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Sherlock is back.
Not dead.
No matter how roughly John had shoved him down and grabbed his shoulders. No matter how many times John had slammed that slender -- too slender -- torso against the floor, growling with anger and hurt and relief. He’d been careful of Sherlock’s head, though, aware of the need to protect that great sodding brain that Sherlock needed so sorely to compensate for his utter lack of sense.
Sherlock hadn’t apologised.
John hadn’t expected it of him.
