Every day grew longer away from Baker Street. Nights became unfathomable. Sherlock could barely stand it. It'd been three years. Surely it was about time he got back to John.
It was torture to see John during the first year and a half, he had to get away from it all. Sherlock called in a favor from Molly Hooper, the only person left who knew he was alive and believed in him still. He got out of the country, as far as he could manage. For a few months it was nice to see the world, but every night his mind went right back to 221B.
It's a wonder he ever slept.
Now was the time, he decided, time to return. But what if John isn't there anymore? What if he'll return and his flat will have new tenants? These thoughts would taunt the most brilliant mind in the world until they would drive him to multiple nicotine patches and barely controlled usage of various pills.
Today, Sherlock took a breath to steady himself, ran a trembling hand through his unkempt hair, and pushed the door open.
It was all almost the same. Nevertheless, when he got up to his flat he wasn't exactly surprised to find practically everything gone. It still hurt though. All those restless months trying to hide himself, to keep them protected. Sherlock figured all that dust kicked up during Moriarty's stunts would have settled by now. He was right. Of course. It seems a lot has settled since then.
Sherlock Holmes was the only thing that couldn't.