The two had never spoken of the fall or the six months, and finally addressing the subject made John's stomach churn. It was no walk in the park for either of them to discuss this matter, especially since John had been awake all night trying to settle himself. He was unsure of where to start, because there were so many questions that had been left unanswered ever since Mycroft stepped into the flat on that grave day.

As much as John denied it, the reunion never left his thoughts. He had never felt as many emotions at once as he felt in that moment, and maybe that was why he couldn't stop replaying the memory in his head.

He remembered the day so concretely. It had been extra cloudy in the morning. It was the usual: wake up, eat, work, avoid thinking of Sherlock, and head home. He had only three patients that day, and things seemed to move relatively slow. The rest day would have been the same exact way if it weren't for Mycroft showing up on that night at the doorstep of the flat with a cab behind him. It was on rare occasion that the busy man came back to Baker Street after Sherlock's fall, so John could only come to the conclusion that he had news about his brother.

For the first half that he was in the cab with Mycroft, neither of them voiced a word. It was John who first spoke up. John couldn't decipher whether he was fearful or eager, because he could apprehend what was going on.

"What was he like while he was away?"

There had been a long pause before Mycroft had thought of the answer. "It was... painful to watch on the first night. After the plane landed on the island and he thought he wasn't being watched, he had a fit. He threw himself on the ground, in tears, screaming to himself, asking why things had to turn out the way they did. I had never seen him in such hysteria. He stayed on the floor like that for a while, clutching his elbows with his hands and crying. I wanted to shut off the cameras that night."

John, heartbroken by Mycroft's words, had spent the rest of the cab ride with the horrible image in his head. The cab had finally reached the airport after a drive that felt nearly days long.

Countless emotions waved over him as they had stepped into the airport; he was anxious, afraid, heartsick, and even angry. He was angry that Sherlock had to put him through those dreadful, six months. But soon as John saw the familiar, slim man that he hadn't laid eyes on since the fall, all of the anger inside of him just melted away. He took off like a bullet.

It was him. It was Sherlock Holmes, and he was real. It wasn't a dream anymore, and all that had mattered in that point in time was that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were in the same room again.

They had collided into an embrace. Sherlock held the back of John's head with his one hand, and the other was wrapped so tightly around his back. The longer they were in each other's arms for, the slower time seemed to move. The two were frozen in place, saying nothing. Their actions had already spoken for themselves. That embrace, and the moments before it, had been the most memorable.

"That was the first time you ever hugged me," John's first words were, as he was pulled back from his rapture. He was so caught up in the pleasant memory that he had lost track of reality. "I had been waiting to see you for so long, and at first I didn't think you were real."

"And I didn't think you could run so fast," Sherlock replied with a light laugh.

The odd detective was smiling, and it was a sight that made John's heart swell. Even weeks after their reunion, he was still just ecstatic to be back in the living room across from Sherlock, discussing and laughing just as things had been before.

"But there's something that I've wanted to ask you," John started. "I know I've been talking about my feelings, and I'd like to know yours. What was it like for you to leave me like that?" He already knew the answer, based off the story about the first night that Mycroft had told him, but he wanted to hear it from Sherlock's viewpoint.

Sherlock swallowed and adjusted himself in his chair, leaning on the arm rest. He began to collect his thoughts as he wrapped his arms loosely around his own knees, attempting to give off the impression that this was a casual, calm conversation. He had been hoping that John would feel a bit more relaxed while they chatted. It had never been Sherlock's intention to make John feel intimidated, but that was a compulsive habit of his and a mistake that he made as soon as John had trudged down the stairs.

"I've been longing for you to ask this question since the day I came back," the curly-haired man spoke. "I didn't want you to believe I had faked everything, because all of the emotions that I felt on that day were one hundred percent real."

"The call," John started, crossing his legs. "That's the first thing. I've never heard you speak like that before. That was all real?"

Sherlock nodded slowly. "Yes, yes it was. Standing up on the edge of the building and speaking to you for what seemed to be the last time nearly ruined my plan. I was devastated, but it was crucial that I did what I had to do, because any wrong move could have costed me your life."

John couldn't look at Sherlock anymore, because he didn't want to see any sadness in his friend's eyes. "I-I wanted so badly to get up on the building with you, to convince you that there was another way to stop Moriarty. But the emotion in your voice was one of the key factors in why I had listened to you instead of just running. Now that I'm able to look back on it, I'm so glad that I listened to you and stayed where I was."

After he had finally gotten the words out, he felt that it was okay to see Sherlock's eyes. To his surprise, they were not sorrowful. The bright aqua pools of his eyes were nothing but tranquil, which provided a fair amount of comfort for John. He had always wondered why his once emotionless friend was suddenly open to discussing the six months that mentally scarred the two of them.

"You've rehearsed this in your head, talking to me about this. It's what keeps you awake every night. And that is why I am here with you at this peculiar time of the evening. John, I want to help you. I want you to talk to me about the things that you couldn't get off your chest for six, bloody months. That's why I'm behaving so sentimental," Sherlock told him, watching John's tired eyes.

"And I thank you for that," he replied. "You care for me in ways that nobody has before."

After the two departed for the night, Sherlock finally retired to his bedroom and went to sleep. John did the same, but for once with a clear mind and an immense amount of appreciation for his best friend.