Sherlock saw the small country cottage just as he started down the hill. He recognized it perfectly from the advertisement that he was currently clutching in his hands. Not that he needed the clipping for reference. He had the features of the house memorized from the second that he saw the ad. He hoped the owner had yet to find a lodger, the chances of finding another available house so remote was rare. And what he really wanted right now was to just lie down and sleep, not to keep looking for a place to do so. And on top of sleeping, the thing Sherlock really wanted to do – though he would never admit it to himself—was to have a good cry. A good, long one, curled up with a pillow. Because, despite the fact that feeling human emotions was difficult for him, he had just seen his best friend say goodbye to him forever. And the worst part was that he wasn't even present for the goodbye, he'd been watching from a distance. Watching John cry.

And for some reason that he didn't understand, he'd been overwhelmed by the need to go comfort him. At least, he told himself that he didn't understand. A part of him, however suppressed by logic it was, knew precisely why he'd had to fight the need to run to John and stop him from crying. But he'd told that part of him to shut up so many times that he barely even heard it anymore. He barely even heard that back corner of his mind explaining to him, very simply, that the reason why was "You love him."