The last leg of his trip, the train ride to London, taunts Sherlock. Every whoosh of the train on the track, every sway of the train, matches the frantic beating of his fearful heart. Sherlock Holmes is not a man who frightens easily. In fact, he hasn't been afraid for two years, because his fear centres around the people he loves. A bomb strapped to John, John being kidnapped, Mrs Hudson's pain... all terrors pale in comparison to the fear he felt knowing they could all be killed in an instant, because of him. But now, returning to them at last, his fear is selfish.

Mycroft's updates on John's well-being were so important to Sherlock when he was away, more than either man would ever acknowledge, but they leave little doubt in Sherlock's mind that John is self-sufficient without him. Sherlock is not a stranger to indifference. He grew up on it, thrives on it, understands it, perfected it. Indifference has always been his constant companion. Imagining John, though, as unmoved by his return slowly squeezes at his galloping heart. He can handle an angry John, a self-righteous John, even a hateful John, but never an apathetic John. Sherlock can barely control his urge to shoot something, play his violin, smoke, anything to distract his overactive mind from his homecoming.

Finally he is in London, cataloguing everything that has changed since he left. Mycroft's car picks him up at the train station, and Sherlock deduces the life of the driver, just to have something to do. His heart still beats painfully, and he knows Mycroft will be able to tell his weakness, his fear. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. But Sherlock doesn't agree anymore, because it was an advantage. He could not have survived for so long without his thoughts of John, of home. The car slows, and he uses all the strength he has left to shove his fear into a corner of his Mind Palace. Time enough to think of that later. Now, he has to see Mycroft and get the tedious business of preparation over with.

All Sherlock wants to do is go home to Baker Street and John, but Mycroft insists on creating a plan, forcing Sherlock to change his clothes and choose a logical time to arrive. Sherlock knows John wouldn't care if he shows up in the middle of the night, but he defers to Mycroft for the sake of ease. Arguing would waste time, and Sherlock is tired of wasting time away from home. So now, just as the sun is rising, he is ushered into his brother's posh house. Mycroft appears, says his name, looks at him with an unidentifiable look in his eyes, unidentifiable even for Sherlock. Sherlock is caught off guard by how pleased he is to see his brother and forces himself to rearrange his features into a neutral expression. His time away has changed him. He fleetingly wonders if remembering John has turned him emotional like John, but then dismisses the idea. Sherlock is not so easily swayed.

Mycroft insists that John will not be home until the evening, so Sherlock relaxes enough to tend to himself. The last two years have been hard on his body, and even he recognizes the need to eat and sleep before seeing John. Fear bubbles up inside him again at the unbidden thought that he may need the sustenance to survive John's indifference, but he pushes it away. Sherlock is not a man who worries. Worry is pointless, just like caring. Neither emotional response will change actual events. So he focuses on the things he can change and do, like getting a haircut (tedious), showering, changing into his old clothes (familiar, comforting, sentiment), and eating his first full meal in recent memory. Sherlock goes through the motions, but he is still sick with fear. Mycroft doesn't seem to notice when his hand occasionally trembles, or mercifully pretends not to.

Finally, after a day that seems to have dragged on longer than the last two years, it is nearly time to go to John. Home. Sherlock can hardly sit still in the car Mycroft is sending him in, his heart is beating so fast. He looks out of the window, observing the London he hadn't realized he missed. Things haven't changed as much as he expects, but the people have. Mycroft seems older, more careworn, but also gentler. The thought makes Sherlock uncomfortable, but it's hard to deny that his brother is both relieved and happy that he is home safely. Even Mycroft can't keep sentiment entirely at bay, it would appear.

Suddenly, finally, the car pulls on to Baker Street. Sherlock's eyes take in every detail of the familiar place, noting changes in occupancy, new decor, and the way that time has worn away at the street. The car slows, and Sherlock is out of the door before it comes to a complete stop. Home, John, home. Good, the locks have not been changed. In the front door, Mrs Hudson is not around, but she painted the hallway five months ago. Up the stairs, too fast, slow down, Sherlock, heart beating out of his chest. John, home, John. He stops in front of the door to their flat, smooths down his hair, counts to ten. He can taste his own fear, and feels faint. He briefly considers knocking, but decides against it. It takes all his will power to bring his hand up to the doorknob and turn it. The shaking of his hands barely registers, because he is finally pushing the door open.

And there is John, in the kitchen, making tea. Sherlock almost cries out from the weight of memory that overwhelms him, overcomes him. He takes one step forward, creaking the floor, and then John is walking towards him, not seeing him yet. That fleeting moment before recognition hits is all Sherlock needs to observe John in ways that Mycroft's texts could never replace. He drinks him in, watches John's limp become clear as he walks, sees the increased amount of grey in his hair, the lines around his eyes that have deepened. Mycroft told Sherlock about John's mourning behaviour, but never mentioned the way it was etched into John's skin, the way he still wears it like a cloak. His eyes are tired, sad, but resolute. Just as Sherlock predicted, John is able to continue living without him because John is strong, a soldier and a doctor, the closest thing to a hero Sherlock has ever known. A little voice in the back of his head reminds Sherlock that this is sentiment, but he ignores it, drowns it out with his frantic heartbeat.

Because John is looking at him, and in that moment Sherlock is more afraid than he ever has been. Fear, disbelief, anger, and sadness flicker across John's face so quickly that Sherlock hardly catches them. John's face settles on understanding, and Sherlock can hardly breathe.

Then, John collapses.