John Watson took two more steps in front of his old, shared flat with his best mate. His hands shoved into his pockets, and his cheeks pink from the biting air. He walked up to the familiar door, and exhaled. He hadn't been round in weeks. Not since the stressful fiasco with Magnussen, and Sherlocks short departure. John couldn't forget that day, he remembered everything about it. From the wind, to the number of windows on the personal jet, from the way sherlocks hair slightly blew in the wind. And the face of his 'wife' almost looking content in the fact that sherlock was leaving. When John, In fact had been everything but content, more like heartbroken.

He felt as if everything was for nothing, Sherlock came back to life, only to leave him? There had to be something else, something to make him stay… He needed his flat mate, his best man, his friend. He felt guilty almost, that he was so upset by the fact that sherlock was leaving, more so than he was when his liar of a wife told him she was never in fact pregnant, and just had made it all up to keep his attention.

All the while Sherlock was explaining, saying his goodbyes, John kept praying that a sign would show. 'Give me a sign' he asked, anything, anything at all to give him the strength to say what he really wanted to say to sherlock, something to make him stay.. But it was Sherlock, he wouldn't feel the same, if he felt at all. it wouldn't mean a thing, no sign was shown, and John kept to the basics. His heart clenched when sherlock boarded the jet. Was this really the end? Was this the end to the danger,the heart stopping adrenaline, the cases and the mysteries? To them? Sure, It would be safer with Sherlock gone, And he would have a nice life with Mary. But that is all it would be… nice.

But as the jet took off, it soon turned about and headed back for the landing strip.. Johns heart quickened, and he looked around to Mycroft and Mary, for some explanation.. Was this just another rouse, something to get John to show his emotions? A game? But the look on Sherlocks face as he stepped into the cab proved otherwise.. And the look he gave after stepping out of the car made Johns heart drop. Sherlock staggered out of the cab, his face shockingly pale and his eyes wide and unfocused. He stood against the cab, his pale features giving great contrast to the black car. His knees seemed to weaken, and he slumped ever so slightly against the back end of the car. John gave another look to Mycroft and Mary, Seeing aggravation in Mary's eyes, and the slightest hint of worry in Sherlock's older brothers'.

Later that night Mary made dinner for him, which was very rare. She was trying, too hard, John barely noticed the way she was dressed or the slight hint of perfume drifting about the cozy apartment, a little bit too cozy, or suffocating for John. He sat in his armchair, not as soft as the one in his flat, Sherlock's Flat. He was so deep in thought, that he didn't hear her as she spoke to him handing a cup of tea, "John."
"Hmm?" He halfheartedly sighed, looking up and then snapping out of his thoughts, how scared Sherlock looked after seeing Moriarty's smug face on the tele. He actually looked scared, that was something John had only seen when he was put in life or death situations and Sherlock was hell bent on saving him.. John blinked and took the tea, "er.. Thanks" He felt bad, he knew he hadn't been there. And she was trying so hard to get his attention, but honestly all it did was annoy him. "Where are you right now John? All you talk about is him." She said, and it pricked him, he knew that he thought about Sherlock much more than he ought too, but he didn't realize she did too. How many others new? "I'm.. I just." John started, but she waved her hand. "You're worried about him, you think about him more than you do me, you care more about him and the bloody cases than you did about our.. about our child." She said, her voice raising. He blinked and set down his tea. "Our Child? You mean the child you lied about?The child that you made up? Jesus Mary." He said, standing up, she had clearly pissed him off. He grabbed his coat and slipped on his shoes. She swallowed, "Where are you going?" She asked, though she knew the answer. "Out. For air, I cant breathe in here, your lies are clouding up the air." He said very sarcastically. He slammed the door behind him, causing Mary to jump.

John initially had just planned to go for a walk, he never intended to end up at his old flat, facing the brass knocker, and the simple but meaningful numbers in front of him, 221. He shoved his hands into his pockets and took a deep breath, momentarily turning his back to the door. What exactly was he doing? What was he going to say? Why exactly was he here in the first place? He exhaled and looked at the ground. His cheeks were pink from the cold winter air. He tugged his jacket tighter around him, he pictured Sherlocks collar, how he always popped it up against the wind, the thought of him put a smile on John's tight lips. He held up his hand to knock, but then remembered he still had a key, he always kept it in his pocket, constantly reaching in and turning the key over in his fingers. He pulled out the key, and let himself in to his old home.