John Watson was a romantic. That made this moment standing on the doorstep to 221B Baker Street, worn chestnut-leather traveling case in hand, all the more painful. Valentine's Day. A day he thought he would never have to spend alone again. Fool, he now thought to himself. Pathetic, romantic, desperate fool.

Christmas had brought resigned reconciliation with his wife. New Years, the joy and despair of regaining his best friend, only to find that he had been using all along. Then there had been The Moment of Truth. Sherlock's right, Watson, you really must work on these titles, he said to himself with a grim, humorless laugh.

Yes, Moriarty was dead. And yes, Moriarty was back. And he should have known (how had they not known?) who was responsible for that. Once it came out, he knew she was not his wife. No priest, no official document, no ceremony before friends and family could change the reality in his heart. Unfortunately, one very simple document could change the reality of his impending fatherhood. Like Sherlock's Mind Palace, this bit of magic was not what it seemed. The child was not a Watson. And as of early this morning, after signing one more official document, neither was Mary.

John dragged himself back to the task at hand. He had come around yesterday to ask Sherlock whether he might move back into their old flat. When he arrived, he found the place empty of its sole inhabitant. He didn't understand how it could feel so much like home after everything that had passed, until he realized what he had done. Without thinking, without considering his movements, he had stepped into the center of room and sat down. In his chair.

Having decided on the fifteenth stair up not to knock first, John reached out for the knob just as the door to the flat swung open, and a six-foot tall coat careened onto the landing, nearly knocking him flat.

"Jesus, Sherlock," came the winded exclamation as he tried to catch his breath.

"John! Oh!" Sherlock replied, backing through the doorway into the sitting room to make way for his prodigal flatmate. He began hanging his scarf and Belstaff back on the hook. "I wasn't expecting you for another 3 hours 27 minutes." John looked briefly puzzled, then shook his head with an expression of don't tell me, I really don't want to know and placed his bag down behind his chair.

They stared at each other uncertainly for almost a full minute before John spoke. "You were expecting me then." He squared his chest and shoulders at Sherlock, raising his chin slightly. Whenever you feel vulnerable, unsure of yourself or your decisions, you revert to a military stance. Sherlock knew better than to give voice to this thought, but he could not help addressing it to John in his mind. John. John was home.

"Yes, of course," came the clipped retort. Another long moment of uncomfortable silence. He couldn't have it this way. John, his John, had finally returned, and this time he needed his friend to stay. Sherlock sprang into the kitchen without warning, clattering in the cupboards and shouting, "Tea?" over his shoulder.

Exhausted already despite the early hour, John simply nodded and retired into his chair by the cold fireplace. Sherlock was obviously trying to make up for the revelation on the plane six weeks ago, but it wouldn't be that easy. John had lost him three times already – he didn't think his heart could stand one more.

Sherlock set the tea down on the table at John's elbow and sat stiffly in his own chair. Please, John. Please forgive me. Please let me try. Please stay.

John let out a weary sigh, ran a slowly warming hand over his face, and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "Show me."

"John, I don't know what you – "

"SHERLOCK. Show. Me." The detective slid the jacket from his shoulders and rolled up his sleeves, one at a time, to uncover fading track marks. John looked over the exposed skin, the right side of his face twitching slightly. "When was the last time?" he demanded, his tone suddenly angry.

"Doctor Watson, I can assure you that I have – "

"Dammit, Sherlock!" John took a gamble, "Do you want me to move back in or not?"

"Y-yes, John." The look of fear in the other man's eyes confirmed what John had suspected. Sherlock had never considered finding another flatmate, Mrs. Hudson told him as much. He had withdrawn from the few friends he did have, and he seemed to spend increasing amounts of time without speaking a word. He was lonely without John, and though the doctor felt guilty exploiting his flatmate's rare show of emotion, he hoped he could use it to keep the younger man clean. Alive, he thought with a shiver.

"When?"

"Two days before we… found out. About… her." John inhaled and tried to push his rising resentment away. It was no use at the moment.

"Right, well. Good. Ok. And what do you have in the flat?"

"Nothing, John."

"Sherlock, I mean it, I'm not going to have – "

"NOTHING. John." He swallowed. "Will that be all for today?"

John looked him in the eye, took a deep breath, and nodded.

Sherlock clenched his jaw, fighting the tears stinging the corners of his eyes. He would do anything to keep John this time. Anything. He stood abruptly, shoving down his shirtsleeves and replacing his jacket. He moved swiftly to the door, flinging on his coat and scarf, and snapped, "Don't wait up," before slamming the door behind him.

The flames burned low in the fireplace when Sherlock returned home. His hands clenched and unclenched nervously in his pockets as he listened for any sign of his flatmate, but the only noise came from the crackling of the wood. Having hung his coat and scarf carefully so as not to disturb John's jacket on the next hook, he surveyed the room, his eyes gradually adjusting to the dim light.

There he was, curled into a ball on the sofa, Union Jack pillow beneath his greying-blonde head. Even in sleep he looked tense, his expression worried and jaw tight. You're not ready to sleep up there yet, are you? Captain Watson, unwilling to concede defeat. Or afraid you can never go home again? This last thought tore at Sherlock's already heavy heart. For him, it had become a home only twelve hours ago. He would find a way, he would do everything in his power, to give that back to the bravest, most deserving man he had ever known.

Sherlock drew a blanket over John's sleeping form, watching him relax ever so slightly beneath its weight. Moving silently to his own chair, he sat, tending the flame and counting down the hours until sunrise.