The fire raged, bathing the street in heat and ash. Sirens wailed in a deafening cacophony of flashing blue light and sound. Sherlock watched as the primary school burned from the inside out, deadly orange tendrils swallowing the building, choking black smoke billowing out in evil clouds. The blinding barrier was thick and superheated and he wound his scarf around his mouth and nose in an effort to filter the acrid air.

"Leave it to terrorists to attack children," John said from his side. "Bastards," he hissed, shaking a fist at the fire.

"Mycroft will handle this," Sherlock replied, pulling his best friend back.

The squawking of police radios caught his attention, and then he noticed DI Lestrade running toward them, shouting frantically over the din.

"Children, John! There are still children in the building!"

John immediately pulled away from Sherlock and began to sprint in the direction of the blaze.

Sherlock's head whipped around, mouth open in protest as he pulled the scarf down. "John, no!" he cried. "You can't go in there!" He reached out in vain, clutching at John's black jacket, the fabric slipping through his fingers.

"Sherlock, let go! Children, for God's sake!" John shrugged off the jacket and started to run, Sherlock on his heels.

"No, John! Let them-" he was cut off by a rough shove from the doctor.

"Stay here, Sherlock!"

"John! John!" he cried, but John kept running. "John!"

The wail was lost among the crackling of fire and horrible sounds of crumbling infrastructure, and still John ran, headed straight into the mouth of hell.

Sherlock's brain went into overdrive, calculating the temperature of the blaze, wind speed, direction, taking into account the sounds of falling brick and concrete as he pieced together the situation. Information ticked by with buzzes, clicks, and whirs, and then the probabilities of the outcome turned around to laugh in his face. Terror, like nothing he had ever felt before, closed an icy hand over his heart, numbing him from the neck down. John. Sweet God, John.

"JOHN!" he screamed once more, finding a voice that was desperate and broken, filled with sheer despair.

The ex-army doctor turned back to mouth "Sorry!" before he plunged, without hesitation, into the burning building. Sherlock's body moved forward of its own accord, but he was held fast by Lestrade's steely grip on his coat.

"Sherlock, no!" The DI yelled, holding him tight.

Ten and one-half seconds later, by Sherlock's count, two small children emerged, coughing and blackened with soot, running shakily, to be scooped up by waiting officers. A huge burst of flame and smoke erupted through hole where the roof should have been, spilling even more heat and fire into the street.

Sherlock's eyes widened in horror as a silhouette became outlined at the entrance. Short, stocky, jeans and jumper. "John! John! Let me go, Lestrade! John! I have to-Let me-" Sherlock rambled, fighting against the DI's death grip, but Lestrade was stronger than he looked. "John! I need-"

Time slowed to a crawl and he watched with unrelenting dread as everything shifted. There was a loud rumble and a groan, and the whole of the building exploded, sending a thunderous shockwave of fire, smoke, ash, and debris across the street.

The blast sent the DI and the consulting detective to the pavement with Sherlock's horrified scream of "NO!" echoing over everything. And then it all went black.

"John!" Sherlock gasped as he jerked awake amid a tangle of rumpled and sweaty sheets.

He wiped a shaking hand over his face and looked at the bedside clock. Two-thirty in the afternoon. Three months, two days, one hour, twelve minutes and forty-seven seconds since John Watson died. It felt like yesterday.

He got up, put on his dressing gown and sat at the edge of the bed when he realized his feet would not carry him out the bedroom door. Sherlock's ears craned for any sign of sound in the flat, as he did whenever he woke from the nightmare, listening, hoping, praying to hear the soft rustle of John reading the paper, the clatter of John making tea, the huff of John cursing under his breath at the discovery of another gruesome experiment. Nothing. Silence. He threw himself back on the bed and sobbed.

He lay there for a long while, knees pulled tight to his chest, body winding down from convulsive gasps to quiet tremors as he cried himself out. When he finally stilled, the pillowcase was saturated with a cold, salty wetness.

Downstairs, he heard a soft knock and the creak of the flat door opening. "Sherlock, dear, are you decent?"

He sniffed and sat up, wiping away the last traces of tears with the back of his hand. "Yes, Mrs. Hudson, I'll be right down," he called.

"Take your time, love. I'll put the kettle on."

He stood and retied his dressing gown, Mrs. Hudson's gentle grumbles about the state of the kitchen reaching his ears.

The effort to walk to the kitchen was Herculean, and it occurred to him he had only made this trip a handful of times since John had been gone. Eating was no longer a priority. He could imagine John's vexation if he knew about his lack of caloric intake. Nothing mattered anymore. Eating, sleeping, dressing, working cases. Breathing. None of it meant anything anymore. The brain didn't matter. Transport didn't matter. Without John, the brain no longer needed to function. Because when it did, all the blasted thing could conjure were images of John's lovely face, the sound of his voice, the feel of him in the flat. The organ that supplied him with life now only reminded him of death. A betrayal at its most basic level. Just like John's death.

Mrs. Hudson had cleared off the kitchen table and set tea service for two. She was as bright and bushy as always, and in that moment, Sherlock envied her. His ability to catalogue and store information, process and understand it, had vanished with the explosion. He couldn't get it to make sense, no matter how hard he tried to piece it together. And yet, here was Mrs. Hudson, whom he had seen grieve deeply at John's loss, puttering around the kitchen with a smile and a hum. It was almost insulting.

Had it been anyone else, he most assuredly would have acted like a complete and utter arse, yelling and screaming, threatening and ranting, hurling insults like snowballs, determined to rid himself of anyone who dared to intrude on his exile. But her smile and gentle ways were a beacon, a demonstration of motherly love innate to her person. And Sherlock couldn't fault her, knowing she had been here in the flat, those few years ago, making tea and quiet conversation with John, when John thought it was Sherlock who was lost. For that, he felt a deep and abiding sense of affection for the little woman, knowing she cared so deeply for his John. It was because of John he knew that was something to be praised. And cherished.

"Oh, Sherlock," she tutted. "Just look at the state of you. Sit before you fall down, dear. I'll pour you a cuppa."

"Thank you," he said softly as he sat.

She poured his tea in silence, then sat down next to him at the table.

"When did you eat last, Sherlock? You look positively frightful. Eat a biscuit." She shoved a plate in front of him. "Eat, dear."

"Not hungry."

"Bollocks," she chided. "What would John say if he could see you like this?"

"He would call me an idiot and then order take-away."

"Well, he would be right," she huffed. "You've stopped taking care of yourself altogether. That's a bit not good, Sherlock. Bit not good."

He closed his eyes and sighed. "What does it matter, Mrs. Hudson? He's not here." Sherlock's voice broke. "He won't ever be here again."

"Yes, but that's no reason to not go on living, dear."

"Platitudes, Mrs. Hudson?"

"If you like," she smiled. "Sometimes that's all we have."

Sherlock stared at her face over the rim of the cup. Her eyes held no judgment, no guile, and most importantly, no pity. Caring to the last.

"I'm sorry," he said roughly, putting the cup down. "I don't mean to be rude."

"Nonsense," she shrugged, patting his hand. "You've been far worse on occasion." She smiled brightly. "And a little crankiness is to be expected. Losing someone you love is hard, no matter the circumstance."

"Yes, I suppose-" he stopped. "Wait, what did you say?" Sherlock perked up, blinking rapidly.

"I said you've been far worse-"

"No, the end. About-about love?"

The question hung in the air for a moment as they looked at one another. Her eyes widened and she patted his hand again. "You poor thing. Hadn't even realized it, had you? You smart ones, you never see what's right in front of you." This time she squeezed his hand. "You loved him, Sherlock. Still do, for that matter."

Sherlock kept blinking but couldn't get his eyes to focus. "I don't-I don't understand."

"It's not surprising, dear. The waters of the heart are not easy to navigate." She huffed again. "Would you listen to me? I sound like a bit of bad telly." She paused, taking a sip of her tea. "He loved you too, you know. Loved you to distraction." She frowned. "I'm surprised he didn't tell you. Frankly, I thought you had it all sorted, the way you two have been acting since…well, since you came home."

Came home. Mrs. Hudson had never spoke about his pseudo-death in detail. She always made it sound breezy and effortless, as if he had just gone on holiday. As if his return was inevitable.

"It nearly killed him, Sherlock. Thinking you were gone for good. It was hard on us all. But, I'm sure you talked about it."

Sherlock's mind ticked back in time, rifling through every memory he could latch onto. Had they talked about it? Really talked about it? No. The revelation was staggering. He remembered yelling. Yes, John had most certainly yelled. Punches were thrown. Sherlock had apologized and really meant it, they had a hug and that was the end of it.

He realized that over the bluster of his reaction at Sherlock's reappearance, he never knew how John felt about it, deep down. They had both treated it as if it never happened, settling back into routine almost instantly. But how had John really felt? And why hadn't he told him?

The haze was slowly lifting, like London fog rolling through, it was beginning to dissipate, leaving clues shining in the blazing morning sun. Things had changed between them; he just hadn't seen it. Idiot! The pieces began falling together, finishing the puzzle image in his mind. They had both been more attentive, always keeping sight of one another. More texting when they were apart. Even if it was just down to the shops for more milk or tea, invariably there was conversation by text until the missing party had returned home.

There was less complaining about experiments gone awry, acceptance of gory things found around the flat. And touching. There was definitely more touching. Little gestures. A hand on the shoulder, the brush of a leg or arm in back of cabs, a press at the small of the back as they passed through doors. The fierce embrace after John had clocked him twice when he returned from the dead. Yes, they had both held on. He remembered that vividly. That was information not to be deleted. It was always on his mind, though at the time, he hadn't known what to make of it.

And now, the information was useless. Sherlock's heart sank. There was so much to tell, so much to say, and-"

"Sherlock? Are you alright, dear?"

Tears began to pool in his eyes and his throat clenched. No, he was definitely not alright. Would never be again, now that he understood. Something inside him broke.

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson, I-" he hiccupped, hanging his head. The dark curls shook softly as he cried, "There's so much I want to say. So many things I need to tell him."

She reached out and clasped his hands, her touch warm and gentle. He did not pull back, because he thought if he did, everything would break apart and fall away and he would be lost forever. Lost. Forever. Without John.

"Then tell him," she said, snapping him back to the present. "Talk to him. Tell him everything. It'll do you good." She gave his hands one last squeeze and let go, rising from the table. "I'll leave you to it, then. The two of you have lots to talk over." She shuffled to the door and spoke over her shoulder. "And Sherlock, you could do with a little tidying up around here. Not your housekeeper, dear." And she was gone.

Electricity zipped through him as if he had been rewired and brought back to life, like Frankenstein's monster, and he got up and began pacing the flat, drinking in all the reminders of John scattered about. Had John done this? Talked to him while he was gone? What secrets did he reveal? How much of his heart had the doctor lay bare?

The questions whizzed about in his brain as he went over the flat, the need to know, to touch, to feel John's things, lighting a fire low in his belly. He needed to get inside, work open the closed doors of John's mind and soul, wanting to know every dark corner John had kept hidden. Force his way into those locked spaces and bring everything that was shadowed between them into the glorious light of day. John was the mystery to be solved and the science of deduction was the tool to complete understanding. If there were no answers in life, then in death he would find the truth.