A/N: I heard 'Hello' from Adele. My first immediate reaction? SHERLOCK AND JOHN! (chuckles) I don't know, it just seems to fit the 'post return' feels perfectly. At least to me.

DISCLAIMER: Muah-hah-haa! Yeah, hilarious. If I did own the series I'd KNOW what's happening instead of being tortured until… what, 2017.

WARNINGS: feel, language, mentions of violence… ya know, that's REALLY short for my list…!

Awkay, because time's sort of running out… Let's go! I really hope that you'll enjoy the ride.

Hello

It wasn't until during Greg's hug Sherlock registered the damage John smashing his stitched up back to the restaurant's floor caused. As he tried to fix it in 221B's bathroom Sherlock figured that he could've pulled off his grand return better. A lot better, in fact. But for once in his life he'd miscalculated.

Sherlock admitted to himself, with a great deal of annoyance and something else he couldn't remember experiencing before, that he did the same mistake just about everyone else had already done with John Watson. He underestimated his friend. He underestimated John's devotion to him. He underestimated the true force and size of John's heart.

Just one proper look into John's eyes had been enough to tell him everything necessary. Because they held the same emotions he heard in John's voice on the day of the fall. He'd torn John's heart to pieces not only once but twice. The first one couldn't be helped. If he hadn't done what he did John would've been killed and that… That would've been absolutely unacceptable. But this second one was entirely his own fault. He'd not only left John behind but now the man also felt like he'd been cast aside, deemed unworthy of trust, unimportant. It'd all been loud and clear in those deeply hurt blue eyes right before the man attacked him for the second time.

Sherlock didn't call or send a text message to warn his friend in beforehand. He didn't even do it in private. He didn't start with the apology that he'd been longing to utter since hearing those broken words at his own empty grave. Instead Sherlock, as he now began to understand, interrupted something incredibly private. Mrs. Hudson explained it the best, right after a firm smack to the back of his head once he'd reluctantly re-told the evening's events.

/ "Oh, Sherlock, you didn't…!" Seeing the question in his eyes she sighed, her expression becoming pained. "It was the worst day of his entire life, love. He told me so once a few days before he moved out, after having too much to drink. It was even worse than getting shot. And you turned it into a joke?"

Sherlock simply stared at her. So many unwanted feelings coursing inside him that he felt like he'd been suffocating. "He wasn't supposed to care so much." It was a weak defense, he knew. But it was also honest. He'd never had a friend before. How was he supposed to know these things?

For a moment Mrs. Hudson simply gaped at him, her eyes becoming oddly moist. Then, without a warning, she'd closed him into a firm hug that made him feel like his back had been torn to pieces. Sherlock was too stunned to push her away, or to even realize that he didn't want to. /

It seemed to take ages before his back was finally sufficiently clean. Exhausted in a way that he'd never experienced before, the past two endless years on a run and the weight of John's violent rejection crashing down on him, Sherlock dragged himself to the living room. He was unaware of the lost, nearly helpless look that filled his eyes while he stared at the once familiar room. Despite the fact that his things were still there it felt empty, hollow.

Sherlock was home but how could it ever be one with one of the two things that truly made it a home gone?

Sherlock's gaze moved, purposefully passing by John's chair as quickly as possible, finally landing on his cell phone. He'd tried texting John, obviously. But for the first time the doctor wasn't answering him.

Sherlock had already tried to explain. Attempted to apologize in his own way. Begged John to let him back into his life with the only words he could find. What else could he possibly do? He already died to make sure that there'd be a Dr. John Watson in the world. Then lived for two years in what was nothing short of hell. How much harder was he expected to fight? The helpless fury was suffocating.

Sherlock would've wanted to lay down on his back but his injuries would've made that unbearably painful and he was already aching enough. So he flopped down to the couch on his side and curled up, wincing at the fresh jolt of furious fire coming from his bruised face. With a heavy sigh he attempted to get comfortable.

'Not the welcome back you expected, huh?' John's voice sneered inside his head. Taunting him. 'Well, you did know that alone protects you.'

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. He ignored the stinging in them. "Shut up", he growled at the shadows closing in on him.

In the end it looked like Moriarty might've won, after all, in a small way. He was still alive and, for which he'd be eternally grateful, so was John. Yet Sherlock's heart had most certainly been burned out of him.

Sherlock curled up tighter, wincing when it pulled at his injuries in an agonizing manner, and fell into a fitful slumber, unaware of the single tear that rolled down his cheek.

Little did he know that elsewhere, with Mary sleeping beside him, John lay wide awake. The doctor's position was perfectly identical to Sherlock's. A few tears rolled down the doctor's tight and pale, painfully tense face.

End.

A/N: Oh, those poor things…! But at least we know that they made up eventually. (sighs)

Sooo… Any good, at all? PLEASE, do leave a note on the box down below!

I'm in a huge hurry so I've gotta go. Thank you so much for reading! Perhaps we'll meet again one day.

Take care!