The sight of blood blooming across the front of my shirt probably should have been worrisome. Instead, it seemed like a mild inconvenience. There was pain, sure, somewhere in the vicinity of my chest, but it was disconnected. I couldn't quite remember what had caused it. We had been on a case, something about a drug ring that was getting increasingly more violent. I remembered the chase, frantically searching for Sherlock because he had, once again, run off on his own. I remembered pushing the door open to the building, the sound of shouting, screaming, something hard and unforgiving tearing through my back. A bullet, of course.

But it didn't seem to matter all that much.

Well, that was, until Sherlock brought his hand down across my face.

"John. John, listen to me. You need to stay with me. You can't do this. You can't die on me. I just got you back, don't do this. Don't do this to me. I need you. Damn it!"

It was all black from there on, but the memories started to come back. Perhaps that was a good place to start.

It was a cold autumn day, the sun already starting to dip low beneath the rooftops. I pulled my jacket closer against my body, ducking my head into the collar to help protect my face against the breeze. It was only a 20 minute walk back to the flat, back to 221 B, where I knew Mrs. Hudson would have built up the fire for me. I owed her so much, especially considering that the past two years had been almost as difficult on her as it had been on me, but only almost. She hadn't tried to drown herself in the Thames, slit her wrists, or take a few too many sleeping pills in hopes of killing some of the pain and herself as well (if she was lucky). I should have known about the cameras in the flat the first time Mycroft pulled up in his black car, his men carrying me out of the flat, tourniquets pulled tight around my arms. I was grateful, looking back, that I had forgotten the proper way to pull the knife across my skin. I was also happy that I only took 15 sleeping pills instead of the 40 that had would have killed me for sure. It was something that I wasn't proud of, the attempts at giving up, but the failure was something I learned to live with.

It had been two years since I had watched Sherlock Holmes, the single most important person in my life, toss himself off the roof of St. Barts, only to land sprawled on the pavement below.

I didn't remember much of that day. I didn't remember much of the following 6 months, if I was honest, since most of it was spent contemplating falls from structures of various heights, the right dosage of pills, what knife to use, and that was when I wasn't ensconced in the bottom of a bottle. Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson... They all tried to pull me out of it. It wasn't until Lestrade showed up at the flat, his face betraying his anxiety, and presented me with a case, that I felt any forward momentum at all. Solving a case was something I could do. I had seen the battlefield with Sherlock Holmes, just as his brother said I would, and I didn't regret a moment of it. It would come in handy for whatever Lestrade wanted him to solve.

The case was simple, one that I was sure the Yard could handle on its own. The thought that it was a handout didn't dull the excitement, the moment of triumph when I realized the man had been killed by his lover when the other man discovered that all promises of the victim leaving his wife were a clever ruse to keep him enthralled. It was open and shut, easy, or so I thought. It wasn't until I looked at Lestrade after examining the crime scene and telling him what had obviously happened that I noticed the look of shock and awe on his face.

"That was brilliant, John, honestly. You've only been here for about 5 minutes, and all that... Amazing. I'll tell the others, we'll bring the bloke in for questioning, but with what you gave us, it's more than enough to find the evidence we're looking for. Thanks. Do you need a ride back to the flat?"

"No. No, I'm fine." I left, ignoring his worried expression, and walked the 4 miles back to the flat, allowing the cold to numb my mind and my limbs.

I didn't leave the flat for two weeks.

Lestrade started showing up with cases on a more regular basis after he realized they were the only things that would get me out of the flat, focused on something else besides all the potential ways to kill myself. I knew what he was doing, but I couldn't bring myself to care. I realized, in the midst of a particularly difficult case involving the abduction of three young children, that if I closed my eyes, I could hear Sherlock's voice guiding me along the right path of my own deductions, asking questions that I wouldn't have thought to ask. There were times where that was the only thing that got me through.

It was when I started considering trying cocaine, just to see what he had been talking about, that I realized I had a problem. I had taken a sabbatical from the surgery, and I knew that I needed to get back to it. It would provide me another outlet for my frustration, my excess energy, so I approached Sarah. She seemed genuinely grateful to have me back at all that she didn't even question me when I said I wanted to take as many hours as she could offer me. I worked and I solved cases and I tried not to think about the fact that Lestrade had returned my gun to me after I had been at the surgery for a month and showed actual signs of improving.

I was almost ashamed at the act I was putting on, pretending that I was okay when I obviously wasn't, but I realized that I was not the worst person in the world. No, there was no way I was nearly as bad as the person I came home on that cold autumn day to find sitting on the couch, running rosin over the bow to his violin, something I had kept in the exact place he had left it, only opening the case once or twice to run my fingers over the wood and mourn the loss of its beautiful music and the beautiful man who had coached out the melodies so skillfully the entire flat ached with the notes. No, I would never be that terrible.

I turned and promptly walked back out of the flat. Mrs. Hudson was crying, Mycroft called after me, but there was nothing from the man himself. I thought I saw something along the lines of guilt run across his face, but that couldn't have been accurate. There wasn't a single bone in that man's body that could feel an emotion as complex and painful as guilt.

It took me three days to return to the flat. I had rented a cheap hotel room, bought way more alcohol than the liquor store should have sold to me, and I spent three whole days convincing myself that I had finally gone crazy. After all, how on earth could Sherlock Holmes be sitting in my living room when I had watched him die? When I had taken his pulse and found it had stopped? I ran out of alcohol at 2 in the morning on that third night and staggered home, remembering the bottle that I still had kept in the kitchen. There was no way it had been real, so I had nothing to worry about.

I was so, terribly wrong.

I should have turned and left when I opened the front door and heard the first pulsing notes coming from up the stairs. I should have left when I opened the door to the flat and saw the shadows dancing across the lithe frame, clad in one of his classic suits, a form that I thought I was never going lay eyes on again. I should have left before he stopped playing and the silence stretched between us in a way that was more painful than anything I had done to myself in his absence.

"John."

That one word was all it took. Something broke. I grabbed him by the lapels, slammed him against the wall, held him there while I drew back my fist, and the only thing that kept me from hitting him was the fact that I realized I was actually feeling him, that he was actually there, and that I was certainly not hallucinating. He was real.

I let go of him and took one step back, then another, shaking my head to clear my vision, for surely this couldn't be real. This couldn't actually be happening. He couldn't be there, not after all this time, all the pain I had gone through, he couldn't have been there.

"John."

"You bastard. You fucking bastard. How dare you?"

"John, you have to listen to me. I did what needed to be done-."

"Oh, is that so? Do you know what you did to me? Do you know what you put me through? Sherlock I-. Fuck."

I turned and, to keep myself from hitting him, punched the wall. My fist made a dent, and the dull ache that radiated from my hand helped clear my thoughts.

"I did it to save your life," Sherlock said. "There were snipers, it was me or you and Mrs. Hudson and Greg, and I couldn't-," his voice caught and I looked up, finally met his eyes, and saw pain there. "I had to make it convincing, John. I couldn't let anyone know. I couldn't even tell you, no matter how much I wanted to, and John? I did want to. Every second I spent away from here, every second I spent hunting down Moriarty's men, I wished you had been there with me. I wished it could be different. I needed you there, but I also needed you alive. I couldn't risk you while they were still out there. As long as you thought I was dead, you were safe. I needed that security so I could do what needed to be done."

"You could have trusted me."

"I needed you to be convincing. I needed it to seem real."

"It was real, you bastard! I stood at your grave and I cried and I prayed and I begged, because you were dead! You have no idea what you did to me. You wanted me alive? I almost didn't make it."

"I do know, John. I was the one who had Mycroft watching after you. I needed to know someone was looking after you since I couldn't. He agreed."

"He knew? No, never mind, of course he knew. Who else did you tell?"

"Molly was the one who helped me orchestrate the whole thing. Her access to the lab and the morgue at Bart's was crucial. It was just the two of them."

I remember being shocked that Molly had managed to keep her lips sealed on the matter, but it wasn't really that surprising. People did strange things to help Sherlock Holmes. I was a prime example.

"Why did you bother coming back? What makes you think I want you here?"

I was pleased at the flinch he responded with. "I finished my mission. I dismantled Moriarty's web, took down every last person who was out to kill you because of me, and I wanted to come home. I needed to come home." He swallowed and looked away. "If you want me to leave, I will. I... I didn't realize you would be this upset."

"You didn't realize-?"

I took another step back, inhaled deeply, counted to 10, and exhaled slowly.

"You're a fucking idiot, and I don't think I'm ever going to be able to forgive you for this, but this is still your home. I'm not going to kick you out of it."

He looked up again but I couldn't meet his gaze. The alcohol fueled daze was almost completely gone, and I found myself suddenly aware of how disgusting I felt, both physically and mentally. I needed to shower and sleep.

"I'm sure you've already seen, but your things are all in your room. I think there's food in the fridge and tea in the cupboard, so help yourself. I haven't really rearranged anything."

"There's still more you want to say. Why don't we get it out of the way?"

"No. The truth is, if I stay in this room with you a second longer, I'm probably going to hit you."

"I wouldn't mind."

I laughed, bitterly. "For some fucked up reason, I would. I'm going to shower then sleep."

I made my way into the bathroom, peeled off the disgusting clothes I was still wearing, and climbed under the spray of the shower, set to its hottest temperature. I didn't even make an effort to cover the sound of my sobs.

When I came out of the bathroom, wrapped only in my robe, it was to find Sherlock standing at the window, looking out over London. He stopped playing when the door opened, and I found myself suddenly missing the sound.

"I made you tea and toast, and you should also drink a glass or two of water if you can stomach it, just so the after effects of the alcohol won't be as bad when you wake up."

I nodded a response, even though his back was turned toward me, and made every effort to shut off all of my thoughts as I drank the tea slowly to go with the toast, then quickly drank two full glasses of water, knowing that he was right.

"Sherlock..." I said, my foot on the first stair tread leading up to my bedroom.

He turned and looked at me, his gaze shuttered and obviously hiding his emotions. "Yes, John?"

What was there to say? I hate you? I'm pissed off? I missed you? Can you sleep next to me because I need to know that you're real and actually here?

I settled for something a little less damning.

"I wouldn't mind if you kept playing."

He looked at the violin he was still holding then back at me before bringing it back up to his chin. I had already turned and started up the steps before the first notes spilled over me. It was Chopin's Nocturne, played in E Minor, one of my favorites.

I fell, blissfully, into a dreamless sleep.