For the first few months, John Watson felt like someone had scooped out pieces of his limbs and chest and filled them with lead weights- empty, heavy. The pain of losing his best friend- if that was the word for it, was there a word for what they'd been to each other? Flatmates certainly didn't cover it- drove him to his therapist. The hole Sherlock left in his life threatened to tear him apart.

At Sherlock's side, John had been the assistant/friend/blogger to the only consulting detective in the world- sure, they'd made the job up, but nobody could deny he'd been daring and useful, a voice of reason or a steady shot as needed. So much more than an ex-army doctor with a strange thirst for danger.

Now, John was a linchpin that held nothing together, a broken part to a machine that had been smashed apart on a sidewalk. He didn't have to stop anyone from blowing up their flat on a regular basis. Or figure out how to get bloodstains out of coats. It was rather… well. Boring. Having known Sherlock, having chased danger down the streets of London, he couldn't return to the person he'd been. But there was no longer any place for someone like him.

So he rode the bus to and from work every day. He bought groceries- still practically the same amount as before. He patched victims up instead of preventing them. He was never late for his shift. He owed Sarah no more favors for covering for him while he tried to save a certain crazy genius from himself. If John kept this up, he'd be promoted soon. Which just made him want to scream, really, because no, that was not okay. Because Sherlock was dead in some hole in the ground and everyone at work was pleased with John, thought he was doing well. Thought he was doing better.

Not Sarah. She'd walked in on him staring blankly at the wall today after his 6th patient and forced him out to coffee. John attempted his usual polite smile at her as they slid into a booth.

Sarah placed her mug down and frowned at his expression, managing to make it look sympathetic. Not that it put John at ease, really.

"Explain," she said, wrapping her fingers around the mug and fixing him with her gaze. John sighed. Resistance was futile. She was right. He should talk about it.

"Hello," John said, getting up when he heard the door click open, stretching subtly. "I'm Dr. Watson. How can I help you?" He was out of sorts from a long day, but kept it out of his voice.

A good idea, as the boy slipped in the door like he wasn't sure he belonged there, one arm tucked behind his back, the other in a makeshift splint at his side. He was skinny, with a mop of curly black hair. Pale too. In pain, then, from whatever he did to his arm.

"Fell down the stairs," he said, shifting his arm in John's direction.

"Ah, bad luck," he said, examining the proffered limb. "Are you in a lot of pain?"

"Not really," he said. "Not as much as if it were broken, I think. It's just my wrist, from where I tried to catch myself."

"Well, you could still have hairline fractures. You should get it x-rayed. Is it okay if I remove the splint to get a better look?"

The boy glanced off to the side. "Could I just leave it on, and get it x-rayed?"

"Well, you'll have to take it off for the x-rays, but if you'd rather they examine you, that's fine."

"But it must be bad to take it off, right?" he said, pulling his arm back.

"I promise we'll be gentle," John said soothingly. "It's important. If a splint's done incorrectly, the bone can set wrong, and have to be re-broken."

"Re-broken?" the boy said, shifting his weight uneasily.

"A chance. This way's much easier, I promise," John said, lightly holding his gaze.

The boy stared back for a moment, shoulders slumping minutely. "Okay," he said dully, putting his arm on the table.

John considered reassuring him, but it would probably backfire. Instead, he set about removing the splint as gently as possible. It didn't seem to matter- the boy radiated tension. Finally, John undid the last of the cloth bandage holding the splint in place.

John stilled. The wrist did appear to be fractured, based on the swelling and coloration. It was also covered in thin, white scars and inflamed cuts. One of them looked like it had been made only this morning.

"It's a good thing you came in. It does look fractured," he said, keeping his tone light and his eyes fixed on the wrist. The boy swallowed and relaxed, slightly. "Don't move. I'm going to get some disinfectant."

He soaked a cotton ball and ran it gently over some of the scrapes from the fall. Then he moved on to the most recent cut. The boy flinched. John looked up.

"I'm sorry, I never caught your name."

"Adam," he said, largely avoiding his eyes.

"Adam." John smiled at him and moved on to the next cut. Silence fell as he cleaned each one carefully.

"Could I see your other wrist?" he said carefully, when he was done, keeping his voice steady.

Adam hesitated, but brought it from behind his back and placed it, too, on the table, not looking at him anymore. John pushed up his sleeve. It was the same as the other one, except some of the cuts were deeper. Self-harm didn't necessarily imply the victim was suicidal- there were many reasons for it- but it seemed to be the case here. John tried not to think of another wrist, pale and unresponsive on the pavement.

"Has this been going on for a long time?" he said, striving for a professional tone.

Silence. "No," Adam finally said, grudgingly.

"Just this year then?" John prepared another cotton ball and set to work.

"Yes."

"What happened this year?"

A pause. "Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"No."

Another pause. This was the point where he was supposed to impress the dangers of self-harm on the patient and recommend a good therapist. Maybe call the boy's parents. Adam looked like he was going to bolt at any moment. John made sure he was looking at the arm again.

"There's a reason for everything, even if nobody else can see it," he said, softly. "I had a friend. Looked a lot like you." The words felt strange in his mouth. He never talked about it like this, but if it would help… "Last year, he jumped off a building. I'd give anything to know why. Will you tell me why?"

Adam swallowed.

"It would help me. And it might help you."

Adam sucked in a breath.

"It's just- everything," he said in a whisper, shoulders slumping even further. And that was all it took. He didn't stop talking for half an hour, voice trembling. By the end of it, he looked miserable and fragile, surrounded by used tissues, his fractured wrist re-splinted for the moment- but he'd agreed to a therapist along with the x-rays. John sent him out the door with a professional, worried smile, and collapsed into his chair. Sarah found him 30 minutes later.

"Adam?" Sarah mused when he finished. "He's been in before. I'm afraid that last time Bertie dealt with the boy. Tried to 'talk some sense into him.' It's wonderful that you got through to him, John."

Sarah was right. He should be pleased. Adam was proof that he could directly benefit others with his experience. Was he a functional member of society again? Wonderful. Outside the coffee shop window, the world remained vague and colorless.

"It is our job," he said.

"It must have been difficult all the same."

John glanced back and gave her a terse smile.

"Yes. Well, thank you for the tea and company, but Mrs. Hudson will worry if I'm not home soon," he said.

"Of course, don't want to keep her waiting," Sarah said graciously.

Excuses made, façade maintained, John paid for his coffee and headed for the bus stop. When the number 57 came, he sank gratefully into one of the seats near the front- the ones reserved mainly for the infirm, the injured, and the people with crapped-out legs too stubborn to use a cane as often as they should. He tried not to think about the empty flat waiting for him.

The best way to get over the detective's death would have been to move out and move on, like any sensible person would recommend. He'd thought about it, after a few months had passed and he was still putting two mugs out in the kitchen. But John's life was so sensible, so routine with his job and his groceries. Like nothing had ever happened to him.

He'd kept the flat. The memories there were painful, but they were proof his brilliant flatmate had existed, and Mrs. Hudson was just downstairs for tea and reminiscing whenever he needed it. And sometimes, when the reporters closed in, he needed it.

···················

John found more solace when Lestrade called one rainy morning, four months post-Sherlock.

"Hello, John," the Inspector said, his voice rough, familiar. "How are you getting on?"

"Fine, I suppose," John said, bemused, stifling a spark of nostalgia. "And you, Greg?"

"Well, I haven't slept easy, I can tell you that. You see the murders in the papers?"

"Yes," John said slowly. "Nasty business, with the paper cutters?"

"Right," Lestrade said, and hesitated just a bit too long. "Listen…"

"Greg, I'm not him. I'm not Sherlock," John said, gripping the phone tighter. He was tired from another ordinary day spent handing out cold medications, restocking the fridge, and doing nothing in his flat. Well, breathing.

"Yes, but-"

"I know what you're thinking, but I can't do what he did. I don't even know why he brought me along half the time. I was always just as baffled as you whenever he went haring off."

"Right. He was hard to follow. But don't sell yourself short. Half the time it was you tackling the criminals so we could take them in. Besides, you were with him the most…"

And John smiled for a second, because Lestrade cared, and he cared more than he cared about public images if he was trying to call him about a case. Not surprising on reflection, but gratifying.

"I know. It was fun while it lasted, Greg, but I can't help you." He really wanted to. But it was true- he couldn't. That usefulness was done. "I've got to go. Lasagna's going to burn."

It was a terrible lie, so poorly delivered that Sherlock might have been more amused than exasperated by it. He really was off his game today. Lestrade, least idiotic of the policemen, wasn't fooled.

"Okay. Don't be a stranger, yeah? How about I call you for drinks after this mess has blown over?"

"Sure," John said, the silence of the flat ringing loud in his ears. "I'd like that."

They did go out for drinks a few times. Whenever a few too many months had gone by for the Inspector's liking, or when John was feeling particularly trapped.

"S'all my fault, really," the Inspector said, the third time. They were at O'Hanlon's, a rough little pub near the outskirts of town- away from the many landmarks of Sherlock and his cases. If it weren't snowing so hard, they'd be able to catch glimpses of fields. John looked up from contemplating the rings of foam in his stout, noting that Lestrade was certainly on his way to drunk. Not that he could blame him. There was another serial killer loose in London, targeting young girls.

"What do you mean?"

"Sherlock… Jumping. Not being here, to stop us from tripping over our own bloody feet." He gazed darkly down at the counter. "If I hadn't gone along. Handcuffed him, tried to bring him in. If he knew not all of us thought, you know, maybe he wouldn't have-"

"No," John said firmly, putting down his glass. "No, Sherlock's- it wasn't your fault. He knew you didn't believe Moriarty. You warned us you were coming, remember?"

"Yeah. But it didn't help, did it? Still came. Still treated him like some bloody criminal. He still jumped." He scoffed. "Why didn't he bloody run before we got there, if it bothered him that much?"

"I don't think it did, really. He didn't exactly have trouble escaping. I'm the one who made a fool of myself and decked a police chief."

"Right," Lestrade said, casting him an amused glance. "And as thanks for that, Sherlock took you 'hostage.'"

"I can't believe that worked," John said, shaking his head with a fond smile.

"Oh, it was ridiculous all right. Didn't matter. The threat had to be taken seriously." He chuckled. "Though I wasn't particularly worried for your safety after you two'd gotten away."

"Thanks for that," John said.

A group of people traipsed in from outside, cheeks and noses red, cheerfully loud and yelling for some pints. John sighed.

"The point is, Greg- it wasn't your fault. Sherlock knew you believed in him. Not that he cared, much."

"Best argument for his case yet," Lestrade said, tapping on the counter for a refill. "But if he didn't care about stuff like that, why would he have jumped?"

"That's just it," John said, frowning down at the countertop. "We're missing something. Something that would have been obvious to Sherlock. In fact, he'd probably be laughing at us right now if he were here."

"Like what?"

John shrugged, tracing a finger through the condensation on his glass.

"We're asking the wrong questions. We're asking why he committed suicide. We should be wondering why he jumped off the roof St. Bart's, in the middle of a case, after blatantly lying to me."

"Right," Lestrade said, catching the look in his eye and putting his own glass down. "Meaning…"

John exhaled, harshly. "Moriarty. Just got to be, why else bother lying to me? More importantly, Sherlock wouldn't jump off a building during the most challenging case of his life unless he was pushed."

"But you saw him jump-"

"Metaphorically, Greg," John said, shaking his head.

"So, not suicide?" Lestrade said, drumming his fingers on the bar.

"The motive doesn't make sense," John said, carefully.

"People do irrational things when they're depressed."

"Even if Sherlock did care what people thought, why wouldn't he try to clear his name first?"

"Maybe he was depressed before then."

"When Sherlock was sad, he kept us up to all hours playing violin. He didn't jump off of buildings."

Lestrade managed to look both pensive and torn. John slammed his fist down on the counter.

"Why did I leave him. I should've known something was wrong when he didn't react to the idea of Mrs. Hudson being hurt. You remember that burglar we had?"

"The one that 'fell out of a window' several times?"

"Sherlock knew the call was fake, which was why he didn't react. I didn't realize until it was too late."

"Protecting you from Moriarty," Lestrade mused. "If that's the case, it wasn't your fault, either. Nothing you could have done once Sherlock got the idea into his head."

"I'd rather have been there," John said, voice low.

Lestrade managed a lopsided half-smile. "Sherlock wasn't known for being an accommodating sort of fellow."

"No," John said, face shifting into a wry smile. "No, he wasn't."

"Never thought I'd miss him swaggering in with that coat of his and calling us idiots."

You have no idea, he wanted to say.

"Must be something wrong with us."

John was surprised when the bus creaked to a halt near Baker Street. He'd done it again, gotten lost in his head. He hurried off before he missed the stop entirely. The wind was cold, but at least the phantom pain in his leg had dimmed somewhat.

When he reached 221B, he was more than ready to stretch out on the couch for a bit, maybe read before he went to bed. He pushed the door open absentmindedly, heading straight for the kitchen, where he put the kettle on. He glanced into the living room.

Someone was standing at the window, back to him.

Adrenaline flooded his system, familiar instincts reawakening as his gaze sharpened, taking in every detail of the dark, lumpy outline. Grabbing a knife off the counter, John drifted closer. He paused when he was in striking distance.

"Who are you, and what are you doing here?"

If it was some sneaky reporter, God help him, he would indeed stab the man. But it could be one of Mycroft's. Or a criminal mastermind…

The man's shoulders rose, like he was taking a deep breath. Then he turned.

John's knife clattered to the floor, shock overriding even a soldier's instincts. The usual sharp coat was replaced with something bulky and ill-fitted, but there was no mistaking those piercing gray-blue eyes, those aristocratic features.

Sherlock Holmes was standing in his living room.

"Hello, John," he said, idly, hands in his pockets.

"You're dead," John said. Breathe.

Sherlock's gaze sharpened and swept over him, likely deducing everything from what he'd eaten for breakfast to the number of nights John had lain awake last year. He held out a conciliatory hand.

"Actually, no. Reports of my death were greatly exaggerated." A corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked up, but his eyes remained locked on John, assessing. "By me, in fact. It was necessary-"

"No, I saw you fall," John said, hysteria creeping into his voice. He'd finally gone round the twist. Sherlock could not be standing in his living room. Or was he dreaming?

"You can't always believe what you see, John. You've never-"

"No, no you listen to me, Sherlock, you were dead," John said in a rush. "Dead. On the concrete, in front of me, no pulse, stone-dead." His shoulders shuddered, then stiffened as he took deep, useless breaths, utterly unable to deal with the maelstrom of emotions crashing through him.

Sherlock regarded him with a touch of dismay, clasping his hands behind his back. "Clearly, I'm not. You only thought I was. That was the plan," he said, matter-of-fact.

The plan?

"Now, you must understand-"

John punched him. Hard. In the face. Sherlock's head snapped around, and he staggered back into the couch, a hand clapped to his cheek, eyes wide. John glared.

"The plan, Sherlock?" he said, and laughed, a horrible, choked sound. "It's been over a year. A YEAR! I thought-" his eyes narrowed, and he stepped forward. "The plan," he said again, voice cracking, shoulders drooping.

"John," Sherlock said, stiffly, voice as close to penitent as Sherlock Holmes could ever get- which was not bloody enough for a man who'd committed suicide in front of him- "I did it for you."

John almost hit him again.

"What, Sherlock, what," he gritted out, when the urge to throttle him had passed. "Was so bloody important?"

A sudden intake of breath as Sherlock's eyes fixed off into the distance, hands clasped once more behind his back, and all of a sudden John knew what was coming. Like it was yesterday. The thought was actively painful.

"Moriarty wasn't as good of an actor as his CV made him out to be. His plan was obvious as soon as we ran into him in Kitty Riley's flat. Having discredited my present actions with his Gretel and my past actions with his little exposé, all he had left to do was destroy my future."

Sherlock began to pace, and freed a hand to gesture.

"Now, what was the best and easiest way to ensure the slander stuck, confirming all the other stories as truth and ending the game in one winning stroke? A suicide. Obvious. Murdering me would have unraveled his plot. But a man jumps off a building, and everybody assumes the rumors are true, that he had a reason to do so."

Sherlock stopped, spun to face John.

"I did. Moriarty had three snipers. If I hadn't jumped, they'd have shot you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. But having guessed his endgame, I was prepared." He began to pace again. "I chose the time and place of our meeting, during which Moriarty killed himself rather than face me interrogating him."

Sherlock grimaced.

"Unfortunately, that rather forced my hand. His orders were not contingent on his death. I was forced to jump, to take the risk and carry on the charade until the snipers and his second-in-commands were also finished. Of course, I never did hit the pavement. That was an illusion of timing and sight. A magic trick, one which everyone believed so easily."

Sherlock slid his gaze back to John's, like he had at the end of many other explanations, almost as though looking for exclamations of approval.

"Brilliant," John finally said, once the silence had grown painful. "And you couldn't have told me this a year ago? Or, I don't know, before you jumped!"

"Don't be an idiot, had they suspected for one moment that I was alive you would have been summarily shot and it would have all been for nothing. I couldn't take the risk."

You still could have told me you wanker! "Oh? And why not?" John said, dangerously.

"Could you have faked the grief, had you known? Would you have risked your life on it? Would you have risked Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson's?" Sherlock asked.

John stared. This was the reason for all the suffering of the last year? Sherlock being overcautious? He laughed. It'd never occurred to him, because the idea was so absurd. No-this was Sherlock not understanding why the risk would have been worth it. A familiar headache stirred and he looked away from Sherlock for the first time since he'd seen him standing in their flat.

"And then you just walk in here- and what?" he said quietly, hands tensing into fists again at his side. "You expect me to welcome you back with open arms? Like nothing's happened?"

A terrible silence fell.

"I just thought you should know," Sherlock said, just as softly, apparently examining the wall he'd once filled with bullets, which John had plastered over. He abruptly locked gazes with John once more. "But yes," he said stiffly. "I assumed you would be at least somewhat happy to see me again, once everything was sufficiently explained."

He swept his gaze over John- posture still unyielding, fists still loosely clenched. For one terrible moment, a look of agony crossed his face.

"So," he said, and blinked, face going perfectly smooth. "Now you know." He drew his coat tightly about him and swept towards the door.

John's brain derailed.

"Wait!" he breathed, grabbing at Sherlock's wrist and catching it as he passed. Sherlock stilled in the doorway, shoulders rigid. When it became obvious he wasn't just going to sweep out in a huff, John took the opportunity to relax his grip and slip his fingers around so they rested on Sherlock's radial artery. He waited- one, two seconds-

His eyes closed in relief. A pulse beat, strong and fast beneath his fingertips. He started to count, smiling faintly as the nightmares, the memories of a dead, unresponsive hand in his grip began to burn away like fog in the morning sun. And everything started to make sense again.

When he opened his eyes, Sherlock was staring down at him like he thought he'd gone mad.

"So now I know," John agreed. He wasn't dreaming after all. No dream of his would be so kind as to give Sherlock a pulse. He looked, really looked at the man in front of him. Skinnier than before, yes, annoyingly stupid for the last year, yes, but alive. Alive, after all this time. How wonderful.

"Yes, sound analysis, doctor. I am indeed, living," Sherlock said, his voice frosty but his eyes assessing. He moved to pull away.

"Just give me a minute here," John said, quietly, keeping his fingers on Sherlock's pulse. Just give me a minute, Sherlock, to revise my entire worldview. After a few more seconds he felt the aborted movement as Sherlock went to shift his weight uneasily. John released him, and Sherlock slipped his hand back into his pocket. He gazed pensively at John.

"I don't mean to impose-" he started, warily, and John was supposed to be mad, was still mad somewhere, but he couldn't stand the look of unease, the restraint that rested so oddly on Sherlock's sharp features.

John stepped forward and clasped him in a hug. Sherlock froze. Understandable. But if there was ever a time for hugs, it was now.

"Actually, this is still your flat," he said, muffled, into Sherlock's coat. "Unless you're imposing on yourself?"

"Is it?" Sherlock said, like he was inquiring what the weather was.

"Yes, you idiot," John laughed, releasing him."Now, you're not going anywhere until I fix you a cup of tea and biscuits at least, so stop standing there like a twit, and come inside."

At first, Sherlock just blinked. But as John watched, one of few genuine smiles broke across his face. "John," he said.

"Stubborn git," John murmured.

They headed for the kitchen.

"Your face will certainly bruise," John said, sounding a bit too cheerful about that, probably, not that anyone would blame him. "But I'd like to make sure it's nothing worse than that."

"Right," Sherlock said, smiling faintly. John pulled out two mugs and put the kettle on.

"Also, you're not to go out of my sight for the next week, at least," he informed him.

"Quite. And if I refuse this illogical, possibly impossible, request?"

"Well, then. Your cheeks will match. Could look interesting."

Sherlock huffed. "Fine, I will endeavor to remain within eyesight for the time being. Though if you think I am accompanying you out to the surgery, you are even more of an idiot than I thought you were. Now, where have you put my things, you have kept them, right?"

"Just came back from the dead and thinking of moving in already?"

"Well, you did say it was still our flat."

John smiled brilliantly.

"I did, didn't I. Of course, the lease might disagree, but legalities never stopped you."

"And the obvious never stopped you from stating it. Now, where are my things?"

"Tea first," John said, and Sherlock sighed and flopped on the sofa.

When John came out with a platter of biscuits and the mugs, Sherlock was sprawled all over like he'd never left.

"Eat," John commanded, after Sherlock only took a sip or two of tea, and possibly those just to placate him.

Sherlock pulled a face, wrinkling up his nose.

"You're not on a case right now, so eat."

With exaggerated, tragic-looking movements, Sherlock took a biscuit from the plate and popped it into his mouth. He chewed even more ostentatiously, rolling his eyes, then took a sip of tea and swallowed.

"You haven't changed a bit," John observed. He leaned forward, feeling over the bruise he'd left on the man's cheekbones carefully, palpating slightly to check for more serious problems or fractures. He pressed on a spot just below the cheekbone itself, and Sherlock flinched away, hand catching on the plate of biscuits as he jerked, and sending it and his cup of tea flying.

"Sherlock!" John cried, pulling back.

He glanced around, noting the splatters of milk, tea, and fragments of the mug and plate scattered around the room. He shook his head and pressed once more on Sherlock's cheekbone to be sure. Just a bit sore then. His eye caught the miniature destruction around him again as he pulled back, and this time he chuckled. He found once he started, he couldn't stop. He could only giggle helplessly at Sherlock as the man quirked a brow at him. Which was just delightful, really, that Sherlock was here doing that and breaking things, and John laughed harder as Sherlock's face twitched into a scowl.

When he finally wound down a bit, John just looked at him, blinking away a few hysterical tears.

"Thank you," he said, at last.

"For what, eating my biscuits? My genuine pleasure," Sherlock said, dryly. "Now, my things? There are some experiments I have been dying to perform, but I didn't have the proper equipment."

"Oh no you don't. Mrs. Hudson's got the keys to the storage, so you're going to have to tell her you're alive. And we can't have you passing out on her while you're trying to prove how 'fine' you are, so you're eating more of these biscuits, first."

"One time I pass out during a case, and you never let it go."

"Never," John promised cheerfully.

"Hardly scientific, John. In how many cases did that not happen? More studies-"

"Let's have a go at those biscuits then," John said, tuning him out and scooping up the ones that had remained on the table or plate shards. He gave half of them to Sherlock and ate through the rest of them himself. Sherlock complained the whole time. John just sat in companionable silence, doling out the occasional stern look with all the inner glee of an overenthusiastic primary school teacher.

Beneath the blazing happiness that had overtaken him, he was still upset. But it didn't matter at the moment, because sitting here on the sofa with Sherlock felt like destiny, felt like home, felt like breathing again after being underwater for a year, three months, and two days.