John opened the door, his breath instantly hitching in his throat. He realised that a large part of his mind hadn't believed Mycroft. He swallowed. "Hello, Sherlock."
Sherlock stood in the hotel room, just as John remembered him. His hair was slightly longer, and he had a small scar on his forehead, but his coat, his posture were the same, his eyes, which now darted over his former flatmate. "John. I'm sorry about the location. And I'm sorry I didn't tell you."
John licked his lips. "I had to take the stairs."
"I'm sorry?"
"The stairs. The lift was out of order."
Sherlock took a step forward. "John…" There was something unreadable in his eyes. Unreadable because he'd been gone for so long and the connection they'd had had been lost.
"Lots of stairs in this place."
"John, please."
John looked away from Sherlock for the first time, towards the carpeted floor. A few moments passed. He looked up again, and his eyes were watering. "Three years."
There was a pause. "I know."
"I thought you were dead."
"I know."
"We all thought you were dead, Lestrade quit his job."
"… I know."
There was a long silence. As John looked over Sherlock, he realised that he was wrong. The differences were more than superficial. He was a different man. He wasn't his friend who had gone to Buckingham Palace naked and stolen an ashtray. Neither was he a stranger; he was similar to the man John had met in St Bart's, but less hopeful, more lost.
"Are you alright?"
Sherlock lowered his eyebrows, even twitching is lips into a humourless smile. "What do you mean?"
John took his first steps inside, towards Sherlock. He pulled Sherlock into a hug, something which they had never done, a hug of shared pain.
After all, they were both different men.