In the short hours before he took the fall off of St. Bart's, Sherlock had thought about John. He knew that it would be a difficult time for the doctor, what with him and his...sentiment.
A few months after that day, Sherlock realized that he had never even thought to think about how hard it would be for him to be away from his loyal blogger, his one friend.
On one particularly stormy spring night, a night on which any surveillance could be easily identified and avoided, Sherlock decided to throw caution to the extremely strong wind.
For the time being, he forced his mind not to think about the reasons why, but Sherlock knew that he needed this.
An hour long cab ride, a few walked blocks, and some sneaky maneuvers later, Sherlock found himself in the familiar surroundings of 221b.
His fingers itched to play his beloved violin, still resting where he'd left it against the armchair designated as "his."
Sherlock turned to observe the kitchen and frowned when he saw that all of his scientific equipment had been carefully packed into boxes and pushed into the far corned of the small room.
"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock growled, but a smile twitched his lips as his mind's eye watched her cleaning up his things as she told John that it was just this once, she wasn't his housekeeper.
Sherlock then made his way quietly to his bedroom, not to take or move anything, just to take the opportunity to be surrounded by his own things once more.
The door creaked slightly and the tall man winced, but there was no sound of movement from the doctor's room above.
Sherlock closed the door behind himself and turned to survey his room.
He froze a moment later, hardly daring to breathe.
Well this was...unexpected.
John snored softly, his back turned to Sherlock. The consulting detective's sheets were pulled up to his chin.
Unexpected, no. This was John.
Then Sherlock was moving to the other side of the bed, as quietly as he could.
He just needed to see John's face, to know that he was sleeping peacefully, to know that he was surviving.
The moment Sherlock reached his destination he was met with the sight of John's bright blue eyes staring at him.
Sherlock watched as the doctor's eyes widened, almost imperceptibly, in surprise, and then they calmed, a peaceful blue ocean.
Then John stretched his arm out and lifted the duvet, a wordless invitation.
Without hesitation Sherlock toed off his shoes while removing his scarf and coat before sliding under the blankets and into John's waiting arms.
Sherlock nestled down until his head was tucked comfortably under John's chin and his arms wrapped as firmly around John's torso as John's were around his.
The raven haired man inhaled deeply, taking in the familiar scents of John and home. He sighed in contentment and John momentarily squeezed him just a bit tighter.
"John," Sherlock said, emotions he had never felt before pouring themselves out in that one ever so important word.
John's breath stilled.
His heart raced.
He replied.
"Sherlock."
Every emotion the younger man had expressed was returned, every question was answered, every uncertainty was quashed.
Sherlock's grip on John loosened as he melted into the warm embrace and became more relaxed than he'd ever been in his life.
John hummed a comfortable noise and, slowly, the two men fell asleep.
When John woke the next morning, Sherlock was gone.
John was okay though, better than okay. Much more better.
Sherlock was alive and John knew that he hadn't seen the last of the world's only consulting detective.
Sherlock would come back to him, once he had finished with whatever mess Moriarty had left behind. The nasty business that had caused the genius to have to fake his own suicide.
Maybe even before that, if Sherlock needed him again.
John inhaled deeply through his nose as he stretched to tell the rest of his body that it was time to get up. A wide smile made it's way across his face as he thought about the note Sherlock had left behind. He hadn't signed his name of course, but they both knew that would have been too risky.
John rolled over onto his stomach and, again, read the note resting on the pillow Sherlock had used.
Thank you, John.
Until next time,
Yours
John touched the last word softly.
Oh yes, he'll be back.