Ever since The Fall, John Watson had been lost. Lost to himself, lost to everyone and everything. There just wasn't anything to keep him anchored to the world anymore. He hid away inside himself, and never came out, not for anyone. His health was slowly declining, even though he knew he should probably be looking after himself. At least when Mrs. Hudson would come by he'd nearly come out of his shell, but then the image of Sherlock's fractured skull would float through his mind, and he would just think, what's the point?

He'd tried; God knows he tried to get over it. But he always knew that it wouldn't work; that he would always fall back down into that deep, dark pit of despair. But then, after two long years, he heard something new. Two years after The Fall, something changed.

Three soft, hesitant knocks landed on the door and echoed throughout the house. Somewhere in the depths of John's head he registered that it was different to Mrs. Hudson. He struggled to climb out of the hole he'd buried himself into as the knock came again, louder and stronger this time. He pulled himself to unsteady feet and collapsed on the armchair again as pain shot up his skinny, underused legs. The knock came again one more time and John hauled himself to his feet, and staggered to the door, wincing in pain and exhaustion of not having moved for God knows how long. He stumbled out the door and practically slid down the stairs with increasing desperation as he felt the irrational need to answer the door. Maybe there was hope for his lost soul yet.

He reached the handle, and gripped it tight, only to once again think of Sherlock and his broken skull. John's legs nearly gave out and he leaned back on the wall. He remembered leaning against this same wall with Sherlock beside him, after chasing the taxi. He remembered the joyful confusion he felt when he was handed his walking stick and realised he didn't need it. Most of all he remembered the smug, but proud look in Sherlock's eyes as he set it aside and didn't pick it up again.

With those thoughts in mind, he twisted the door handle and swung the door open, only to be faced with the very man who had been plaguing his thoughts for the past two years: Sherlock Holmes.

"John," was all he said. It was all he had to say before John fell against him and wrapped his arms around him in a desperate hug. Sherlock slowly returned the embrace, winding his own arms around the unsettling thinness of his best friend. John pressed his face into his chest as tears leaked out from his eyes and slowly dampened Sherlock's shirt.

"Oh John, what happened to you?" Came that beautiful deep voice again. It was all John needed to begin to reboot his mind, and start functioning like normal. The confusion would come later, and the anger could wait, because there was only one emotion going through John Watson's mind. Joy.

Because at that particular moment, everything was good, and he knew they were both going to be okay.