Reviews are welcome. This is possibly the first part of a series or longer fanfiction, but I'm not going to finish or keep writing unless you lot think it's good.

That morning his bedroom in Mycroft's vacation house was cold. It seemed that his breath was an ice cube rising up in front of his face as he lay on his back amongst disheveled sheets. After The Fall coming here had been the only option. His brothers owned enough houses to give lodging to a small army and this vacation home a few miles out of London was somewhere to hide. It had been two years since the fall. Two long, lonely, years filled with waiting. There were countless unsent letters, unsent texts, and even calls. He missed his blogger so much. He still checked it, the blog, everyday. John's post had become distant, sad, lonely, like Sherlock felt. He wasn't used to this, feeling so strongly about a person. Loneliness was completely new to him and every moment of it had ached like an open wound.
That morning the room was cold because Sherlock had woken up from another painful dream about John. In the dream he had finally sent a text to him, asking to meet him at the restaurant where they had sat waiting to meet the criminal in their first case. John had come to the restaurant and not recognized Sherlock and they had both sat at separate tables waiting for the other. The dream had felt so real and was so painful that Sherlock had woke up screaming and thrashing drenched in a cold sweat with the white sheets tangled in his legs.
Sherlock threw off the covers and slid his tired feet into his slippers. He stood up slowly and began to pace around the room. His human emotions taking over. What if I did text him or call him, he thought, for real this time. Would he answer?
With waves of crashing uncertainty Sherlock dress, took his breakfast quickly, put on his coat and scarf, and left for central London.

That morning his bedroom in his flat in central London was cold. It was as if his breath turned to frost on his lips, freezing and staying near his face and suffocating him as he lay twisted among the disheveled sheets. It had been two years since that fatal night and he still couldn't manage to go back to the flat they had shared. Two long, lonely, years filled with sorrow and visits to his therapist. Two years having to throw out that extra cup of tea he had made on accident. He missed the sarcasm, the excitement of a new case, and the constant ringing of the bell. But most of all he missed the company. He had kept his blog up just in case Sherlock was still alive somewhere. But John had nearly given up hope. Two years was a long time.
The flat felt particularly cold this morning because John had woken up from another painfully sad, lonely dream. It was the same dream every time. Sherlock came to the door, rang the bell and when he came up to the flat his face was disfigured and bloody. He was nothing but a shell, a zombie. But this time the dream had been different. Sherlock and John were sitting in a cafe. In the dream Sherlock had just sat there, blankly staring as John talked. Sherlock paid no attention to John in the dream. The dream had been so realistic and so painful that John had woke up crying, screaming, and drenched in a cold sweat the sheets balled up in his arms.
John rolled out of bed and shuffled to the shower. As he began getting ready for the day he continued to crying. His crying turned to sobbing. With each noise he felt as if his lungs were being rent apart.
He managed to calm himself enough in the shower. After getting ready he went downstairs and made breakfast and two cups of tea on accident. But, for some reason, today, he didn't feel like throwing it away. He left it sitting across from him at the table.

Sherlock had gotten John's new address from Mycroft. It was only a few streets away from their old flat. As Sherlock neared the place John was living he began feeling those emotions that had been so strange to him before meeting John. What would he do if John didn't want to see him. What if John was mad or didn't remember him, like in Sherlock's dreams. He knew it was irrational but the thoughts would not leave his mind. He had always had such control over his thoughts. This was strange to him.
As Sherlock near the door to John's flat he took out his phone.

John's phone buzzed, alerting him of a text. Grabbing it John looked at the number. It was one he was not familiar with. Strange, he thought, I haven't given anyone my number lately.
The text read, "Come and open the door for me -SH."
First, John wondered if he was dreaming still. If this was just another of his nightmares. Pinching himself, he concluded it was not a dream.
Second, he thought it was a prank.
Third, he figured there was no harm in checking the door.
John Watson walked down the stairs to the door of the flat he shared with no one and opened it. The sight he saw was too good to be true. There was Sherlock Holmes standing whole and well on his doorstep.
"It's you. It's really you?" John said.
"Yes, I believe it is." Sherlock replied casually.
"Well, you have some explaining to do."
"Not good?" Sherlock asked with slight concern.
"Bit not good." John Watson said with a frown.
Silence fell on the doorstep for a minute before the two of them began to giggle, softly at first. But their laughter soon bubbled over and these two grown men were standing outside a flat in the heart of London laughing like school boys.
"Tea." John asked once their laughter had subsided.
"Of course."