Sherlock Holmes walked steadily down Baker Street. He shoved his hands in his coat pockets and lifted up his collar against the common, brisk London breeze. His dark blue scarf was wrapped neatly around his long, slender neck. Just as usual.

Today, however, was no ordinary day. As Sherlock strode down the street to 221b, he contemplated. He wondered how John would react. Well, not really wondered, for he never really wondered about things. He knew how John would react. That's his specialty; knowing. And when it came to his one and only…companion, Sherlock knew it all. His flat-mate had his own folder inside the computer of Sherlock's mind, never to be deleted.

It had been three years; almost to the day, in fact. Sherlock remembered it like it was yesterday, and he was sure John could too, considering it was the day he lost his best friend and Sherlock lost his life. Well, sort of. For Sherlock, faking his death was fairly simple. Of course he would have preferred not to have had to, but his nemesis pulled the trigger, and Sherlock pulled a lie. Sherlock was expecting John's dismay, but certainly not his own. Standing on the rooftop, his cell phone in hand, he was forced to say the words that stuck in him like a knife. Goodbye John. He experienced something he never did before… Was it anger? Sorrow? Nervousness? Fear? No, it couldn't have been.

Sherlock approached the old, familiar flat. He knew Mrs. Hudson wasn't home. She had gone away for the weekend, which was for the better, for he didn't want to have to deal with her as well. He had enough on his hands with John and his fury that he knew would surface when he returned. John was predictable; just how Sherlock liked it.

He found it odd, and slightly depressing, that John had stayed in their flat even after he had "died." He remembers that day at the cemetery very clearly; hearing John tell Mrs. Hudson that he could not stay at Baker Street. It made his chest ache to think that John was unable to pull himself away. That he was unable to let go. It was all he could do to try to convince John that he was not the man that he thought he was, but it obviously had no effect.

Sherlock hesitated only a moment before stepping towards the door marked 221b. He reached out for the door handle and turned. The door didn't move. He shook the handle, but it was locked. That was odd. John rarely locked the door during the day. He would lock it at night and unlock it when he went out to take his usual morning stroll. So John didn't leave the flat this morning. Odd. Luckily the door was old and Sherlock didn't have much trouble breaking the lock with a strong kick, although it made quite a bit more noise than he would have liked. In any case, he was standing inside just a moment later.

Something was not right. The whole building was completely silent except for his low, steady breathing. John was not the type to stand still and wait to see what a loud, door-breaking noise had come from. No, he was a soldier. He would run down the stairs yelling, "What the hell was that?!" He would not fear whatever could have produced the violent crash. But the silence remained; almost ominous.

Sherlock slowly ascended the stairs to his flat, the stairs creaking seemingly loudly in the quiet, but still nothing stirred in the flat above. John hadn't gone. Sherlock had seen him just the day before out in the city, without John's knowing of course, and had seen him return to Baker Street in the late afternoon.

Sherlock waited on the landing at the top if the stairs for any sign if life. None came. He pushed open the door to his flat with a sickening squeak. The apartment looked as it had three years ago, just with a few alterations. Sherlock's messy books and work were no longer strewn across the room. All his lab equipment had vacated the kitchen, leaving the area quite unpleasantly empty in his opinion. However the smiley face of yellow graffiti paint remained on the wall, along with the bullet holes Sherlock had placed there when he was particularly bored. Sherlock still had not heard a single shuffle from anywhere in the flat. Strange.

John's cane lay against his soft arm chair.

His laptop sat closed on the coffee table.

Sherlock's heart rate increased slightly. He made his way upstairs…to John's bedroom. Certainly John wasn't sleeping, was he? No, it was mid-afternoon. John was an early riser. He always had been. Napping? Doubted.

Sherlock's mind began to race. By now his deductive reasoning would have been kicking in, but somehow other thoughts were overtaking his mind; painful thoughts that Sherlock tried to push away without success. He stood outside the closed door of John's bedroom, not even breathing, straining to hear beyond it. He heard nothing. With only a moment's hesitation he slowly turned the doorknob. He was expecting… well he didn't know what he was expecting. Sherlock wondered.

But whatever Sherlock was expecting it certainly wasn't the scene he saw before him. He inhaled a sharp breath and his knees gave out under him. He awkwardly fell to the floor; into a large pool of blood. In front of his flat-mate, who lay motionless on the floor.

Sherlock trembled. His hands shook violently then rested on his companion. He couldn't think. Why couldn't he think? Fear? Was that what he felt? He felt fear once; after being drugged by toxic fog in the hollow, but he certainly wasn't drugged now. He was never good with emotions, but his chest ached as he stared blankly at his seemingly dead friend with a gun in his hand.
Sherlock's hand, still shaking flew to John's wrist. He waited. After a moment he felt a weak pulse. His heart leapt…. He was still alive. But just barely.

Sherlock reached for his phone in his coat pocket and fumbled with it quite a bit before he successfully dialed and held it up to his ear. A scruff voiced answered moments later.

"Hello?"

"Lestrade…"

Detective Inspector Lestrade answered his phone confused. The voice on the other line was familiar. He knew who it was, of course. Who wouldn't recognize that low baritone voice? But something was off. Very off. It was not steady and fluid as it usually is… or was. He was still quite confused. But the voice wavered and gasped. He spoke into the phone again.

"Sherlock? What the bloody hell? You're alive?"

"Yes, obviously" Sherlock replied.

"What?…how-"

"Stop it! Lestrade…it's John. He's… Please, just please come quickly. And bring an ambulance."

Lestrade hung up the phone still somewhat unsure of what just happened, but clearly he needed to get to Baker Street immediately.

Sherlock hovered over his flat-mate, tears quietly beginning to stream down his face. How could he have let this happen? He left John to protect him; to save him… He…he thought that was best. But now? Sherlock's hands were now soaked with blood from trying to keep the wound in John's side closed. His attempt did little and blood continued to flow. He wondered why John had shot himself in the abdomen in the first place. It would have been far quicker and less painful had he shot himself in the skull. Although maybe John didn't want it to be painless… perhaps he wanted it to be like it was in the war. He was shot and saved; doomed to live his life in loneliness time and time again. Only this time, he didn't want to be saved. Maybe he wanted to escape the loneliness that seemed to follow him. Maybe he wanted this to be his last battle and not to return alone; instead, to die as a soldier who had suffered through so many battles of body and mind. Sherlock's stomach churned. Lestrade and a pair of EMTs burst through the door. Sherlock fell to the side to let them collect John. He remained on the floor, shivering and tears continuing to roll down his cheeks. Lestrade realized now was not the best time to ask the consulting detective all the questions that swarmed around in his head. He walked over to the clearly shocked man on the floor, now staring at the puddle in front of him, and rested a hand on his shoulder.

"I… He…" Sherlock began to speak, but nothing came out. He thought he had predicted how it would go. He thought everything would eventually be alright. He thought he would be home. He thought he knew. But for the first time in his life, Sherlock didn't know.

And he was afraid.

Sherlock rode thoughtlessly to the hospital. He was expecting many startled and confused looks because for many people, he had died three years prior. However, entering the hospital was fairly smooth. Lestrade had probably told everyone before he arrived to save him the trouble. Sherlock liked Lestrade. Or at least tolerated him, and the same was for the latter.

A while passed until Sherlock was able to see John. Fortunately, see him alive. It pained Sherlock to see him so pale, so weak; so lifeless. He waited next to his bedside for hours. Perhaps it would be better for him not to return. Perhaps it would save John additional harm. He wouldn't want to hurt him again. But Sherlock was unable to pull himself away. Based on recent events, John clearly did need him… And something inside him wouldn't let him leave, even if he should.

Sherlock stared at his flat-mate. He stared at his face, his arms, and his chest, which was moving, ever so slightly up and down. Sometimes he would stop breathing himself, just to make sure he was not imagining the slow rhythm. And his heart would skip a beat if it looked like John had skipped a breath. Sherlock reached out and took John's hand in his; holding it tenderly, and making sure to avoid the tubes and IVs that protruded from it. He had only held John's hand once before; cuffed to him, heart racing, on one of the adventures he always loved. This was not the same hand. It was cold. Vapid. Worn by the sad years they spent apart. He found himself unable to contain his tears and they rolled down his face again. How odd. Sherlock whispered. He knew not whether to himself or to the unconscious man in front of him.

"Oh god….please. Just please… John. Stop it. Stop this. I need to know you're safe. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Just please don't leave me. I was so alone. I… I need you. You're the most human, and kind human being I've ever known. You're my friend, John. My home."

Sherlock wept quietly to himself, and John's hand lightly squeezed his.