John woke to a dull pounding in his skull, with a low groan he pulled himself up and blearily gazed around at his surroundings; he was in a small room fitted with an armchair and a leather sofa, colourful spreads lay scattered across the furniture and bookshelves towered up to the ceiling, he realised he had slept on the sofa awkwardly, explaining the ache at the base of his spine. There was a large bay window to his right pointing towards the cosy street outside; John witnessed the start of another day as a postman cycled past on his rounds, the pigeons and sparrows that had collected on the rooftops scattered and called, angry about their disturbed slumber.

The throbbing intensified; John sighed and rubbed his temples with his index fingers, closing his eyes against the pain. He struggled to recall what'd happened the night before, he remembered a funeral, but it couldn't be Sherlock's; that was three years ago. No, John thought decisively the vicar said a different name-Brian… Brian Millar! His head snapped up; it'd been Brian Millar's funeral, they'd served together in Afghanistan and he'd been killed in action, then there was a wake afterwards in a pub. With a moan, John's head sank into his hands in shame; I got drunk, he remembered, the funeral reminded me of Sherlock so I got drunk at the pub. He glanced around again, and by the looks of things someone had to take me back to their house.

All of a sudden a door opened next to him and woman shuffled in, looking at John with concern "Are you okay? I heard groaning and I thought you were hurt"

Without thinking John stood to attention at her entrance; a misguided attempt at courtesy after his behaviour the night before "yeah, I'm fine. Sorry Aileen, I must've been an absolute mess yesterday" he smiled with relief; he remembered her name at least.

She stared at the ground "it's okay, I know what it's like to lose your best friend", John felt his throat tighten and willed himself to breathe; he still struggled, after three years.

Then Aileen started to laugh in an effort to lighten the mood "In fact, I would've joined you but there's… this" she looked down again and gestured towards her stomach which bulged slightly, a little bump, John wasn't a midwife but he guessed she couldn't have been more than four months.

With a gasp, her hand flew to her bump and she grasped John's hand, his stomach lurched and he silently prayed there was nothing wrong with the baby, but instead she grinned; "it kicked!" She pulled his hand to her stomach, John hesitated; it felt wrong to touch a dead man's wife, to relish in the promise of a new life when one had just be taken. Aileen seemed to read his thoughts "its okay, he used to do it all the time to completely random strangers" John relaxed and gave her his hand, there was a pause, a long drawn out moment, and then a tiny tap against his palm, his heart leapt and he smiled at her; feeling genuinely happy for the first time in what felt like an age. "We would be walking along Oxford Street, I'd gasp and he'd grab them and pull their hand to my stomach, he liked to see their face light up and know that it was our special baby that'd caused that happiness", she let go of John's hand and turned away as her eyes started to brim with tears, he heard her take a deep, ragged breath and she span back around to face him "coffee's in the kitchen, will you want any toast? Also, I've got paracetamol upstairs for your headache" she pointed to his forehead

John nodded "that would be great, thanks".


Sherlock paced to-and-fro on the pavement outside 221B Baker Street, weighing the keys he'd slipped from the awning outside 'Speedy's' in his hand, deciding, once again, whether or not this was the right thing to do. Finally, with an indignant grunt, he strode forwards and pushed the key into the lock, turning them slowly, he was surprised by sudden anxiety that overwhelmed him. He stepped into the hall cautious not to make a sound, despite the fact John was at that woman's house and Mrs Hudson was visiting her new grandson, his stomach twisted even tighter. The door creaked as he pushed it shut, leaving only the sun filtering through the window above, his shadow stretched ahead of him, beckoning him upstairs, taunting his curious desire to see the flat again, to breathe in the musty smell of old books and newspapers, to sit in his familiar leather armchair and tease John's naivety. Sherlock gave in and crept up the stairs, his breath hitched in his throat and his heart raced at the sight of the living room, he hesitated at the door; unsure if he was permitted here anymore, it felt bizarrely like he was trespassing as he crossed the threshold. He walked over to the desk and smiled, all his notes lay untouched, but not dusty; John must've been extremely careful with them, sentiment he thought such an inconvenient thing to feel. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted the skull still on the mantlepiece and all but ran over to it, laughing with delight, he lifted it up and stared at it, as if he might start reciting Shakespeare.

Then, putting the skull back, he looked eagerly around for his science equipment and violin, the latter stood propped up on the bookshelf; it hadn't been touched but Sherlock smiled to see that Mrs Hudson hadn't allowed it to collect dust either. Slowly, he moved towards it, his hands stretching out to hold the bow and neck; tucking the tailpiece button under his chin and lifting the bow to the strings, he paused, wary of alerting anyone of his presence. But the compulsion to play won over his instincts as he gently stroked the bow across, softly filling the apartment with his own melody, it was slow and sweet and Sherlock felt a pang of homesickness for the comfortable life he'd had three years ago.


The plastic bag clattered to the floor; John stared at Sherlock, his mouth agape. They stayed there for a few seconds before John snapped out of his trance and ran a hand through his hair "took you long enough"

Sherlock frowned "what do you mean?"

"I've been waiting for you" John busied himself with tidying up the products of his shopping; the corners of Sherlock's mouth lifted slightly at the sight of a jam jar surreptitiously concealed underneath a packet of liquorice.

"I-I don't understand" How could John know? Molly definitely didn't tell him, she almost threw herself at me when I mentioned him in passing

John returned from putting the shopping away in the kitchen and stood behind the armchair facing Sherlock, his hands gripped the back with such force his knuckles were turning white "I've been 'hearing' your voice for a while now, so I guessed it was only a matter of time before I started seeing you. I thought it would've happened sooner though. I suppose madness takes some time to manifest," he looked down at his hands and muttered "Ella's going to have a field day"

Oh, Sherlock started he's been 'hearing' me? "John, you're not going mad"

"And now I'm arguing with an imaginary figure over whether or not my sanity is still intact"

Sherlock rose from the chair and moved next to John who turned to face him, standing straight and refusing to look Sherlock in the eye. Sherlock let his gaze fully consume John after three years; his hair was shorter (but that was to be expected), his jumper was slightly creased and had been left unwashed for one day too long, his shirt was new but hardly worn due to the design being aimed at a younger buyer (probably a gift from Harry) and his hands were still. Is he under stress right now? Sherlock shook his head slightly and looked at John's face, his stomach churned; there were premature wrinkles and bags surrounding his eyes and his mouth seemed to be set in a permanent frown.

John stared back at the man opposite him and stepped backwards in shock, letting out an involuntary cry "you-you're… It's you!"

Sherlock smiled "yes"

"But I saw you fall, I-I took your pulse" John spluttered

"No, you didn't"

"What?"

"I fell into the truck, but the position you were standing at made it look like I fell onto the pavement behind the truck. I slipped a small rubber ball under my armpit, covered myself in blood and scrambled back onto the pavement by which time you had been knocked to the ground by the cyclist. Everyone who crowded around me were aware of the deception, as were the two paramedics"

John stared at Sherlock; the indifference in his voice when he explained his 'death' disgusted John, his stomach clenched and he flexed his fists at his side, trying oh-so-hard not to punch Sherlock, and stepped past him so John could pace the short distance from the coffee table to the fireplace "unbelievable"

"It's ok now" The instant the words were out of his mouth Sherlock realised he'd said the wrong thing.

John whirled around to face him "No, Sherlock, it is not ok! You don't just throw yourself off a roof, in front of me, and go gallivanting for three years while we mourn you! Even by your standards that's sick!" He stood in the middle of the floor, closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe, 1,2… 1,2… 1,2…, but his heart raced and questions threw themselves relentlessly around his skull. He turned to look at Sherlock and whispered "how long?"

"John…"

His voice got louder "How long did you know, Sherlock?"

"I'd got a hint when Moriarty paid us a visit, but it was confirmed after we'd broken in to Kitty Riley's flat"

Another pause "How?"

"…Molly"

"Of course" John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger "Sherlock, I want you to leave" he said calmly, not lifting his eyes from the carpet.

Sherlock's heart froze and his stomach turned to lead "John, I…"

"Please, Sherlock" John lifted his gaze to look at his friend; his eyes swam and his lips trembled "I need you to go. Please"

Sherlock stared at John, struggling to form the words he needed to make it right, to make it work again. He needed to tell John, show him, how much he'd missed him. How every day waking up in an unfamiliar, dingy location in some God-forsaken hole in the middle of nowhere and knowing he couldn't come home- to conduct experiments or confer with John over their latest case, or flop about on the sofa or even shoot holes in the bloody wall- had almost killed him.

But he stayed silent. He nodded and left without a word, noiselessly closing the door of 221B behind him. It was only when he heard the click of the lock hitting home that he allowed a solitary tear to roll down his cheek.