*I do not own any of these characters, the universe they exist in, or the canon story up to this point*

*Canon universe until Reichenbach Fall. Begins approximately one year after (maybe a little longer)*

*Update notes - edited some sentence structures, but overall not many changs*

**Not a one off will be approximately 10 or more chapters!**

Two men in crisp black pants, both seemingly more angles and lines than any softness or flexibility sat silent for the moment as the car rolled past building after building. The silence was tense, heavy, and littered with unspoken words and angry feelings. Mycroft Holmes held one hand tightly on the handle of his black umbrella, surveying the other man with tightly pursed lips and a grim look. The other man sat in silence, his thoughts clearly occupied and having no interest in conversing with the man staring at him so intently.

"Are you quite sure this is the right..." He paused, "Method?" Mycroft crossed his legs.

"Quite, now please be silent. I already told you I need to prepare." The other man snapped back.

There was nothing but, silence. Silence and the emptiness that 221B, Baker Street had come to symbolize for him. In the slowly descending darkness, John Watson lay perfectly still on the couch in the living room. Hardly anything had been moved since the hollowness had settled inside his heart. Since Sherlock's... He turned his head to the side so it was facing the couch cushions. He'd been so sure, so convinced that this was another part of the game - that he'd be back. It had kept him strong for awhile, he'd even managed to meet a nice woman and date her for a few months. But then it all fell apart. He grunted as the memories tried to play out in his mind, digging his fingernails into his leg until they stopped. He was exhausted. He had no energy left. He just wanted to sleep and never wake up. To never feel this overwhelming emptiness that threatened to swallow him whole every day. He heard the snap of a car door outside, a few barked orders, and silence.

Was it Friday already? He let out a soft sigh, his body wound so tightly he felt like his muscles might snap. It was just PTSD - that's what his therapist kept telling him. Get out of the flat, go back to work, take up exercise, live. She kept telling him over and over, but she didn't understand. She didn't know what it was like to have Sherlock Holmes as the center of your universe and then have nothing. It was like seeing the sun rise every morning, feeling it's warmth, knowing it's dangers and then suddenly one morning nothing but darkness. No rants about the stupidity of those around him, no dangerous chases, no looming danger that they were united together against, no... secret looks, whispers that were denied, touches that... His heart fluttered and then sank as the weight of the things left undone and unspoken settled over him. His anger came and went as he mentally scolded himself. Why had he never told Sherlock the truth? Why had he never asked why he kept looking at him like that? Why he would sneak into his room and watch him? Why hadn't he just admitted that he...

He heard the door open downstairs and a very quiet conversation with Mrs. Hudson. He was sure he heard a third voice but dismissed it as being one of the assistants Mycroft often brought with him on these 'visits'. Mrs. Hudson let out a small squeak of delight and John wondered what sort of lovely evening Mycroft had planned for her this time. Every two weeks Mycroft came to the flat, bringing some takeaway that he thought (usually incorrectly) that John might like, for a visit. These visits were tedious chores that John had stopped even trying to pretend for. Each time he would send Mrs. Hudson out with one of her friends to shows, dinner, the cinema, whatever he came up with. He was at least usually better with those. Which made John happy in some dark place, as Mrs. Hudson deserved joy. She'd been amazing to him, bringing him breakfast and tea each day. He had a slight suspicion she was keeping tabs on him as she never cleared away the food and the cups of tea she made him until later in the day, as if keeping count. For three days he hadn't eaten. He had no desire for food. No desire to...

"Are you sure?" He heard Mycroft whisper softly to someone, but no answer in reply.

Originally John had put forth an effort, believing that Mycroft was doing this out of some sick sense of guilt over Sherlock's demise. He'd made sure every time that the flat was clean and neat, he'd clean himself up and make sure that he did his best to bite back any stupid comments. But after almost nine months of the incessantly annoying prying into his mental health and personal life, he'd stopped caring. Then when things... fell apart again... He gave up. The last visit he hadn't even gotten up and turned on the lights. He didn't really have the energy to right now. He didn't care. He just wanted to be let alone to rot. Then he heard it.

Footsteps on the stairs. His face tightened as he heard, no imagined, that footfall. He didn't move to look as he heard someone setting down the food on the spotless kitchen table. He didn't dare turn and face the brother of the man he missed so much it was like his soul was missing. He felt Mycroft looking over him as he lay in the dark, Mycroft standing in the doorway in his best attempt to be imposing. A muscle tightened in Mycroft's face as surveyed the state of the flat and it's resident. John's outline clear on the couch. He'd lost so much weight and clearly had not done anything to care for himself in the last several days. The second man stood frozen in place as he surveyed the room before him. Sherlock Holmes almost felt the air in his lungs compressed out of them as the emotion of what he took in settled over him. What have I done? He focused his mind and began deducting things about the room and its' occupant.

- John was lying on the couch, exactly where Sherlock lay when he was bored or thinking on a case. He wanted to be where Sherlock had been. To maintain some sort of connection to him. Desire, he didn't just miss him. It was more than that. It was desire, need, longing...

- Weight - down at least twenty if not thirty pounds. John wasn't eating. His PTSD and depression were devouring him from the inside. He didn't care about his health because he felt he had nothing left to live for. Heartbreak, his heart was shattered without Sherlock's presence.

- John's armchair currently contained Sherlock's violin, skull, cigarettes, and a letter on beige cardstock with a lipstick imprint. In a convenient place so that when John rolled over he could look at the items. The pieces of Sherlock that were left. He needed something tangible. Need, he needed Sherlock.

- Scrapes on the floor by the arm chair meant that when Mrs. Hudson cleaned effort was made to drag the chair back to where it was. Back to the position that John sat in it, when Sherlock was musing about a case. Not wanting to forget.

- John was unkempt, his hair wild, his clothes rumpled. He no longer cared about his appearance. He'd given up. Love.

His heartbeat raced as he looked over every detail in the way only he could, The amount of emotion and sentiment it conveyed to him was overwhelming. I thought it was a mistake. His chest felt constricted, like he couldn't breathe. Mycroft had told him, but he had not believed a word of it. His John was stronger than this. His John didn't show weakness like this. His John needed him. His breath locked in his chest as his heart hammered against his ribs. He tried to speak, to say something that would draw John out of the darkness around them, but his voice felt trapped inside his throat. And for the first time he could not detach from his feelings. Love. It was screaming at him from the scene before him. He saw how John shivered from the cold, even without the lighting the flat normally had this time of day. He saw how John refused to get up to even get a blanket, wanting so desperately to remain in that spot. The devotion to his memory, to him, was almost too much for Sherlock to handle.

"Good evening, John." Mycroft said softly. Realizing his brother was busy in his mind.

"Yea." John's reply was weak, muffled, and devoid of emotion.

"I've brought dinner. Mrs. Hudson has informed me you haven't eaten in three days." Mycroft continued on trying to maintain normalcy. He could feel Sherlock fighting his mind, trying to find a way to comfort the broken man before them. He sighed, tightening his mouth into a frown.

"Sod off." John's voice lacked it's normal anger as he spoke. He simply curled himself into the couch more. "I don't want to visit today. I don't care anymore. So please, leave."

"John, I think it's understandable that you..."

"I SAID GET OUT!" John raged, he turned over to look at Mycroft in anger and all of the color bled from his face. His eyes fell on the one man he'd been desperate to see. The one thing in all the world he didn't even have hope for anymore. He trembled hard.

His breath quickened as he sat up in one move, but Sherlock saw the panic. He saw the darkness that raced through John's body and tried to consume him as his eyes locked with Sherlock's. The two of them silent as the room seemed to suddenly become devoid of oxygen. Both of them terrified to move or speak. John didn't think it was real, he seemed to believe he'd finally lost it completely. He looked to Mycroft who simply turned and exited the room. Car door slam, engine starting, and echoing silence. John was shaking hard. He was clenching the cushion so tightly under his hands he was scared it might tear. Sherlock clenched his hands, trying to regain his normal calm demeanor but the amount of emotion this man felt for him was too much. TOO much!

"I... You..." John tried to speak, moving to stand and falling. As he fell Sherlock moved, almost fluidly, to catch him and help him back down on the couch. The feel of Sherlock's hand on his arm was too much. John fainted.

Sherlock sighed and lay John back down. He removed his coat, sweeping it off of himself and draping it over John like a blanket. He then set about the flat, turning on lights and the heat. Surveying the rest of the information he needed to catch up on what had happened for the last year. He came back and picked up the cardstock letter from John's chair and was surprised to see it contained so little information. All it said was: Don't give up, you know the truth. - The Woman. A sign of solidarity to a man who was broken. His eyes flicked over John again, a whole host of feelings trying to crowd into his mind all at once. The chief of which was grief. He'd known that this would hurt John, but he'd never expected to see him cracked in half like this. He moved the things from John's chair and sat down, steepling his fingers in front of his face and focusing on the information. It had to be true then. The things the two of them left unsaid, the feelings that had driven him to show his sorrow enough that Molly had caught it. The things that had driven him to setup this whole plan. The man he felt utterly devoted to in a way that he'd vowed to never feel in his entire life, was destroying himself because of it. He walked over to the kitchen and rummaged around. He was still looking for something when Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs.

"I thought maybe the takeaway would be too much for him. I have some packets of beef tea..." She smiled sadly at Sherlock.

"You are the gem of England, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock gave her a small smile and a kiss on the head before taking the packets from her. He fumbled around with the kettle and made a cup of the tea for John. Mrs. Hudson retreated back downstairs, closing both doors behind her. Sherlock took the cup over to the table and set it down just as John opened his eyes.

"It's finally happened, I've gone completely mad." John said as he sat up. He furrowed his brow and didn't look around. He was staring at the coat. The coat. He rubbed the fabric between his fingers like a child might, as if trying to prove it was real. Then he did something that completely floored Sherlock. He picked it up and buried his face in it, smelling it. He fought the tears but his back shook with them. A pained look spread over Sherlock's face.

"You..haven't." Sherlock offered softly, placing the tea down. John's head whipped up to look into those eyes. The pain on his face was absorbed into John's mind slowly and John found himself confused by it. There was heat and grief, and something that threatened to pull John in and drown him.

Crack!

Sherlock stumbled back slightly, holding his face. John had frozen exactly where his hand had made contact with Sherlock's cheek. He was panting for breath, anger pouring out of every part of him. But the slap had been held back. Sherlock had felt the moment when John tried to stop himself. There was still hope. He'd slapped him, not punched him. There was ringing silence for two minutes before Sherlock picked up the tea and offered it to him.

"You need to take nourishment." Sherlock whispered, meeting his eyes again.

"Why?! Why did you do this to me?!" John shouted, his anger and grief spilling over.

"I had no choice, John. Drink this and I will explain." John tensed at the sound of his voice, it was almost pleading. Desperate. It sent shivers through his whole body. "Please."

"I... How can I be sure you haven't poisoned it?" John tried to use humor, but his voice didn't follow suit and it fell flat. A small smile tugged at Sherlock's lips but faded quickly.

"Do you think I would come back now, to poison you?" His words were so... So full of emotion that it deflated John's anger and disarmed him. Their eyes locked as words poured free of both of them.

"I'm surprised you came back at all." John's hurt broke free of his control, the words cutting Sherlock. They broke eye contact, John flushing with shame and Sherlock looking away as if trying to decide what to do. John moved to apologize but Sherlock shook his head, forcing the tea into John's hands.

"I'm not surprised you feel that way." Sherlock stood and began to pace, the way he did when he was explaining things. "I have been gone a lot longer than I initially planned. But then... Once I was gone I thought perhaps it would be best if I stayed away. You couldn't know, John," Sherlock stopped and glared at him until he began sipping the tea. "I had to make it look so real that you, the only person in this world who could see my truth, believed it." He spoke quickly, as if his words had been rehearsed but he had forgotten all his lines. "You had to really believe I was gone because if you believed it then so would they." John moved to speak and Sherlock clicked his tongue impatiently, the way he did when someone interrupted him. "Let me finish." He ordered, John watched him though it made him dizzy. He wanted to absorb this moment so that even if he woke up tomorrow and found out his mind had conjured it up he could remember the feeling of joy spreading through his body. "He was going to kill you. Not just you, but especially you." John looked momentarily confused. "He wanted to strike at me in a way that I had never opened myself up to before. In a way that you brought into my life. I was so content on being alone and isolated before we met. He would have had no leverage over me." He mused softly, still pacing. His brow furrowed with both confusion and intent. "But you came into my life and I suddenly had people I cared about, people who mattered. But none more than you. And he knew that. My death was necessary, in order to protect you. That was his condition. If I lived you died. If I died, you lived."

He looked at John with a look that seemed to plead, please understand what I'm saying. John's eyebrows quirked up and he looked at him as his breath caught in his throat. Their eyes met again and Sherlock moved over closer to him. John's skin seemed to be covered in goose pimples as he realized just how close Sherlock was. He set the tea down and gently reached out, slowly - as if expecting his hand to contact air. Sherlock couldn't be sure where John was reaching for, so he stayed perfectly still. John touched his cheek with two fingers feeling the cool skin underneath of them. The shock of so gentle a touch on the same cheek where John had slapped him just minutes before sent shockwaves through Sherlock. For a long moment neither of them spoke out loud, but John searched the eyes of his flatmate for the truth. He couldn't read Sherlock the way he knew Sherlock was reading him. But he saw how he responded as John touched him. John's focus still on the man before him. Sherlock's face was so different in this moment, see what you've done to me, his eyes pleaded. I need you.

"Why didn't you contact me sooner?" John whispered, not wanting to break the moment.

"I didn't want to hurt you. A certain amount of time was necessary so that you would begin to move on and others would believe it was truly over." Sherlock's voice was still soft, but his face hardened some again. He didn't pull away, wanting to show John he was trying. "I was going to leave England, go somewhere new and try to build a life without..." It was unspoken but felt. Without you. "But I found myself dragging my feet. Finding reasons to linger. Asking Lestrade for cases to stay busy, but avoiding coming home." Sherlock looked away, something akin to guilt building in his features. "Then Mycroft told me how you had stopped working." He chanced a glance back at John. "That you were beginning to fade."

"Someone sent me pictures of the...of St. Barts. I..." It was John's turn to look guilty and ashamed.

"I know." Sherlock replied. From anyone else John would have felt slighted or angry for such an insignificant comment. But from Sherlock it was so much all at once. It was something that made John melt inside. He suddenly felt as if he was no longer solid. His hand gently trailed down Sherlock's cheek and jaw, around his neck and up into his dark hair. His lips parted softly as John touched him. "You recovered some, but when Mycroft told me you weren't eating or sleeping... I knew I couldn't abandon you to the darkness I'd caused you." His voice was so soft.

John couldn't tear his eyes away from how Sherlock Holmes, the great emotionless detective, seemed to just melt under his fingers. He'd always wanted to touch him like this. He'd imagined it over and over again. His heart pounded in his chest as their eyes met again. His feelings for this man weren't proper, they weren't right, but they were unstoppable. He'd tried to deny them after his death. Tried to tell himself it was just normal grief.

"There's something you're not telling me." He whispered softly, making Sherlock's eyes widen.

"There..." Sherlock looked like he was debating on answering. John game him a look that pleaded for the truth. "You're in danger. I can protect you better beside you."

"I should wring your neck." John said softly, a tear falling from his eye. "I should shake you and hit you. You've wrecked me, Sherlock." Sherlock moved to speak and John shook his hand, grabbing a handful of his hair and pulling gently, but with authority. "No, it's my turn." He growled softly. Sherlock could not stop the thrill that went through him. "But I can't. All I have wanted was for you to come back. For you step through that door so that I could tell you all the things I was too afraid of before. So that I could show you that we could have worked together. That we are together in this!" John's voice grew slightly louder but was still a whisper.

"I'm better when I'm with you." Sherlock conceded. "Mycroft even said so." His mouth fixed itself into a hard line as he admitted it. "You brought something into my life that I didn't even know I needed or wanted. You, John. Before meeting you I didn't have friends, or even colleagues. I didn't have entanglements or attachments or concerns. I didn't worry about what I said or how I said it. But suddenly here you are, dropped in my lap unceremoniously by a common acquaintance. Put right in front of me like a wall and I just kept trying to go around it. To avoid how..."

He didn't get to finish because at that moment, John using his grip on Sherlock's hair pulled him into himself and kissed him with all he had. The atmosphere of the room changed in an instant and they were all over each other. Sherlock embraced John fully, letting his hand run up into John's hair and crush his body against his own. The feel of their bodies touching was not what either of them had imagined it to be, but was so incredibly relieving to both of them. They felt the tension melt away in each other before a new feeling began to replace it. When they finally came up for air, both of them disheveled and hair a mess John looked Sherlock dead in the eyes.

"No more lies or secrets." He demanded. "I can't. If I'm going to let you back in, to let you... See this..." John motioned to both of them, indicating what had just happened.

"I can only try, John. I'm not like you. This isn't easy for me." Sherlock started to protest. John pulled him back for another kiss.

"Then that will have to do for now."