A/N: I do not own Sherlock. This is based off a prompt about Sherlock taking one of John's sweaters with him undercover. Part one will be after The Fall and part two will be his return.

XxX

Lazarus succeeded. John believes he is dead. Sherlock has had only a few days to clear the remnants of Moriarty from London and now he has one hour while John is still walking with Mrs. Hudson to get what he needs from the flat and make it to Mycroft's. He was expected to go straight from Molly's but the detour was absolutely necessary. Sherlock finds he wants to take something to remind him of home. Much like a soldier bringing pictures on a deployment he wants something to be sure he doesn't forget what he is going to do this for. London had been quick but who knows how long the actual mission would take. Moriarty's web encompassed most of the globe.

This is why Sherlock is currently sneaking into 221B through a back window in 221A –he can't risk being seen by anyone and having them mention it to John or Mrs. Hudson. The question now is what to bring. What represents 'home' most to him? Sherlock absently picks up his skull, rolling it in his hands thoughtfully.

"Alas, poor Yorick, no." He replaces the bone. It was too iconic; john would immediately notice it being gone. His good coat and scarf were being buried across London, but they didn't feel right. Neither had the skull. Nor the violin. Or any of his scientific instruments. Nothing of his seemed to correctly capture the concept of home. Not even his key to the flat.

Sherlock flops heavily in his chair and his fingers steeple under his chin on reflex. He stares into dead space to analyze the items around him again. Nothing. He comes out of his mind palace and is about to storm out; throwing away his whim of sentimentality when he focuses on the chair just across from his. One of John's horrible jumpers is thrown haphazardly over the back –so unlike the military man, must be the grief Sherlock decides.

Curiously Sherlock stands and picks it up as he had done the skull. Practical: he may need to blend in and he may be in cold places. Part of home: the point of this visit, it would also remind him of John who was also a part of home. And….it feels right. Sherlock pulls the fabric up to his nose and smells it. Tea, soap, disinfectant, cologne –faintly, and musk: John.

This is as close to home as he can get so this is what Sherlock takes, his only item of his own for who knows how long. John, in his pain, didn't even notice it missing. Surprisingly the sweater is well taken care of on this mission. It goes to every safe house on every leg of the journey. John's smell had long since smelled of john but Sherlock can convince himself it does most nights. Every time he gets some sleep –he learned early on to take it when he could- it's close. It is most often bunched up under his head as a pillow or worn as a security item.

It soaks up sweat and blood but also gallons of tears on its journey. Sherlock would never admit to it but he is incredibly lonely now. John had become so deeply ingrained in Sherlock's life that now he barely knows how to function without his blogger. A few months in and he'd taken to talking to the clothing as if it were the man himself on the worst nights.

"One year, ten months, two weeks, five days, thirteen hours and forty two minutes since I saw you last, John. This is finally almost done. I should be able to return home soon. I want nothing more than to see you." Sherlock sighs and pulls the ragged material closer to his chest. He reviews all he knows of the Russian cell he'd be penetrating tomorrow. He recites it aloud to "John" to bounce strategies off him; simulating the responses as best he could in his mind.

It proves to be unhelpful, without his conductor of light present the reality of his talking to a jumper sinks in and only makes him more homesick. His plan was good enough as it was, he decides. So, Sherlock gives up and attempts getting a few hours of sleep. In the wee hours of the morning he is jolted awake, chest constricted tightly in fear. It was to be one of the endless, painful nights then.

He looks around worriedly before finding the jumper on the ground. He quickly snatches it up and pulls it on over his shirt. He needed to feel it's warmth after that vicious dream. You see, Sherlock as long since cared about his own safety. It was John he'd dreamt of. John being tortured by that filth Moriarty. Logically he knows it would be impossible but then, Sherlock was hardly ever logical when it came to John Watson. "John…I miss you," he whispers thickly into the empty air. "When I return I'll never leave you behind again. This is hell."

Not long after this breakdown Sherlock has eliminated his last target. In the process he had been captured. Now, without his connection to home he is lost. His dependence on the item made it impossible to completely escape to his mind palace and block it all out. He's there for what could have been a day or weeks before Mycroft comes for him. For the first time in years that voice was a welcome thing. It was saying he would be going home. Back to England, London, Baker Street. Back home to his John.