Hello, kittens. This cropped up following a prompt by mystradedoodles:

General Prompt (Post Reichenbach Johnlock): Sherlock holmes awakens in a crap bed in a dirty hostel in a crap country to find one John H. Watson has tracked him down. And he's not in a good mood.

Let's state the obvious then get to the show:
What I own: nothing
What BBC, Moftiss, ACD and people with very expensive lawyers own: everything
Languages I know: English, LOLCat
Good?
Good.
Let's go.

In the years since he'd fallen, Sherlock Holmes had rarely stopped moving. Two years in constant motion and somehow he'd ended up in a landlocked Baltic backwater, boiling in the dead of a heatwave. His last run had been manic - first Lutsk to silence an informer, than Belgrade for an information exchange, then Burgas to shake a tail who'd followed him out to the Black Sea. He had stood in water to his knees, looked out on the horizon and thought of John's steady aim and bare feet for the 30 seconds it took the man (early 40s, career prisoner, mob capo, partially deaf) under his hands to stop thrashing.

This was no way to spend summer, Sherlock was sure of that.

He'd chosen an anonymous hostel south of Vilnius that seemed on the edge of closing down or being raided by police (three weeks, max). He'd strode into the practically abandoned dorm (previously a warehouse, stash of stale opium in two bed frames, handgun under floor by toilet) as if he'd bought it, thrown his pack on an empty bottom bunk and not moved for the better part of two weeks.

His Russian had gotten better since last winter though his Lithuanian was rough at best. The man at the front desk (Albanian, parole violator, easily bought with cash, upper respiratory scarring from childhood pneumonia) seemed to know just a handful of words of either, all learned from state TV. Sherlock wasn't desperate enough to blackmail him for money or board just yet. After all, there was still the rest of this hateful summer to sort out then he'd have to start thinking of places to go to ground before winter, and Moran's next bounty contract, blew in.

He pillowed his hands behind his head and wondered if Oslo was out of the question. At least they'd have decent tea.

In the years since he'd fallen, Sherlock Holmes had burned a dark trail across some of Europe's worst places, searching for a satisfying end to the fire Jim Moriarty started. What had once been an attempt to protect those he cared for blossomed into a breathless hunt for backups, cats paws, killers hired to kill those who didn't get there first.
It was an impressive Chinese box of a plot that, if they'd been on better terms and Moriarty hadn't shot himself in the face, Sherlock would have loved to have discussed in depth with him. Sometimes, when he was deep in thought, Sherlock chatted it through with Moriarty anyway.

Not tonight, though.

Following an unsatisfying three days of clandestine texts to Mycroft on a tapped phone (Moran's plant, acquired in Belgrade in exchange for information), Sherlock arranged a conversation with Mycroft on a clean line. The string of messages indicated his next steps would be down into Poland then on to Jordan. None of which Mycroft approved of.

"Really, this is all far too dramatic. Why not say you'll be on the moon next?"

"You lack scope – unsurprisingly." Sherlock perched on a flyover above a roaring motorway. It was the only way to get an open signal that he could trust not to be mirrored – and the only chance to hear a familiar voice, even if it was Mycroft's.

"Play this too wide, and Moran will most definitely come knocking at your door."

"Only if someone were to leave me open and unguarded."

There was a hiss of global static, then "He misses you."
The words were a hard punch – Mycroft was a master of inference but unafraid to use blunt instruments when clearly losing.

"I know." Sherlock gritted out through clenched teeth, willing himself not to throw the satellite phone from the overpass. "I'm no fool."

"No, but you're taking your time. Three years. How much longer do you think he can - will go on?"

"I'm not concerned with time frames – this must be done correctly or he'll be dead regardless of my next move."

"You know best, of course."

The line dissolved into hissing white noise, the end of Sherlock's audience with Britain's brain trust. He curled his lip, fingers gripping at the phone until the plastic complained. Three years without London, thousands of hours away from the world (the people… person) he loved.
Love. Sentiment. Deadly things.
It was for love, whether he'd admit it or not, (not) that he'd killed his own legend and gone to the shadows. Only once the trail was scuffed away and Moran lay in a wreck at his feet could Sherlock go back to - the only home he cared for. If it was still there.

He'd thrown the phone down into the motorway anyway. It would take weeks to source a new one, but the heartbeat of sour delight had seemed worth it. After four miles on foot he regretted not calling a cab first.

The Albanian (over-bet on the game, ready to sell information. No, has sold information.) sat behind the hostel's front desk with his back to the door when Sherlock buzzed for access. Through the taped and papered window he watched the man clumsily paw for the lock-release button, eyes glued on a replay of Turkish basketball fuzzing in and out on a small TV.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Eventually he would snap out something in a language the man would understand and scare the chains right off his neck.
The Albanian stood, scratched his stomach, nodded. "Hey, vyras,–" the man wrinkled his nose and gave a dismissive wave, "Eh, person… to you."

The words were in horrible, halting English – a first. He had never shown an interest in Sherlock's language before tonight, and by his glottal consonants had clearly never spoken an Anglo-Franc dialect. A cold blade of ice worked its way into Sherlock's spine. He faced the desk and the stretching, stupid flunky, lifted an eyebrow and answered, "That's new."

Shrugging, the other man muttered something tart before retuning to the game on TV. Sherlock squared his shoulders and breathed deeply through his nose. He counted to ten, considered how little he'd be able to get from him in an interrogation, entertained a thought of breaking his nose anyway, and turned neatly for the stairs.
He couldn't keep his guest waiting.

The first floor hall was partially lit, green and sallow under caged fluorescent lights. Breezeblock construction and too many coats of paint without plaster gave the walls a texture of old skin. He longed to burn the building to the ground. The space was quiet; even so, he paused at the doors, hands feeling for vibrations on the wood.

Quiet.

Sherlock balled his free hand into a fist, pushed the door open into darkness and slipped in along the wall. The room's high ceilings carried echoes from downstairs, the buzz of hallway lights, the front desk idiot screaming over the tinny roar of a crowd.

A breath.

Adrenaline spilled into his limbs. There was movement along the lines of stacked beds and a soft rushing of feet, boots squeaked on the tile (male, low to the ground, short steps, under 45, military training) – he reached out to snap the lights on as John Watson caught him in a hard sack across the middle, drilling him into the wall and pulling them both to the floor. The first blow was sloppy, poorly aimed, not thought through. Emotional.
Sherlock ducked out of the way of the next swing in time to catch the fist and cradle it, diffusing the power behind the thrust. There was a bloom of sour sweat and salt in his nostrils.

"Wait - "

"Cock. Fucking arrogant - "

"Stop!"

The hand that closed over his throat was firm, familiar (three years alone, sleeping less than 4 hours per night, a stone of weight gone for good). The men grappled but gained no ground; John punched but not to destroy, Sherlock defended but not to hurt. When they rolled apart there was a cut over John's left eye and Sherlock could taste copper around his gums.

"This whole time," John was breathless, hand clutched to his forehead, eyes wheeling. "Mycroft said – but I didn't think– "

"Don't– don't say anything!" Sherlock roared it, desperate to stop John's monologue. Who knew who was listening, or watching? All his work, all this time gone for a few words in a poorly executed fistfight.

John made a small frayed sound and slumped against the foot of the bed. "Sher- I thought –"

"I know." He wiped the tang of blood from his mouth with the back of a bruised wrist.

"You were DEAD. I mourned you!" John kicked inelegantly at Sherlock's sprawled feet, moaned and dragged his arm across his eyes (to soak up tears or blot out light – unsure).

Questions beat like a second pulse, pushing his mouth and threatening to slip out on his breath. (Who brought you here, how did you find me? How long have you known. How long have you been here? Will you come with me? Did you bring the gun? Have you any cigarettes? How can I make this right? Will you please skip over being angry and let me touch you?)

Slowly (blow to ribs, nothing broken, deep bruising) Sherlock rocked up to his knees, and then his feet. Crossing the few steps between them, he knelt and tucked in beside John. A year before (incorrect. A month before. Yesterday.) he would have held back, but that was before. "I'm sorry. I couldn't have –"

John dropped his arm, sagging visibly, "Brought me in? That's what My... what I was told."

Sherlock helped him lean forward, sit up straighter, staunch the runnel of blood that trailed his warm wheat-and-rose colour skin, staining his collar. There was more grey in the good doctor's hair; the circles under his eyes had gone a deep violet. His jaw stood out where softer skin had once padded the lines, and a scatter of salt-and-sand stubble peppered his chin.

"God," John said, threading his fingers from Sherlock's neck, to his ear, to his hair – shorn to a ghost of its London length, "You look like hell."

"Thought I'd match the terrain." Even now his heart hammered against his ribs with the power of a small engine (adrenaline surge, blood flow maximized, post-fight serotonin production). John's hand was knotted in his hair. Always thinking, always moving down deep, Sherlock pressed his head against that hand, letting his eyes slip shut for a graced moment.
"I should have told you."
It was a lie, but a good one with his fast, cold heart pushing hard to show its fervor. Sherlock opened his eyes and John was watching him, cheekbone swollen but a smile there – just there –for him.

"No, your were right. I would have come for you."

They leaned together on the cold, alien floor. The smell of disinfectant and old drains thin behind sweat and blood. John was breathing hard, there was a burgeoning bronchial infection that would need seeing to, and they'd have to get out of this town and on to transport soon before the word got too far that there were two marks now rather than one.
All of that would come later, though.
Still propped close, Sherlock rubbed his cheek against the heel of John's hand and leaned closer still. "I owe you so much."

"After this? Yeah, you really do."

"We'll need to leave soon." Sherlock's fingers traced up along the solid bones (John who is here, who is real. John who is alive) and pressed the hand tighter to his scalp.

"You've cut your hair. And lost weight."

John's eyes were threadbare. Sherlock had done that. There had been a time in his life when Sherlock had medicated to avoid rushing, fear-fraught feelings – anything that interfered with the work. Bollocks to it, he'd stop just this once, just tonight. Whatever it meant.
"What do you think of Oslo?"

Still panting, the two bent close until noses touched. There was a deep breath – neither could be sure from whom – and then lips pressed lips and hands held fast. There was light, there was dark, there was the distant sound of police sirens and traffic in the night.

In the years since he'd fallen, Sherlock Holmes had rarely stopped moving. In his few still moments, and in stolen moments for years to come, he would stop the rotation of the earth simply to be where ever John was.