A.N. So this is the sequel to The Eye of the Beholder (which you can find listed under my stories). It has nine chapters. Thanks for reading, feedback is muchly appreciated :)

Chapter One

Grey, grey, everything was grey. John stood by the window and sighed. The snow was still there, but there hadn't been any sun in over a week and he felt that the downcast sky reflected on his mood.

Sherlock had been gone for three days now, and even though he sent him a text every other hour to the new phone he had given him, it was still painfully obvious that John couldn't quite function without him anymore. John knew he was being ridiculous, but he couldn't help but be scared; and by God there were so many things to be scared of.

Essentially nothing had changed, but John now knew what the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach was. It had always been there from the very first day on when Sherlock had suddenly left, stubbornly not telling anyone where he was going and therefore telling John everything he needed to know. God, he had been able to read Sherlock from the day he had moved in. He might have talked more and faster than John could actually process, but the way he had said things, the way he had already occupied every centimeter of the flat before John had even seen it and the way he had stood in that door and asked him to come along; all of those things had explained to him who Sherlock Holmes was. The most obvious side effect of the fascination the man triggered in John had been an automatic protective reflex.

And now he couldn't protect him.

John walked into the kitchen to make tea, if only to take his mind off worrying about his friend.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Sherlock had taken the liberty to clear out his experiments from the fridge and exchanged them with real food four days ago. John had been flabbergasted when he had come home from the bank to find the fridge restocked and Sherlock lying on the couch with a smug look on his face, pretending to read.

"Did you go shopping? I mean, that's not just milk in the fridge…that's food. A week's worth of food."

Sherlock smiled at him, proudly, but there was something hidden underneath that smile, John noticed. He must have had a good reason for doing this.

"No and yes," Sherlock answered, sitting up. "I did not go shopping, but I found out that you can actually order groceries online and have them delivered. But yes, you are quite correct. The amount of food will get you through the week without you having to go shopping yourself."

"Are you leaving?" John's disappointment must have been very obvious, because the smile on Sherlock's face faltered and made room for an expression that John could only interpret as anxiousness.

"It's just for a week, John."

"A whole week!" John knew he had spoken too loudly, almost yelling at Sherlock, but he couldn't stop himself.

"I have to go. And before you ask, I will tell you all you need to know about it before I leave. You can't come along, though, regrettably."

John let himself fall on his armchair, frowning at Sherlock.

"Are you angry with me?" The insecurity in his voice made John's heart ache.

"I'm not angry with you. I'm worried."

Sherlock relaxed visibly. "It's been a week, John, and Lestrade really needs my help." He ran his hand through his hair. "I mean, he always needs my help, but this time he was even more desperate than usual."

"Fill me in."

"Come here first." Sherlock sounded almost challenging.

John couldn't help but smile as he got up and moved over to the couch. Usually, when Sherlock asked him to come closer, he wanted to be kissed. It was still unusually exciting to kiss Sherlock, as if every kiss would be the first again; as if he had to ask for permission every time just to be sure to be allowed that advance. And Sherlock was just as shy about it, which was something that John enjoyed immensely. Sherlock being shy about anything was novel, and John felt irrationally proud that he was causing that reaction in Sherlock.

But instead of kissing John, Sherlock took hold of his arms and pulled him close, leaning back at the same time, forcing John to move down with him. Eventually John lay half on top of Sherlock and half on the couch, wrapped up in Sherlock's arms. He was still careful with Sherlock's hip, because even though the wound had healed almost completely now leaving pink scar tissue behind, he knew he could still hurt him.

John looked at his friend, propping up his chin on Sherlock's collar bone, his right leg splayed over Sherlock's, his right hand cupping Sherlock's cheek. "For someone so skinny you are remarkably comfortable to lie on," he noted, making him grin.

Sherlock's hand came down, long fingers running through his hair. "It's very curious."

"What is?"

"The knowledge that I will miss you."

"You find that curious?"

"Yes, I'm not…used to missing anyone. Not like I know I will miss you."

"I wish you wouldn't have to go."

"No," Sherlock smiled knowingly. "You wish you'd be able to come along." Well, he couldn't really argue with that. And it was true. They both had slept enough to be restored to normal strength, Sherlock's wound was healing nicely, the bruise was only a shadow on his skin and they both had been anxious for something to happen.