Sherlock wasn't there. The eighth day since he'd first shown up, and he wasn't there. John hadn't realized he was expecting Sherlock to be there until he felt a small disappointment when he saw that the detective wasn't standing out of place in his flat. He tried to shake it off -this was what he'd asked for, after all, closing his door in the man's face each time he attempted to speak. But now, in the silence of his own home, he couldn't find the anger and betrayal he'd been feeling. All he could find was a sharp ache where that anger had been. That aching more than anything frustrated him. He missed the stupid git. Only back a week and already John was missing him when he wasn't around.

This wasn't how it was supposed to go, he was supposed to go away and John would rejoice in the return of his life to normal. He was not supposed to miss him once he'd left. Without really thinking about it, John pulled out his phone. He was halfway through writing a text to Sherlock when his pride caught up with him and made him delete it. Instead he shot one off to Greg. Care for a pint? –JW

The reply came a few minutes later. Sure. Same pub as usual?

Yeah. Be there in ten. –JW

He hadn't met up with Greg since the Fall, though they'd chatted briefly at John's wedding. John wasn't sure why he suddenly felt like reconnecting with Greg, well he knew if he thought about it, but he didn't want to know, so he pushed it aside and put his coat back on instead, stepping out briskly and hailing a cab. In ten minutes' time he was outside the old pub, down the street from 221B and Angelo's. He stepped gratefully into the warmth of the pub.

His eyes automatically scan the crowds, checking both for Greg and potential threats. Despite his best efforts, he still saw the battlefield. He didn't see Greg just yet, but assumed he'd be along in a bit. In the mean time, he ordered himself a beer and sat down at the bar.

A moment later a familiar figure slid into the seat next to him. John pointedly refused to look over, and kept his eyes trained on the opposite wall as Sherlock began to speak.

"I nicked Lestrade's phone," Sherlock said, without any of his customary pride over fooling the D.I. John didn't respond. "I assumed you'd text him sooner than you would text me."

"So you lied again." John couldn't resist the jab. He wanted Sherlock to feel just a fraction of what he'd felt the past three years, just enough to know why John couldn't have him in his life. Sherlock winced but continued smoothly.

"I did. I had to talk to you, and my original approach wasn't working," Sherlock said firmly. He seemed changed somehow, different from the Sherlock he'd known before the Fall. Then again, John had changed plenty himself. Sherlock leaned closer and John scooted back a bit, afraid of what the detective might deduce if he got too close.

Sherlock noticed and made a face that looked like he was barely suppressing an eye-roll, but he sat back to give John space. "If you want to leave, I won't blame you, but first let me explain." Then an expectant silence. John realized with a jolt that Sherlock was waiting for permission to explain. Before he could stop himself he nodded. Sherlock exhaled in what on anyone else's face would be called relief and began to speak.

John ordered and drank two more beers in the time it took Sherlock to explain to him everything that had happened. It seemed the detective wasn't content to give a brief overview; he wanted to ensure John knew everything that had happened in the interim years. By the end of it John felt like the scum of the earth, but he wasn't sure about Sherlock. Even knowing the detective had saved his life… he'd put John through hell for three years.

"Why didn't you just tell me?" John finally asked when the story was done, setting his empty beer down on the bar and staring at the bottle instead of looking at Sherlock. The detective sighed again.

"I couldn't risk your life. Better you in pain than you dead. I wasn't even certain I could ever return, there was every chance that I would actually die while attempting to destroy Moriarty's cohorts. I refused to put you through the pain of my death twice over," Sherlock explained, sounding like he'd thought about the answer often. And most likely he had; any question John could come up with Sherlock would have already considered and thought up an answer to. But this much was true; John could see the honesty written across Sherlock's face with broad strokes. For all his ability to hide his emotions, John still always knew when Sherlock was being honest.

His answer did take the wind out of John's sails a bit. It made sense, and John allowed himself for a moment to think what it would have been like, if he'd found out earlier, only to have Sherlock die for real later on. Just the thought of it physically hurt him; his leg twinged and his shoulder ached at the idea.

"Still, Sherlock you can't just show up and expect things to go back to how they were. Things have changed," John insisted. He realized he was unconsciously leaning closer to the detective and jerked back to settle into his chair. Sherlock's eyes flashed sharply at him.

"Things have changed, but we have not," Sherlock iterated. It was John's turn to sigh now, putting his elbows on the bar and placing his face in his hands. "I'm not asking you to come home." Sherlock hesitated before continuing. "But… I would like to resume our friendship."

John raised his head warily. "And how are we supposed to do that?" he asked, "When we both- well, you know." He didn't want to say it yet, not so early on.

Sherlock shrugged, the gesture foreign on someone who was usually in such control of his body. "I'm… not certain. But I believe it's worth an attempt."

John found himself agreeing.