Sherlock had always assumed that one day they would speak of it, but he was not particularly anxious for that day to come. He wasn't much good at expressing emotion, and he worried that if he failed as spectacularly as he usually did, John would never bring it up again. He was content to wait; hearing it out loud wouldn't make it any more real than it already was, seeing the light in John's eyes and reading his posture and taking his pulse. For Sherlock, their love was already tangible, no matter that John seemed to be bidding a prolonged, rollicking farewell to the woman-shaped joys of life as a bachelor. Sherlock didn't press for anything more than what he already had; a loving flat mate willing to put up with his idiosyncrasies. He was not eager to embarrass himself physically, being inexperienced and unsure.

Still, he always presumed that the day would come when he did so. The day he would finally get to learn the taste of John Watson's lips, the texture of his bare skin, the sleepy glow of his late-night gaze. Sherlock looked forward to that day immensely, but he wasn't about to rush into it. Perhaps, he allowed himself to believe, it would be the same day that he learned what it was like to see John in his 'date' clothes, waiting for none other than Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps it would be the same day John's eyes met Sherlock's intense gaze with no hesitation.

Sherlock imagined all those things, and many more, but he never imagined what he would find when he came home. He never once imagined that he had been wrong.

John wasn't just shy. John wasn't struggling with his sexuality. John wasn't in denial, or afraid, or saying a slow goodbye to women, or teasing Sherlock, or drawing out the game. John simply was truly only a friend.

It was- incredible. Confusing. Heartbreaking. Shocking. Painful.

The day he came home, Sherlock had thought that perhaps that would be the day. The one he'd dreamed of while he was running across the world, killing assassins and tearing down Moriarty's web. He'd focused on the job at hand, more than anything else, but always in the back of his mind was the relentless need to see John again, to know beyond a doubt that John was safe. He loved John. John loved him. John must be safe. These were the black-and-whites he thought in over the course of the years immediately following his fall from the hospital roof.

He'd climbed the stairs leading to the door of 221B, nervously pulling at his hair, his coat, his scarf. All the things he'd left behind to go incognito and save John. But here he was, home again, himself again. As though for one moment he was in a bubble and nothing had changed. At the same time, everything had, and he hoped it would continue to do so. He hoped he would open the door, go up the stairs, the fifth one creaking as it always did, to find John at his desk or on the couch, preoccupied with something that could be finished later. He hoped that his one-time blogger would see him and smile, and from there they would go as best they could into that world Sherlock had long dreamed of, a world of soft kisses and inside jokes and a bond even deeper than the one they'd already experienced. He knew quite well that he was romanticizing it a bit- doubtlessly John would have questions, and anger, and confusion and perhaps enough rage to land a punch or two. Sherlock smiled quietly, willing to take whatever punishment John saw fit to deliver, as long as they could settle back into their habit. Holmes-and-Watson. He turned the door handle and went in.

The fifth step did indeed creak as it always had. This made Sherlock feel that maybe the rest of his hopes weren't so very irrational. On the seventh step, he could hear voices in the drawing room. He stopped short and frowned to himself, wondering if he should come back later. No, he decided, John's shock might well be mitigated by having someone else present to reassure him that he was not imagining anything. Besides, Sherlock felt confident that he could excuse the third party if he felt the need. He resumed his measured step.

At the door, he paused. It was halfway closed. Should he walk in? It was his flat. Sort of. From what he could see, nothing had been moved, though it did smell different. He pushed open the door with a slight tapping knock, and cleared his throat to announce his presence. Glanced around the room and smiled when his eyes lit on John. He took a few quick steps toward his best friend, unable to stop himself. "John," He was surprised to hear the catch in his own voice.

"Oh my god." John's mug of tea crashed to the floor, and he gripped at the counter to keep himself on his feet. Leaning on his cane, too, Sherlock observed. That was no good. "M-Mary. Do you…?" John's mouth opened and closed once or twice, then the kept it clamped, spasms moving to other parts of his face.

Sherlock quirked his brows, confused. He turned to see this 'Mary' person. She was sitting on the couch, openmouthed, and he deduced her as quickly as he could. Comfortable here, shoes off, clearly familiar. Perhaps a new tenant? Judging by the few new feminine touches to the room, that seemed likely. She was blond, about John's age, and engaged. Oh, that was lovely. She'd be moving out soon, and things could go back to John and Sherlock in 221B. Wonderful. He looked away, deciding she merited no more observation.

"John." He took another step toward his favorite person.

"Sherlock?" John managed weakly. "I… I thought you were dead?"

Words came tumbling out of his mouth, seeming to trip over each other as he tried to explain. "A necessary deception, John, I apologize. I am so very sorry I had to lie to you, John, but it was for your sake. Moriarty- he had- assassins. They were going to- kill you if I didn't jump. I had to save you. Molly helped me make it look real, and I've been abroad since then, tracking down Moriarty's people. They're gone now, John. You're safe. We're safe. So I could come home." He had been advancing slowly on John as he spoke, and now he reached out carefully to grasp John's shoulder, pull the other man into a fully upright position.

"What… Sherlock?"

"John?" Sherlock couldn't help it- he raised his other hand and drew his fingertips carefully, lovingly, down the side of that well-remembered face. His lips quirked just a bit on one side. "You have a moustache, John."

"What? I- yeah." John cleared his throat, stepping back from Sherlock's grasp. The detective's heart sank, but he dismissed John's reticence as the natural product of three years apart. "It's- good to see you again, Sherlock."

The woman on the couch cleared her throat.

"Oh, right." John turned to her, and Sherlock felt a flicker of annoyance. "Sherlock, this is my fiancée, Mary Morstan. Mary, this is Sherlock Holmes."

"A pleasure, mister Holmes. An unexpected and completely shocking pleasure." She held out her hand to shake, and as Sherlock did so, his mind reeling in shock and vague pain, she slapped him with her other hand.

He was too caught up in the echo of the words 'my fiancée' to react much, turning his eyes on her quizzically.

"HAVE YOU ANY IDEA WHAT JOHN WENT THROUGH?" She shrieked. "After you died, you son of a bitch? And now you just walk back in here like nothing's changed, like you still live here! This is my home now, Holmes, and you'd better GET OUT!" She was glaring and advancing on Sherlock like a dragon.

"Mary," John interrupted weakly, still mildly shocked.

"Don't you dare defend him now, John."

"John," Sherlock was bewildered, for once having trouble keeping up with the situation, and the only thing he could make sense of was John's presence.

"GET OUT." Mary shouted again.

Sherlock didn't know what to do but back out, and he all but toppled down the stairs that led to the front door.

Once back on the street, he sat down slowly on the curb and cried.

221B Baker Street had been his home, his home with John. He had felt safe and loved, every day he awoke there. He had dreamed of a day he would awake in John's arms, but evidently that day was never to come. He sniffed pathetically and wiped ineffectually at his tears, knowing full well that they wouldn't stop any time soon. Unused to crying, he soon found that he had trouble breathing through his tears and he gasped for tainted air.

"Sherlock?" John's hand was tentative on his shoulder.

He looked 'round, trying again to wipe his tears. "I- I'm sorry John."

"Sherlock… I don't know what to say." John crouched, slowly and painfully, bringing his cane down with him. "You were- you were my best friend, Sherlock, and when you jumped I lost so much. It took me a long time to rebuild, and Mary- she saw me at the worst of it. She's a bit protective. I'm sorry she shouted."

Sherlock just shook his head, not knowing what to say. He was beginning to realize that he'd have to leave; he couldn't stay in London without John. He wasn't even sure he could stay in the world without John. His mind was whirling, thoughts of possible relief flinging out of the abyss; Mycroft's country estate, drugs, a real job somewhere far away, suicide- not a fake, this time. He'd seen life with love, and nothing compared. Nothing could possibly be worth sitting by while John continued without him. Unless it somehow made John happy that Sherlock was near, but how could it? It was better to pretend that today had been a dream, that Sherlock had really been dead the whole time, and was never coming back.

He'd always known his love was unexpressed, he just never dreamed it could be unrequited.