The blonde doctor stepped out of the small shop and adjusted his hold on the plastic bags in his hand. Encased within it was four medium sized take out boxes. An hour earlier, John had opened the refrigerator to find that they were very low on food. There was no recipe in the world that would make enough food for two people with one egg, a half cup of milk, and five slices of bread.

After half an hour of bantering with Sherlock about what to do about dinner, they'd finally agreed on Chinese take out for tonight and they'd go grocery shopping tomorrow. With Sherlock's card tucked securely in his wallet, the blonde doctor had trekked out of 211B Baker Street to retrieve dinner.

Now, John checked the street, up and down, before crossing and making the return to the flat. Walking through the city was nice at night. Less crowded and it was pleasantly cool tonight, with a slight breeze. John reveled in the peace that he rarely got a glimpse of, especially living with a certain Sherlock Holmes. The thought of the dark haired consulting detective brought a smile to John's lips.

If you asked him, he couldn't explain how it had happened. He couldn't tell you when he'd fallen head over heels in love with the man. Sometimes, he thought it was the moment he forgot his cane to pursue the detective. Sometimes, he was sure that it was the moment he'd seen Sherlock tumble to the ground. Sometimes, he could swear it was when he set eyes on a man from the dead, standing in the door of the flat with an apologetic smile on his face.

Ultimately, he didn't care when it had happened. He just cared that it had happened. Sherlock was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

With that thought in mind, John fished his keys from his pocket and opened the door. He called a quiet goodnight to Ms. Hudson before taking the steps up the stairs slowly. About halfway up, he recognized a strange sound coming from above him. Stopping, just before the squeaky step that would alert Sherlock of his return. Cocking his head slightly, he strained his ears to catch the sound again.

Oh. It was the soft melody of a violin. The playful notes brought a smile to John's face. Sherlock rarely played the violin, but when he did, John secretly treasured it. Music was never something he'd excelled at, so every time that the detective played, John marveled.

Skipping the next step, he continued his trek slowly and quietly until he was outside the flat. He stood there, take out in hand, for three minutes before the tun fluttered away and there was silence.

"I know you're out there, John. Do come inside, the food is getting cold." His voice was smooth, but there was a teasing undertone. A smile played on the blonde's mouth.

Pushing the door open, he flashed Sherlock the gentle smile. Sherlock's lips quirked in return. He was standing with perfect posture in the center of the living room. His violin was still poised on his neck and the bow low at his side.

"Welcome home, John." He continued to play after John closed the door.

"It's good to be home."