John rolled the shopping cart along the aisle with his now ever-present scowl. Tins and groceries stacked up inside the metal bars. This segment of his day was "helpfully" regulated by his therapist, who recommended that he follow a well-organised schedule. John assumed this was only to ensure that there wouldn't be much of a possibility of a spontaneous desire to harm himself if there was nothing to do. Of course he had downright refused in the beginning, but without the presence of his deceased roommate, boredom overcame him and he complied. Simply, order was something he needed in his life. It's not like he wouldn't have to go grocery shopping anyway.
Sighing to himself, he made his way to the dairy section. John's hands reached for a gallon of milk. Coincidentally, someone else happened to grab it at the same time. He glanced down at the hand gripping the handle; it seemed to be a familiar hand, one of someone he knew a while back. His gaze slinked up from the fingers to greet the owner. Waves of inky ebony adorned the top of this man's head. Blooming chartreuse eyes popped open at the sight of John. A scarf entangled around the man's neck and hung over a thick trenchcoat. It took presumably zero point two seconds for John to register these familiar spectacles and zero point six for an awestruck gasp to form.
"Am I hallucinating or is that you," John breathed, aghast.
Instinct and logic yelled at Sherlock to run. The less John knew, the greater his chance of survival in a world riddled with those who enjoy riddling others with death and destruction - but oh God, how he missed the face of the angel that harbored him and dealt with his antics so long ago. His heart rose up to his throat and spoke the words, "It's me, John." Tears welled up in his eyes for the first time in a long time.
Another moment of shock followed his fraying voice. "Oh my God," cried John as he threw his arms around Sherlock. He buried his head in his chest with water pouring out in muffled sobs. Sherlock stroked his matted mane down and entangled his fingers into his hair. Both were filled with shock, relief, and love. Bystanders cast their glances apon them, much to their indifferece. They were overindulged in the luxury of their long awaited reunion. Their lips, to both of their surprise, found their way to each other and words that waited three melancholy years were communicated through a single passionate kiss.
They grazed each other's mouths three more elated, blissful times until John's sense of romance began to fade into reality. "How could you leave me like that!"
"Moriarty-" Sherlock paused. He mustn't say another word, not another syllable. Snipers could be positioning their lasers at John's head this very second. How could he be so stupid, to endanger his dearest John! "I can't. I can't tell you."
"What the hell, Sherlock! You left me grieved and alone for three years and now you don't even provide an eplanation when you can. I thought you actually gave a damn about me, but you've put me through so much torture that I don't know how I'm supposed to believe that you love me," John choked out in confusion.
"You don't understand, John! I love you, and that's why I can't explain anything right now! I can't risk losing you again," Sherlock desperately tried to get his point across. John stared at him for a period and started to recollect his immense trust for the person that the whole country thought was a conniving fabulist. He nodded his acceptance and intertwined fingers with Sherlock once more.
"Where have you been living?" John interrogated.
"Various homeless shelters," replied Sherlock.
"Are you okay?" John asked.
"Yes, yes, I'm alright," Sherlock assured shortly.
"Do you want to go home with me...?" offered John.
"I- I don't want you to get hurt," Sherlock stammered.
"I'm not afraid. I've never been afraid," John said.
"Then okay. Let's go home, John," Sherlock responded.
"Yes. Let's go home."