got wrong is the most important. Sherlock did jump, out of his own free will, but he did not die.'

'Mycroft, I saw him. He landed on the pavement, I took his pulse and I saw his eyes. I know he didn't survive. He couldn't have. He is…'

Mycroft interrupts his rant. 'There are numerous ways to survive a fall from a great height, doctor, as there are numerous ways to fake one's death. I thought a medical man would know that.'

John does not even hear the insult. If Mycroft is telling the truth, and honestly, he sees no reason why the man should lie to him, there are a lot of questions to be answered. He fires the first one.

'How?'

'With the help of physics, his so-called 'Homeless Network' and Miss Hooper, as far as I understand.'

It takes John a moment to make the connection between Miss Hooper and her first name. 'Molly? Really?'

'Apparently, yes. She seems quite fond of my brother, fortunately for him.'

John doesn't know if he should laugh or get mad at little Molly Hooper, who seemed so innocent and charming and has sent him into three years of misery by not sharing her secret with him. Then again, neither has Mycroft. Or Sherlock himself. He has been kept in the dark, where other people had known the truth. Rage is obviously the better option here, but he swallows it, savs it for later. Instead of lashing out, he fires the next question. 'Why did no one tell me?'

'Wrong question, John,' Mycroft replies, still infuriatingly calm. 'First, you should ask why he jumped in the first place.'

'Fine. Why did he jump?'

The answer takes him completely by surprise. After Mycroft tells him how Moriarty set everything up, made up the entire story about The Fraud Detective, made Sherlock face an impossible dilemma and caused him to make the ultimate sacrifice, the doctor falls silent for a full minute, until the voice on the other end of the line softly asks if he is still there, with not a hint of the usual arrogance. He can only confirm with a grunt, before falling into silence again. Only when Mycroft says his name again does he reply properly.

'He did this for me.'

'For all of you, it would seem,' Mycroft answers. 'For you, and your landlady and Detective Inspector Lestrade. We found evidence of at least three gunmen, but there could have been more.'

'Seems Lestrade was right after all with his 'good man' speech,' John mutters to no one in particular.

'Excuse me?'

'Nothing. Just… nothing.' There is more silence, before John finds it in himself to ask another question. 'Why call me now? You couldn't have told me this earlier, so what happened?'

The last words are said with just a hint of the storm that is raging inside him now. Mycroft must hear it, because his answer is unusually short and to the point.

'The game is over, John. Moriarty's web is gone. Sherlock was safe to come back, so he has.'

It is over. The game that started with the Pink Lady and, for John, ended at the rooftop of St. Bart's, is now truly over. No more Moriarty, no more Richard Brooke but, if he is lucky, a whole lot of Sherlock to come back to. He lets this sink in in silence too, until Mycroft impatiently mentions he should announce this 'falling quiet' before he blames the phone connection. 'Anyway,' he continues, 'I thought you might want to talk to him.'

This abruptly jerks John out of his thoughts. 'You mean he's there?'

'Of course. He's sitting in front of me, glaring and melodramatic as ever.'

'Put him through,' is all John can manage to say.

The other line changes hands, along with some rather unpleasant muttering, before John hears a very deep and very familiar baritone say: 'John?'

And in that moment, the full truth of what is happening hits him like a freight train. Sherlock is alive. Mycroft was not discussing some hypothetical scenario, just for the sake of What If, but Sherlock is really, truly and very alive and talking to him right now, just a breath away.

'Sherlock,' he whispers, and then, remembering what Mycroft just said: 'I'm not going to say anything for a couple of minutes. Please don't hang up on me.'

A chuckle that is so unmistakenably Sherlock that the freight train turns on its tracks and hits him again, just for fun. 'I won't. I might not say anything for a couple of minutes either.'

Minutes pass.

Sherlock is the first to speak again.

'I imagine I owe you an apology. A real one, this time.'

John grins, a proper grin of pure joy for the first time in months. 'Yes, you do.'

'I am truly sorry, John, for what I did. If there had been any other way out…'

'I know, Sherlock,' John says softly. 'I know. And I know there was no other way. Moriarty shut down all the other options.'

'Thank you,' Sherlock says, audibly surprised. 'You know, you are the first one not to scold me for all the suffering I have caused you.'

John's grin has softened to a smile. 'Like I said, I know it was the only way out. You did what you had to do and saved our lives. I can't possibly scold you for that.'

'Thank you,' Sherlock says again and John can hear the thinly veiled emotions hiding under those two words. 'So… you'll come home then?'

Home. Back to Baker Street. Back to a life of chasing criminals, solving crimes and probably getting injured in the process. This time, it does not take one second of silence for John to say 'yes'.

'But Sherlock…' he says, after the initial excitement has cooled down. A bit.

'What is it?'

'I just said I would not scold you for everything you did to me, right?'

'Yes. Yes, you did.' The cautious voice tells John that Sherlock knows exactly what he is going to say next.

'That doesn't mean I won't punch you in the face so hard, your nose will come out throught the back of your head, the minute I see you.'

An exasperated sigh, but the laughter under it is clearly audible, at least, to John. 'Nothing more than I deserve, I suppose.'

When John walks out of his office, really heading home this time, the receptionist callls out to him again. 'Dr. Watson?'

He turns around, beaming at the man who changed everything. 'What is it now?'

The receptionist gives him a worried look. 'Are you alright, doctor?' he asks. 'You've been crying, and that phone call…'

John grins. 'I am fine, thank you,' he says. And it's true.

He is absolutely fine.