Sherlock wondered. He aligned the facts in his head, not for the first time, and attempted to find the underlying reason for John's behavior. He glanced at the scrap of paper the girl from the homeless network had dug out of her pocket during their meeting. Visits cemetery daily, still. Still works at surgery. Hasn't left London except once to see sister. He added these facts to the others already in his head from another meeting with another informant—Dating brunette. Always sleeps at own apartment. Avoids Baker Street. Sees landlord rarely. He had at least six possibilities but none seemed to fit.

Sherlock scoffed at his own irrationality.

John awoke with a groan. He still had at least another hour before his alarm went off, he could just feel it, and yet he knew that nothing would will his body back into sleep. In the watery dawn light leaking in through the blinds, he entertained his tired mind with wild fantasies of hastily packing his bags and catching the next train to anywhere. Just get up and leave, and forget the past few years had ever happened. But the thoughts didn't last long before the pedantic and painfully realistic voice in the back of his head reminded him that no, that would never work—he knew he could never just disappear. Not like Sherlock did. He'd like to say that he could never do that to his girlfriend and to his practice, but no, it wasn't that—he just didn't want to. He felt tethered to London, to this place that Sherlock had once been such a part of. He needed to be in a place where his mind could trick itself into thinking his former flatmate could just pop up anytime, always around the corner, one step ahead of him. It comforted him.

John turned over and buried his head under the pillow. He knew he had to stop this grieving, this constant waiting for something he knew deep within would never happen. It was all taking a toll on him—the lack of sleep, of friends, of deviations from his sad routine. They had tried—Greg, Molly, even Harriet had tried getting him to move on. And for them, he had done his best. He kept up appearances—dating women to distract himself, going to work every day without fail—he did it all. But for Sherlock, he hadn't moved far in either respects. He feared moving on too far lest he forget the man who had changed his life. And, though he didn't want to admit it, he hoped Sherlock was watching him and seeing that after all these months, he was still loyal, still his.

He did one more glance around the small room he had been cooped up in for the past few months. Save for a few idle knife marks on the bedside table, there would be no trace of him once he left. He had packed away his belongings into his small battered suitcase, folded away everything neatly just the way John had once shown him. John. John with his stupid folded everything-even-socks, his unceasing attempts to clean up after Sherlock. The rows they used to have over the state of the kitchen and the bathroom, the way John would flush when Mrs. Hudson would call these rows 'domestics'. The way John would flush when he looked Sherlock in the eye, the way he would do it anyway, and the way Sherlock would have to still his beating heart. Sherlock would never forget.

He wasn't nearly as stupid about these sorts of things as everyone seemed to believe. He wasn't a robot, he wasn't a machine, he felt things, too, and he knew what they meant, what's more. The difference between him and everyone was just that he had a policy of ignoring these things, these hindrances.

He knew what it meant, to be always thinking of John. To always be…hurting, in a sense. For John. He knew so exquisitely, intimately, and painfully well what it meant to care for someone. And this was why he couldn't do it, couldn't go back home and carry on his life. Moriarty had capitalized on his friendship with John, and Sherlock refused to let that happen again, refused to acknowledge what might happen if the next maniac knew the true magnitude of his feelings towards John.

This was why, he told himself firmly. This was why he had to run. It wasn't fear of going back. It was a need to go forward. This was why.

This was his peace. Tea-time in the cold surgery by his favorite window.

John wondered when he first realized he was in love with his flatmate. He struggled to remember—it hadn't been a big, momentous moment, like in films. He thought of a smile, a quick, secret smile just for him, that stuck with him for days. In the aftermath, he remembered sinking into it like you would a bath—just a simple, Oh. I love him. And that was it. He carried it around with him for years. It just became a part of him, like his height and the way he didn't much like peppermint. It didn't change much, not really. He never let it change the way he interacted with Sherlock, he refused to take any chances with that.

John enjoyed this—painfully dredging up ever possible memory of the man he once knew—he liked forcing himself to remember that Sherlock was real, he had been there, and had never been untrue. He enjoyed his pain, enjoyed worrying at it like you would a cold sore until it throbbed. He liked losing himself in his vast want—because he did want. He wanted their life back so incredibly much sometimes he could barely understand how he woke up and didn't run back to the old flat every day. He just wanted to be in their old dusty apartment, stepping over Sherlock's books and papers and shoes strewn about, he wanted to be back in the cluttered kitchen moving about each other, he wanted to run behind Sherlock in his ridiculous flapping coat. John didn't even want him back to tell him how he felt, he never even let himself imagine what it'd be like to hold the taller man's wiry frame. Just being together would be enough.

Sherlock perched uncomfortably in his cramped seat on the train, straining to see out of the dirty window and attempting to ignore the snoring man beside him. He conjured up the list of facts he had on John's current life to occupy his mind, and settled in for the train ride. The lack of sleep and constant worrying must have taken their toll on his usually sharply honed mind, however, and within minutes the gentle rocking of the train had lulled him into that foggy land between sleep and consciousness.

The obvious. As usual, Sherlock, you always prefer to see complications where there are none. Mycroft's response to the issue of John floated into Sherlock's head.

Sherlock knew what the obvious was. He just refused to let himself believe it.

He was afraid.