John does what anyone else in his situation would have done.

He punches Sherlock.

Sherlock only raises a hand to his mouth. No “I deserved that,” or any other such quip. Merely “Good aim.”

“Good aim? Good. Aim?! Those are the first two words you choose to say to me?” John’s voice has already risen, but he doesn’t care.

Sherlock frowns at him. “I can to outside and come in again, if you’d like?”

“If I’d like? If *id* like? Since when has any of this been the way I’d like it?” John is reaching up into his hair, is tearing his hair out. He’s spoiling for a fight and, by god, Sherlock is going to give him one. “Cause god forbid it would be any way other than the way you’d like it.”

Sherlock suffers through this, not unreasonable rant silently. “And here I thought you would be glad to see me,” he murmurs mildly.

“Glad? Glad! Because you staged killing yourself in front of me and made me watch? Oh yes, so very glad.”

Sherlock has the grace to look at least somewhat abashed at this.

“And everybody else knew… Don’t you trust me? Didn’t you trust me at all?”

“Lestrade didn’t know,” Sherlock said quietly, then, louder, “Of course I trust you, John. But your reaction had to be genuine.”

“Genuine.” John this his lips and nods his head. It seems, despite himself, he can’t find another thing to say, then. Until, in a low voice, “A lot of ways I imagined this moment being, Sherlock, you coming back here like this. A lot. And none of them went like this. I went through hell, and where were you?”

Still quiet, “I was outside, in a hoodie, leaving you envelopes filled with cash.”

For a moment, John doesn’t know what to say. All his anger, a lot of his rage, is simply sucked out of him with that quiet reminder.Then it comes to him. “And you left filthy butts all over the footpath.”

Sherlock nods. “That I did.”

“And you’ll be cleaning it up.”

“I shall endeavour to do so.” Sherlock grimaced. “Although, it will be at night. Already, I appear to have news reporters and fans interested in my story. Did you and Lestrade have to be so thorough in getting the word out to all of London?”

John’s eyebrows lift. “Oh, does your coming back into the living not completely match up to what you were wanting?”

Sherlock backs down. “Forget it,” he says. “Forget I said anything.”

“Too bloody right,” John mutters.

The two friends look at each other for a long time, until John clears his throat.

“It is… good to have you back, Sherlock.”

“Good. I was beginning to wonder…” Sherlock stands.

John just looks at him. “Where are you going?” he asks, as though afraid Sherlock is about to go and jump off another building.

Sherlock has the wherewithal to look exasperated. “I know you have not been sleeping all that well, but surely you remember what going to bed looks like?”

With a clearing of his throat, John breaks eye contact with Sherlock. “Yes. Of course. Goodnight then.”

Sherlock doesn’t move. “Come along, John,” he says, his voice softer. “We both need some rest.”