A/N: Okay, this chapter is based of Maps, by Maroon 5. It's basically the boys starting to work through their crap and actually get to know one another again. Enjoy, and do let me know what you think!

John closed his eyes and flopped back on his bed with frustration. His mind had been churning for the past week, and there was no one he could talk to about it. Sure, he could call Greg, but the man was still on his honeymoon for another week, and that meant that John's surprisingly short list of friends was down to one, for the next week.

And the last thing he was going to do was talk about his feelings with the man who was tangled up in the center of all of them.

At the moment, John's mind was going back over the period of time between the Fall and the return. He was hoping, somehow, that if he could somehow come to terms with everything that had happened, he might be able to work his way past things. But he kept hitting a stone wall, the same question swirling through his head.

Why wouldn't you let me be there when you needed me so badly? Sherlock had lied to John, yes, but what John couldn't get over was that, for all the times they'd had each other's backs, why had the younger man not trusted him with that, too? John had spent more than one night on his knees asking why, and never figured out an answer.

They'd run the streets of London together for a not insignificant length of time, John always just one step behind Sherlock and chasing him, always following him wherever he went. John had been there for him through it all, but Sherlock had left him here, and he still had no idea why. He'd not allowed him to explain, in all that time. He'd said that it was enough that he was back, but he realized now that they both knew it wasn't. It was not, by any means, their only issue, but he felt like they needed to at least start trying to work their way through it all.

John missed running through London, missed all the long talks that had meant the world to him, missed everything about the life they'd lived. And tonight, when he heard the strains of the violin coming from one floor down, he realized that he was ready to reclaim it. He needed to get past the fear, and be there for Sherlock again, and that meant finally having the conversation they'd put off for months.

Steeling himself, John stood, well aware that he instantly fell into the posture of a soldier. The sweet song Sherlock was playing gave him the strength to go down the stairs and into the kitchen, making tea even though it was past midnight. He had a feeling they were both going to need it.

Sherlock, though admittedly quite curious as to John's behavior, continued to play, careful to choose only those songs which he knew his blogger liked. It wouldn't do to irritate him now, not when he seemed… more open. That was the only thing Sherlock could think. Judging by his posture and behavior, he was obviously preparing himself for something, but it was not a confrontation—or at least, not one he was worried about. That soothed him somewhat; kicking him out of the flat, in the very polite way that would leave no room for argument, was probably not on the agenda, unless he cared so little for his flat mate these days that the idea wasn't all that daunting.

And just because he was open did not mean he was relaxed. Sherlock could see nervousness in the definition of his arm which outstretched to put a cup of tea beside Sherlock's chair before he sat down in his own. Sherlock finished out the song, aware that to not do so would be to reveal his own nerves, and took his seat, letting his gaze study John over the cup of tea.

"You came back for me, after three years." The words were so direct that Sherlock nearly spat out the sip of tea he'd taken, and he swallowed loudly, well aware that his movements, when he set the cup aside, were not half as graceful as normal.

"Yes." John hadn't asked a question, so Sherlock didn't launch into an explanation. There was still a very good chance that he didn't want to know, even now, what had motivated his absence, or his return. And honestly, Sherlock had told himself that it didn't matter if John knew so many times that breaking himself of that belief was going to be hard. He'd tried to explain, and failed so many times that it hadn't seemed worth the effort of trying again, when he was not going to get anywhere.

"Why?"

Now Sherlock was getting a little nervous. Was he going to begin, only to have John hit him again? That was what had happened the first time. The second time had been better. He'd only yelled and disappeared for a weekend at Harry's without so much as an explanation. The time after that, he'd only been gone six hours, and the fourth time had only shut his bedroom door, the click of the lock telling Sherlock he was not welcome inside. That had been the last time he'd attempted this.

Still, John had never actually asked to hear it before. It had been Sherlock who'd felt the need to explain, who'd wanted desperately for John to know he'd never abandoned him, that he'd been saving his life. It had stolen his breath when he'd realized that John truly hadn't wanted to know why, and left him hopeless, anchorless in a sea of misery. Life with John had been paradise, life without him too miserable to think about without making him feel like he was being ripped apart, and life now… well, now he felt this inexorable pull that he had to ignore, if he wanted to be even somewhat happy.

"There were snipers," Sherlock started slowly, "trained on Mrs. Hudson, Gregory, and you. I had planned for the eventuality, so I worked out a plan with Molly, and let Mycroft in on it at the absolute last minute. Neither of them, you see, was being watched by Moriarty, which made them the only ones who could help me without undue risk. In order for the three of you to be safe from the snipers while I dismantled the network and shut them all down, your grief at my loss had to be genuine. It had to look like Mycroft was the one cleaning house in revenge, and we let the snipers believe that they were safe until last, because that was the easiest way to ensure that they didn't get wind that we were picking them off and decide to carry out their missions."

John closed his eyes, and Sherlock quieted abruptly, understanding that the doctor was trying to process the emotions he was feeling. He would probably have questions that covered far more than the information he'd just given him, but even getting those words out had been an unexpected relief. At least now, John would understand that what he'd done, he'd done because he cared. That he hadn't simply walked away because he'd wanted to, but had had no real choice. He hadn't run away; he'd simply been doing the best he could, no matter how hard it was for them all.

A sip of tea later, and John still didn't feel prepared to look at Sherlock. Now, he knew the nightmares he'd had more than one of himself would be colored by fears of what his flat mate had endured in the years after the Fall. It occurred to him that Sherlock had completely quit walking around the flat in just his dressing gown. It wasn't something he'd noticed before, too wrapped up in his own feelings, but now… now, a lump formed in his throat, as he realized he hadn't seen Sherlock in anything but a suit since his return. Except last night…

"You paid for our lives with your own blood. Didn't you?" John's voice was almost unbearably quiet, and Sherlock had to suppress a shiver. He knew where this was going to lead. He did not want John offering to inspect him. He stood abruptly, narrowly avoiding bumping into the coffee table as he made for the door.

Unfortunately, his clumsiness meant he ventured just slightly too close to John, whose hand had darted out to grasp his forearm. His breath hissed out, when he realized he wasn't going to manage to wriggle out of this one.

"Why do this now? Why can't you just leave it alone?" The words were wrenched from Sherlock's heart, and he felt his hand clenching tight in reaction. If he'd been trying not to be vulnerable, he was certainly going about this badly. But what could he say that would stop this before it got started?

"Sherlock, if you got hurt because of me, don't you think I should at least know? Don't you think that we both deserve me to see how much you risked for me?"

Tears stung the backs of his eyes for the second time in several hours, and the words that poured out of his mouth were fueled purely by emotion.

"No, I don't! Go back to not caring, John. It suited you far better than this sudden concern over my well-being. I don't need you to treat me like an infant."

Sherlock yanked his arm away while John stared at him in shock and headed for the door, so many emotions running through him all at once that he was choking on them. This was what he'd always feared—the rest of the world thought him emotionless, a robot, but he knew it wasn't true, and had always been terrified that his mask would slip. Well, now it well and truly had. Sherlock felt too much, and it was breaking him.

"We have to talk about this, Sherlock. You can't just run away." John managed to recover from his shock just as Sherlock was yanking his scarf on, and the look he received, as he rose and moved toward his flat mate, stole his breath. Emotion was swimming in the consulting detective's eyes, raw and painful, and for the first time ever, John saw a Sherlock who could be genuinely hurt. And had been, not by the insults slung at him every day by people who didn't know better, but by the man who was supposed to be his only friend.

"Sherlock, I know I've been a horrible friend to you since you've been back. I want to make that up to you. Please, Sherlock… I won't force you to show me anything you don't want to show me, but please, don't run away. You didn't before, so please, don't do it now. Just give me a chance to make it up to you."

John was terrified that if Sherlock left, he would not come back. Ever. He would get himself mixed up in drugs again, or perhaps simply decide he didn't need London or cases or John and just keep moving. He had the money to do so, and if he had the inclination, he could leave and never look back. Mycroft would help him, if that was what he needed, even though it would break his older brother's heart.

"John, I truly do not wish to do this right now. I tried so many times to let you in, and you continued to close me out. Don't ask me to give you the courtesy you never gave me. It's cruel, and I never thought you were a cruel man."

Sherlock's voice was broken, cracking and quiet, far too quiet, and John felt something in him break.

He crossed the room then and hauled Sherlock into his arms, never mind that the taller man stiffened, never mind that they had never been the type of friends who hugged even before the whole Moriarty mess had torn them so far apart. He simply held on, instinct telling him that this was what both of them needed.

Sherlock was trembling under his hand, but he calmed by degrees, arms coming up to return the huge with surprising strength.

When John finally stepped back, they watched one another anxiously, each looking for a reason to run, and a reason to stay.

"I can't seem to let this go, John." He confessed all at once, but the army doctor only nodded, understanding perfectly

"And I could never let you go, Sherlock. I never really believed you were gone, never really believed that you wouldn't someday return to me. I'm just sorry that when you did, I was so afraid."

Sherlock bit his lip, pulling back a step. It wasn't a rejection, John knew, but something he needed in order to feel in control again.

"I think that we should, perhaps, go to sleep. In the morning, we can… rebuild. For now, I think that a continuation of this discussion would do more harm than good." Sherlock desperately needed time to build his shields back up. He was dangerously close to breaking, and he wasn't ready to trust John that completely, not yet. It would likely take some time, no matter how agonizing all of his was, and how badly he just wanted it to be done, one way or the other.

"Okay," John said slowly, looking directly into Sherlock's eyes. "But do you promise you won't leave tonight, and that you'll be here in the morning when I wake up?" Sherlock promised quietly, and John retreated back to his room, well aware that he was going to find it hard to sleep.

When he finally did drift off, he dreamed, and in his dreams Sherlock spoke to him, that deep baritone voice offering him everything he'd ever wanted, but pulling away when John tried to take it. The temptation was impossible to ignore, but he couldn't help feeling that if he did reach for Sherlock, it would destroy something in both of them that they could never get back. He'd already given so much of himself to this man. How could he give him that, too, when there was no guarantee he would ever feel the same?

Sherlock did try to sleep, too, but his mind was churning far too fast, and he wasn't ready for another nightmare. He simply lay there, staring at the ceiling, and wondered why it was so hard to be here, when it had been even harder to be away. Surely he should be able to deal with this? He had always known that John couldn't be his, not really, but knowing that he'd lost the other man's trust had been an unexpected torture.

They had had moments of closeness over the past few months, that was true. He'd supported him in his efforts to become close with his brother again, and had helped him figure out what to say at the wedding. But now… Ugh. Sherlock's life was a mess, and he doubted the morning would make it any easier to deal with. He wished there were some kind of instruction manual or map on how to deal with these sorts of things.

Deciding there was little he could to about any of it now, he rolled over, determining to put it out of his mind. He closed his eyes, retreating into his mind palace, heading straight for the room that held his happiest memories in an effort to stave off the dark thoughts. He tried very hard to ignore just how many of the memories here included John.