Author's note: Time for another story about a minor character – I started to think about henry, and this idea came to me, so I wrote it.

Hints at Louise/Henry, because somewhere deep inside me, there's a hopeless romantic who wants to have fun now and then.

I don't own anything, please review.

Henry Knight hadn't doubted his sanity for one moment, ever since Sherlock Holmes and John Watson proved that he had been drugged.

He had spent the day on the moor, enjoying the early days of spring, and had only returned after sunset; now that everything had been cleared up, the moor was no longer a place he was scared of, instead, it was a place to cherish the memories he had of his father –

And of Sherlock Holmes, now that he was gone. The consulting detective had been, for lack of a better word, strange – how could he forget Sherlock thanking him for the case while he was having all but a nervous breakdown right next to him? – but Henry had grown fond of him. And he had saved his sanity, as well as his life.

He still couldn't understand how anyone could believe that Sherlock had been a fraud – no one who had seen him, or even read his homepage or John's blog (Henry had stayed an avid reader, of course he had) could be of that opinion. Maybe it had been what people wanted to believe, Louise had said.

He smiled a little at the thought of his former therapist, now a close personal friend, who was now on a conference but had promised to visit him for a few days right afterwards. Of course, it didn't mean anything; after all, Louise would never – she had been his therapist, after all, and was still the one he went to when he needed advice. Like when he'd heard about Sherlock's death. He'd just wanted to watch the news. By the time he'd processed the headline of the day, that Sherlock was no more, that he'd committed suicide (and he still thought it was a weird way for him to go – being shot, sure, but taking his own life? He would never have thought Sherlock would do something like that), the news programme had been over and he hadn't heard a word of anything else that was going on in the world, but he didn't care. He'd called Louise immediately.

She'd been shocked too, but told him that it was important to grieve, whether he had been a close friend of Sherlock's or not. That it was important to allow himself to grieve. So he had.

He'd driven to London, for the funeral, Louise accompanying him because she'd decided she had "a lot to thank Sherlock Holmes for, too", and he'd ignored the implications of this, because there was no way she'd even consider going out with someone who'd once been her patient.

John had looked awful, and in fact, he still looked awful, if nothing had changed in the last three weeks, which Henry doubted. He travelled to London once a month to check on the doctor, not because he felt he owed him, but simply because he wanted to. And because he'd grown rather fond of John during their adventure too.

And –

And maybe also because he had the feeling that Sherlock would have appreciated someone checking up on John. He had told the consulting detective that mates were mates, and he firmly believed that Sherlock had cared for his flatmate. He'd told John as much, three weeks ago, when they and DI Lestrade, or "Greg" as he was supposed to call him now had gone for a pint. At least that had got a smile out of him, even though Henry (as was Louise) was sure that all that could help was time.

Although it had already been two years –

But, then again, he and Louise were just friends (and that was all they would ever be, he reminded himself), and even the thought of losing her was unbearable. So he knew there was nothing he could do to make John feel better.

Still, he would visit the doctor every month, he would write him e-mails. Because he and Sherlock Holmes were the reason he hadn't doubted his sanity for over two years now.

However, seeing a man he'd thought dead for the last two years lying injured on his doorstep was enough to make him worry again.

He had just decided that he should probably go to bed, after all, it was almost two am, when someone rang the bell.

Taking out his gun (after all, he lived alone, and it was in the middle of the night, and someone had once tried to kill him) he slowly went to the door and looked through the peephole.

Nobody was there.

He could have just gone to bed, but the probability of someone playing a prank on him, at this time of night, was extremely low. He would check, just to make sure. He opened the door.

He didn't know what he'd been expecting, but it certainly hadn't been finding Sherlock Holmes lying unconscious on his doorstep certainly.

He stared for a moment, but then, before he'd really processed what he was doing, he was dragging Sherlock into the house. The consulting detective was definitely real, at least, and not a delusion; his dead weight was enough to prove that. He laid him down on the sofa and took his pulse, trying to figure out what was wrong –

It was then that he realized that the consulting detective was bleeding. There was a deep gash on his forehead – he probably needed stitches. He was too thin too, thinner than when he'd come down to solve the mystery of the H.O.U.N.D., and Henry hadn't thought that possible.

He should have called an ambulance. Definitely. He didn't, though.

Because a man who pretended to be dead – even to his closest friends, he was sure of it, their grief at the funeral and their meetings had been genuine – had to have a good reason for it.

At least he hoped so. He didn't want them to have suffered for nothing.

In the next moment, he dismissed the thought – Sherlock, the Sherlock who had run to prevent him from committing suicide, the Sherlock who had tried to calm him down when the hound had appeared, wouldn't do that to his friends.

And, judging from his pale complexion, torn clothes and the wound on his forehead, the consulting detective had suffered too.

So he didn't call an ambulance or the police and instead went to the bathroom to get some antiseptic and bandages.

When he came back, Sherlock was stirring, apparently frantically trying to make sense of his surroundings, and instinctively, Henry attempted to call him down.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, it's me". The consulting detective relaxed when he realized whose voice it was, and, although he probably shouldn't be talking, answered, "Hello, Henry".

Henry wanted to start asking Sherlock questions – but what he needed right now was someone to clean his wound as well as food and rest, so he said nothing. Instead, he cleaned the wound, while the man he'd never really seen sit still – even when he'd sat down in his kitchen to drink coffee, so long ago, he'd constantly been moving, turning around looking at him, at John – was lying without moving a muscle, eyes closed, on his sofa. After Henry had put on a bandage, as best as he could, he checked his temperature, only to hear a mumbled, "I can assure you that this is my only wound right now, and that it's not infected".

Sherlock opened his eyes, and Henry noticed how empty they looked. He swallowed.

Because he didn't know what else to say, he finally asked, "Sherlock, what happened? I thought you were –"

Sherlock waved a hand. "I know. You should. As well as everyone else." His voice sounded hollow when he pronounced "everyone else", and Henry knew who he was thinking of.

"Not even – " and a Sherlock two years ago would probably have needed him to finish the sentence, because he hadn't been good with emotions, even Henry had realized that, but now the consulting detective knew immediately to who he was alluding.

"No".

Henry nodded. They were silent for a moment, then he asked, "Do you want something to eat?"

Sherlock actually shot him a thankful glance, and that made him more concerned than the fact that a dead man had just appeared on his doorstep.

"Yes, please".

He quickly warmed up some leftovers, not because he didn't want to cook, but because Sherlock looked as if he hadn't eaten in several days, and judging by the way the consulting detective shoved the food into his mouth, he decided he'd been right.

Once Sherlock had eaten, he brought him a coffee (black, two sugars) and sat down next to him on the sofa.

"I assume you have questions" Sherlock drawled, and Henry smiled a little, because that sounded more like the man who'd cleared his father's name.

"Yes, I do" he replied. He decided that "Why aren't you dead?" didn't sound right, so he settled on "Why are you here?"

Sherlock sighed, as if it was obvious, and it probably was, to him at least.

"One of Moran's men attacked me tonight – he only managed to graze my forehead, but I was rather weak – I needed a safe place to spend the night".

Henry was silent, not because he was shocked – it was obvious that Sherlock was in some kind of trouble – but because he felt strangely proud when he heard Sherlock refer to his house as a "safe place".

But he still wanted more information.

"So, this Moran – "

"Moriarty's bosom friend. And the less you know about him, the better". Moriarty, the man Henry had read about, in John's blog and the articles. It didn't explain much, but if Sherlock was chasing his men – or if they were chasing him – it certainly gave the consulting detective a good reason to fake his death.

Suddenly, Sherlock grimaced, and for a moment, Henry thought he might be in pain, but then the consulting detective started talking again. "I should probably point out that Moriarty was real – "

"Of course he was" Henry replied, confused – did he really think he'd entertained the possibility that Kitty Riley's story was true even for a moment? – and Sherlock scrutinized his face, apparently finding no scepticism, and looked on the floor, biting his lip, before nodding.

Realizing that Sherlock didn't want to talk, and that he needed his rest – looking at his watch, he realized that it was almost four am – Henry stood up and beckoned Sherlock to do the same. "Come on, I'll show you the guest bedroom".

Sherlock followed him, swaying slightly from side to side, most likely from the lack of sleep. He still raised an eyebrow when he saw the guest bed made, however.

"Waiting for someone?"

Henry cleared his throat. "Lou – Dr. Mortimer is going to come down in a few days. For a week or so".

Sherlock smirked, but said nothing – another sign of how exhausted he must be – and said, "Don't worry, I'll be gone in the morning. There's an alarm clock on the bedside table – I'll make sure to be up before sunrise. It's safer to be on the move when it's dark".

Henry nodded, wished him a good night and left.

He did sneak back into the room, however, half an hour later, and made sure the alarm clock wouldn't wake Sherlock. The consulting detective needed sleep, and if he had to spend another day here, so be it.

Sherlock blamed himself when he came into the kitchen at one pm the next day, mumbling something about "Too tired to make sure an alarm rings" and Henry simply gave him coffee and made sure that he ate lunch as well as dinner.

Sherlock asked in the evening, "Don't you want an explanation?" but Henry shook his head. "I trust you, Sherlock".

And he did. He would have liked an explanation, it was true, but Sherlock's haunted eyes told him that this was a story for another day. When everything, whatever "everything" entailed, was over.

Sherlock left at ten pm, despite his best efforts to make him stay until sunrise. "It's safer for you if I don't stay too long", and Henry was touched that the consulting detective seemed to care for his safety.

"And, please, don't tell anyone I'm alive. I didn't tell them to keep them safe. No one is to know – not even Doctor Mortimer – not even if you should grow closer, which seems likely, based on the fact that you keep the spare bed ready for her days before she comes down".

"I won't" Henry promised (maybe blushing a little, though he'd never admit it to himself), because there was nothing else he could do.

Before Sherlock opened the door, he turned around.

"Thank you, Henry, for – everything. The food, the bed. John".

Of course Sherlock would know that he'd been in touch with John. Henry smiled.

"My pleasure".

Sherlock nodded, then he was gone.

Henry stayed up the whole night, wondering where Sherlock was going, and hoping that he'd soon finish whatever he was doing so he could return to his friends.

Because, despite the fact that he didn't know Sherlock that well, and that he'd seen him wounded, vulnerable and miserable, Henry had no doubt that he would return one day.

Because a dead man who managed to turn up on a doorstep in Dartmoor was capable of everything.

Author's note: Because I realized that Henry didn't seem to have any close neighbours, so it made sense for Sherlock to go there –

Time to be honest. I just like Henry. And, while he's appeared in two of my other stories ("Pieces and Phone Calls" and "The Price of a Career", shameless self-advertising over), I wanted to make him the main character of one – well, him and Sherlock. Can't forget Sherlock.

And my regular readers will know that I am obsessed with minor characters.

I hope you liked it, please review.