I woke up and I checked the calendar. Today was the day. The day that marked three years since my fake suicide.

I sprung out of bed and got dressed in my best clothes. My purple shirt that I knew John loved so much. How will he react when he sees me again? I pondered for a brief moment. Before I went to see John, I went to see my older brother, Mycroft Holmes. Family first, I guess.

I knocked on his door, and he opened, in pajama bottoms, but with a lilac button-down. I smiled when I saw his jaw drop.

"But… how, how'd you…" he spurted out, mouth agape.

"Long story, can I come in? We'll discuss over tea." I said as snidely as possible.

"You need to tell him, Sherlock!"

"How am I going to tell him? You know how sensitive he is about these things. I already broke his heart once, I can't just do it again, Mycroft."

"SHERLOCK! You are telling him whether you want to or not, come on!", he shouted as he grabbed my cuff and pulled me along.

We got a taxi to 221B Baker Street, the flat I had come to love those many years ago. He dragged me inside, and he barged into the flat.

I could hear him and John talking through the doorframe, and tried to listen. I hid behind the edge, trying to listen. I guess Mycroft and John had some time to bond when I was away.

I wanted to surprise John, but eventually I couldn't help it any more. I could feel myself smiling like an idiot behind the doorframe, and I bravely produced myself in the doorway.

I closed my eyes, because I had a feeling John was going to run at me and tackle me. He always loved playing rough.

"Oh god… I love you Mr. Holmes", he said quietly.

I stood there, eyes still shut tight, expecting him to run at me like a mother to her lost child that suddenly came back.

Instead, something else happened. I heard something… a strange sound I only heard when I was spying on Anderson and Donovan. Or when John and I…

My eyes flicked open like lightning, and I saw it. John had his back to me, and he was... well, I'm not really sure.

I've been trying to delete this part, but I just couldn't. Back there I saw John… he was kissing Mycroft. My own brother. I didn't know if I should puke or cry, but I'd rather both.

I wasn't bothered that he had moved on, I expected that. Nor was I really appalled that it was with Mycroft. What bothered me was how they were kissing. It was so passionate. John kept reaching his hands up and running his fingers through Mycroft's hair, delicately pulling at each delicate curl. Mycroft had his hands running up and down John's sides, and at one point he squeezed John's arse.

The way that they were so passionate about each other, the steamy breaths they took, I just didn't know how to react.

I felt something fall onto my shirt. I looked up at the ceiling, but there was no sign of a leak. Back down to my shirt, yes, this is a small drop of something liquid, looks sal- and then another fell. I realized that his time it had come from my chin, and yes, I was crying.

For the third time he could ever remember, Sherlock Holmes was crying. Not because he had been drunk to his wits, or because he was about to lose his lover for at least three years, but because he was jealous. Not jealous of John, not even his brother. Just jealous of the bond they were sharing and how passionate they had been.

And for the first time in his life, the Great Sherlock Holmes ran away from his problems. Out of the 221B, out of Baker Street, until he had no idea where he was. Then he curled up on a bench and just cried until he couldn't cry anymore.