I hope you all enjoy the product of me being able to think of nothing other than Sherlock in the run up the season 4. This story begins two months after the events of The Sign Of Three and disregards many of the plot points of his Last Vow, but will follow some of the events and ideas. Currently this could serve as just a one shot, but if you guys enjoy it of course I could write more. But I don't know how regular updates would be as I'm very busy with uni and my jobs.

Enjoy!

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Loud shouts. Gunshots. Flashes of light. It was John's regular nightmare, memories of the war, his heart racing like it had whilst he'd been there. This wasn't regular anymore, though, not since he met Sherlock. In fact, he'd not had this nightmare since the night he'd left his walking stick behind in Angelos. Sherlock would have something to say about that, he was sure.

This nightmare was new, though. Amongst the blood and the gunshots were now microscopes, experiments on the dining table and running in handcuffs. John was being haunted by the life he'd lived with his best friend, that best friend whom he hadn't seen since the day he'd gotten married.

With a loud final gasp John sat up in bed, running his hands through his sweaty hair and trying hard not to neither laugh nor cry. Although the reason for this mess was the lack of Sherlock in his life, John could see him right there. He was perched on the dressing table stool Mary had chosen, his hands clasped under his chin.

"Obviously you miss the danger from your previous life. That's why the nightmares have returned and that's why you're now shaking. Marital bliss."

He was a dick even in John's imagination.

A noise next to him pulled John out of his imaginings. Mary was stretching her whole body out like a cat, a sure sign she was about to wake up. She opened her eyes and perused her husband for a moment. She huffed, likely because she had been woken so early in the morning, "What's the matter?"

John didn't answer her. How could he say that he'd been dreaming about his best friend?

"John?" She finally sat up, putting her hands on his shoulders, "Are you having nightmares again?

He nodded slightly, still staring at the corner of the room he'd imagined Sherlock to be sat.

"Shall we go about getting you seeing your therapist again?" Mary suggested, rubbing his shoulders in a mildly comforting matter. She seemed settled by this idea and leaned back into the pillows, her eyes still open so she could watch him.

John knew seeing his therapist again would do little for his problems, yet again. The only thing that had ever stopped his nightmares was going back out onto the battlefield and that was unlikely, since Sherlock had not been returning his texts.

With what could be perceived as an agreeable humph John pulled himself off of the bed, walking heavily on one leg as he left the room.

"And perhaps you need to use your stick again!" Mary called out lightly, before quickly and easily falling back to sleep.

John frowned at this, although he knew she was at least partially right about that. His leg had been getting gradually worse for weeks, to the point it was ruining his daily life yet again. Amongst the bags under his eyes from the nightmares, the tremors in his hands and his damn leg he wondered if Mary regretted marrying him. This certainly wasn't what she signed up for.

In the dim light of the kitchen John grabbed his phone from where it was charging on the side. He quickly pulled up the notifications; just a spam email and a text from Harry (drunk, again. Gibberish.) With a sign and against his better judgement John clicked on Sherlock's contact, bringing up all recent communication. Or lack thereof.

Sherlock where have you gone? Mary and I are leaving soon!

Are you still here?

We've left for our honeymoon. I'll see you in a few days when we're back.

I know you always have your phone on you. Why are you ignoring me?

Cornwall is quiet, pleasant. You'd hate it. I kind of do.

A case when we're back? Well not we. Just me, and you obviously.

I'm home now. If you need any help on a case, you know my number.

Well I'm not sure if you do actually know my number since you're doing a very good job of ignoring my texts.

I visited Mrs Hudson today. Were you really out or did you somehow deduce I was coming round?

Stop ignoring me, you prat.

John sighed, his fingers tracing over the buttons of his phone. I miss you, he wanted to type. I need you. Sherlock would find that abhorrent, that kind of sentimentalism. He obviously wasn't replying out of his usual childish mentality. He wanted all of John's attention and him going getting married had changed all of that.

Else maybe he just didn't want to go running around with a boring married man, especially now Mary was pregnant and all… in fact it would definitely be a bad idea for him to go chasing after criminals now he was about to be a father. This bothered John much more than he'd ever admit to himself, made it seem as though the baby was some kind of inconvenience. Only, well, Sherlock would think like that about a child.

With a frown John jammed the charger back into his phone, despite it already being on 100%, and threw the goddamn thing back onto the counter with a clatter. Sherlock would text him when he wanted to, he couldn't avoid him forever.

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Body. Cold. Dead for at least 24, no, 48 hours. Male, blonde, late thirties. Boring. Statistically this was the most likely age and gender for a person to be murdered. Was this a murder though or an even duller accidental death or suicide? Clothes damp, dirty. Did it rain in the past 48 hours locally? No. Water came from somewhere else then. Cleaned? Submerged perhaps. Would need to see forensics to check if the body had spent time in a river or other body of water. What about that blow in the back of the head? Was that the cause of death? Most likely.

Sherlock flicked his sharp gaze upwards, searching for a specific head in the group of people who had stopped to watch him work. The only people he recognised were Lestrade and Sally.

"What is it, freak? Missing your "colleague"?" Sally with a little chuckle to herself. Little did she know she was leaving against a wall just as dirty as the body he was examining. Sherlock gave her a scathing smile.

Lestrade frowned at Sally and shook his head, with a grimace she left the room. He turned to Sherlock who was examining the body again, "Do you know anything?"

Unmarried, but in a relationship. Low income, that much was obvious but he liked to splash out on expensive brands. Worked with his hands, in the city. On second inspection the body had definitely spent time in the river, smelt very strongly of river water and no disinfectant from cleaning.

Sherlock let out a short huff of breath, "Nothing of interest." He removed his gloves with a loud smacking noise and threw them onto the filthy ground.

"Well, who was he? Do you know that?" Lestrade pushed, his eyes wide despite the bags underneath.

Hmm, Lestrade was desperate. Obviously his higher up, perhaps the commissioner, had been on him for the recent backlog of unsolved cases. That, combined with the fact he was fighting with his wife again explained why his clothes were three days old and why he gripped his mobile so tightly in his left hand.

Sherlock turned back to the body.

"He's young, somewhere between 35 and 40. A low-rung, manual worker who aspires to be in management one day but doesn't have the intellect. He has a girlfriend, but they don't live together. He also has an iphone, one of the extortionately large recent models which he usually keeps in his back pocket. The pocket is stretched for the size, but the phone is not there. Likely taken by the murderer." Sherlock spoke quickly and with purpose, gesturing vaguely to the parts of the body which had brought him to these conclusions.

"Murderer?" Lestrade sounded tired. Obviously wanted a quick and easy answer.

"Yes, the tightness of these jeans coupled with the size of the phone means it would be unlikely that the phone came out in the water. A man this early on in a relationship, with a phone of this expense would be unlikely to leave it at home or anywhere else."

"So he's been in the river then?" The detective walked over to the window, where the Thames was visible amongst the urban scenery.

"Obviously," Sherlock said shortly. He was staring at the head of the victim which was face down on the floorboards. "I cannot quite deduce whether or not his death came from the blow to the back of the head or drowning."

Lestrade let out a burst of ill-timed laughter. The other police officers gave him a strange look as Sherlock scowled. He was incredulous; "You don't know? I'm sorry, the great Sherlock Holmes doesn't know something for once?"

For a moment Sherlock stayed quiet, standing slowly from his crouched position by the body. His face was unreadable, as usual, "Why do you think I've been avoiding your calls, Lestrade? I don't have a medical degree; I can't deduce correctly unless I know the correct medical facts."

"Anderson-"

"Anderson is an idiot. I can't work with him; no matter how much his opinion of me has changed, mine has not" Sherlock interrupted, taking out his phone and typing furiously into it.

Lestrade chose his words carefully, a smile pulling at his lips for the opportunity, "Looks like you need a doctor."

Carefully not showing the other man his face Sherlock swept from the room, the other officers parting quickly to allow him to pass. He pretended he didn't hear Lestrade's sarcastic call of goodbye, then, as he stepped out onto the street. The rubbish and grime ridden streets outside of the squatters' nest not assaulting his senses as much as it had the first time around. He had written out another text to John, as he had done so many times already.

Case. Aylesbury estate. Could be dangerous. –SH

He hesitated for a second, tracing the send button with a delicate finger. He noticed the time, 4am, would he be awake? Perhaps this was too late to text him, most ordinary, married men would asleep at this time of night. Was this inappropriate?

He typed again.

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John was just about to set about pulling his bad leg up the stairs back to bed, when the chiming of his phone stopped him. He begged himself not to turn around, promised himself it would just be Harry again. But he couldn't help himself. John gave in and limped into the kitchen, grabbing the phone again with a shaking hand.

It flashed with the contact he'd not heard from in nearly two months.

Without taking a second to think he unlocked the phone, typing in the password with suddenly nimble fingers.

Case. Aylesbury estate. Could be dangerous. I need you. –SH

John's mouth went entirely dry. The start of the text was exactly what he was anticipating, short, to the point, using a formula Sherlock already knew would draw him out. But that ending. I need you. What was that supposed to mean? Sherlock Holmes needed no one, that much was already proven obvious.

He checked the time and instantly was furious. It was 4am! Who did he think he was, texting him at four o'clock in the morning? He was married, he had a job. Why would he be awake, waiting to receive his text? Sure, this was a man who called him across London to send a text and sure, he was awake waiting to receive this one. But that was beside the point. Could he be a little more considerate? Two months of nothing, and now this?

Before he even knew what he was doing, John was back in the bedroom, grabbing jeans and a jumper from the back of a chair. He did this quickly and with disregard to his surroundings, so when Mary spoke it made him almost jump out of his skin.

"What are you doing?" Mary was sat up in bed again, an incredulous look on her face. She clicked on the bedside lamp and blinked, "Why are you getting dressed?"

John barely looked at her as he struggled with his jeans. Post-marital weight, Sherlock would say.

"A text," He grunted, forcing the button, "A case. Got to go."

Something like jealousy flashed in Mary's eyes. She slumped against the headboard and smiled, "Sherlock finally texted you, then."

"Yeah," John unlocked the bottom drawer of a cabinet in the far corner of the room, withdrawing his gun and locking it again. He still didn't look at his wife, subconsciously avoiding showing her how the light had come back into his eyes at the prospect of case. As an afterthought before he left the room, John smoothed a drop of product through his bedhead.

Mary watched him with her eyes half closed, not making any moves to get up or stop him. She spoke; "When are you coming home?"

John paused at the door, "I don't know."

With a frown Mary said, "Why do I feel like I'm losing you to Sherlock?"

Her husband had nothing to say to that. So he just left, grabbing a coat off of the hook on his way out. What he wanted to say was, he was my best friend first. You can't lose me to someone who already had me in the first place. But he didn't, that sounded much too pathetic. Almost as pathetic as him hailing a cab at 4 o'clock in the morning for a man who hasn't even bothered to answer his texts for two months.

In fact, he was of a mind to turn the cab around the entire drive to the other side of London, why should he come running just because Sherlock had asked? He hadn't even replied to Sherlock's text, giving himself an out in case he decided to not go. Which he shouldn't be, really. He should be the grown up husband, and expectant father, Mary deserved him to be present, not running around London at the tip of a hat.

It was just going to be this one time, John promised himself, as he threw twenty pounds at the driver and hauled himself out onto the litter covered road. This area was truly disgusting, the buildings were all derelict and falling apart, the entire estate a ghost town. He just needed one last taste of adventure, he reminded himself, as he pushed the police tape out of his way and almost skipped up the stairs.

At the top of the stairs was Donovan, tidying away some files into her bag as a couple pc's placed fresh caution tape over the crime scene. She looked up and a sly grin came over her face, "Come for Sherlock, have you?"

"Yeah, where is he?" John asked hurriedly, ignoring the warning signs blaring in the back of his mind.

Sally's smile widened, as though she was the cat that got the cream. "He's gone, again. Run off somewhere."

"But he, he…" John began to argue, but suddenly stopped, a look of resignation across his face. He let out a great sigh, "Of course." He walked quickly down the stairs and out of the house, an embarrassed flush coming over his neck and cheeks. How could he have been so stupid?

Sally followed closely in his footsteps, she called out, "You remember I told you."

"I know, I know. He doesn't have friends," John parroted, his expression glum as he attempted to hail another cab on the deserted road.

"You're really better off staying away from him," Sally repeated again, an unusual note of sincerity in her tone.

John turned around, actually taking notice of Sally Donovan for the first time in the time they'd known each other. She seemed lonely, the woman who'd help her colleague cheat on his wife and still be the last one left at the crime scene. Lestrade was gone, Anderson was gone. John was sure a detective sergeant wouldn't need to be tidying up the paperwork when there were plenty of PC's on hand to help.

"Did he reject you?" John asked simply.

Sally scoffed loudly, looking incredulous, "No."

So much for John's deducing skills, he thought he'd improved. Still, he pushed on, "Why do you hate him so much?"

There was a moment of silence. Sally sighed, "This is what he does. He breezes in when everyone's struggling, shows off his ridiculous skills, embarrasses us all and leaves with all the glory. You should hear Lestrade go on about him, whatever I do it's never good enough next to the Great Sherlock Holmes." She seemed to struggle with herself for a moment, "And yet, we'd be lost without him."

John nodded, seemingly satisfied with her answer for some reason.

"Where are you going now? Baker Street?" Donovan asked knowingly, she smiled slightly, "Come on, I'll give you a lift."

The ride in the police car was unbearably awkward. The strange moment John and Sally had shared on the street was long over, and they went back to having little to nothing to say to one another. There was also the fact that John was absolutely seething, he'd given in and come running across London for Sherlock and he'd not even bothered to wait for him to get there. Why had he even texted him? Why did he bother at all?

For something to do John flicked through the case file, stopping for a moment on the photo of the victim before skim reading the rest. Wasn't quite Sherlock territory but interesting enough, a 6 at best.

John clenched his fists as the black door of 221 Baker Street came into view on the road ahead and Sally pulled up the car. With a nod of the head and thanks John exited, marching right up to the door and unlocking it without even a knock. He walked straight past Mrs Hudson, who exclaimed upon seeing him, and climbed the flight of stairs with ease. The door to 221b was closed and yet he pushed it open with a slam as it hit the opposite wall.

"You unbearable cock." John growled.

Sherlock was lying full out on the leather sofa, his eyes closed and hands steeped against his lips. His jacket was strewn over the desk but other than that he was still fully dressed, his expensive leather shoes tracking mud onto the arm of the sofa.

The flat was a mess; the dirt on the sofa was barely the half of it. Books, newspapers, files covered every surface; toppling onto the floor which was filthy with dust and rubbish. Unwashed dishes sat in corners and the odd packet of cigarettes topped off the various piles, giving a pretty picture of what Sherlock's life had been like for the past two months.

John almost felt vindicated. At least Sherlock had been living worse than he had.

"Hello John," Sherlock greeted in a low rumbling voice. He still hadn't opened his eyes.

This infuriated John more; no apology? Of course not. This was Sherlock Holmes he was talking to. John looked around for his armchair to throw himself down onto but realised it wasn't there. Somehow he'd missed noticing that amongst the dirt and rubbish.

"Where's my chair?" John barked, clenching and unclenching his fists in his fury.

Sherlock smiled, "Well you didn't need it anymore. I don't know, I think Mrs Hudson may have taken it."

John made an angry noise. He sat down heavily on Sherlock's armchair but the leather was hard, unforgiving. He struggled to get comfortable for a moment before deciding to focus on why he'd come.

"What happened with the case?" He asked harshly.

"I haven't figured it out yet, I'm thinking."

"Why did you text me?"

"I needed you to determine the cause of death."

"Why did you leave?"

"You didn't reply."

"Why now?"

Sherlock didn't reply.

John practically vibrated with anger, "For god's sake Sherlock!" This finally shook Sherlock's eyes open, he stared with an intensity that almost put John off of his ranting, "Why do you do this? You left my wedding early, you ignore my texts, you avoid me whenever I come visit and now suddenly, out of the blue, you text me saying you need me! For, for god's sake…"

Quick as a flash Sherlock was sitting bolt upright, his usual petulant look on his face. "Well John, since you've got it all figured out, why don't you deduce why I texted you tonight?"

John tried to stare back into Sherlock's eyes but his intensity was like looking into the sun, so John stood, pacing around the room like Sherlock on a bad day.

"Well, you've not been out much-"

"Good, why?"

"Because there are takeaway cartons on the floor and dirty washing in the corner. You never go out to pick up takeaways and you get your laundry dry cleaned, which requires leaving the flat. What you're wearing now is clean, but it's your least favourite shirt and that suit is old – it doesn't fit you properly."

John looked up to Sherlock's face again, he nodded, almost looking impressed.

"You've been keeping Mrs Hudson out of here, that's for sure. She would never let the flat get this filthy and she would buy you groceries," John stalked over to the fridge and opened it, instantly being assaulted by the smell of rotting food, "Yes and she would have cleaned that lot out a long time ago."

"Good, John. But you've not answered my question, why did I text you tonight?" Sherlock repeated, a dangerous note in his voice.

"Well you haven't been going to cases, that much is obvious from the gunshots in that wall and the lack of new case files amongst this rubbish. Plus, Mrs Hudson told me you hadn't been out much the last time I was here."

"But why did I text you tonight?"

"You took a case tonight so something must have been interesting about this one. I flicked through the case file on the way here, nothing extraordinary. Except at a stretch the victim, well," John seemed to struggle with himself for a second, "Well, he could have been mistaken for me under the right circumstances."

There was a moment as the two looked at each other, really looked at each other, for the first time in two months. Sherlock looked as though he was going to say something.

"John! Sherlock!"

Mrs Hudson clattered through the door, looking both overjoyed and irritated that she had been swept aside for this reunion. She had a plate of biscuits and a pot of tea which explained her delay in coming up here.

"Look at you!" She said happily, looking for somewhere to put down the plate. Her voice turned sour, "And look at this place! What have you been doing up here, Sherlock?"

Sherlock shrugged as he sat back down on the sofa, a sullen look settling back over his face. John helped her move the newspapers off of the coffee table and put down the tea.

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson," John said pointedly, shooting a look at his former flatmate.

Mrs Hudson smiled and spoke in a hushed tone, "You know he's locked me out of here, wouldn't let me clean or anything!"

"That I can believe," John said with a chuckle, forgetting his anger for a moment as he strangely felt normal for the first time in years.

"Sherlock, you better eat some of these biscuits," Mrs Hudson scolded, turning to John again, "Don't let these dirty plates fool you, he's barely eaten a thing in weeks."

Sherlock mumbled something that sounded a lot like "unimportant" and turned over on the sofa, staring at the wall.

She sighed, "Well, I'll leave you two be, it seemed like you were in the middle of something important."

With that the older woman bustled out of the room, with one last sorry glance at the state of the flat. Sherlock didn't turn back around, so John stared at the back of his head as he enjoyed his tea and two digestive biscuits. When he finished, however, he spoke.

"Well?" John asked forcefully, "Were you going to say something?"

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. The slowly, purposefully, he rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. "I didn't think the victim was you. There's not way you would be stupid enough to get yourself murdered. However, the description did sound like you, I imagine Lestrade played on that to get me to go. It was the first case I'd done without you since we met and I'd gotten so used to your medical knowledge I'd deleted most of mine. Plus, Anderson was on Forensics and I can't work with him."

"Obvious," John mocked. And despite himself, he began to laugh. And Sherlock did the same. Everything still wasn't quite right, but it was getting there.

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Please let me know what you thought of this, I hope you liked reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.