He paced, restless. He had felt boredom, confusion, frustration. He had felt impatience, anger, and even fear. Yet never, until this moment, had Sherlock felt the cold sting of betrayal. He was not sure how he was expected to react. What did people do, when they had been hurt so unfairly? Yes, John was suffering post-traumatic stress – Sherlock would have been shocked if he wasn't. He felt needlessly guilty. He was having nightmares. About the pool. About the war again. His behaviour was entirely justifiable... so why did Sherlock have this bitter pain in his chest? It was entirely new to him. Almost entirely. There was still a residue of that pain, months old now- of seeing Johns face, tight with fear- of that tiny red dot on his chest... the horror of sensations that rushed through him as he knew, he saw, the only way out- and feared what it would cost. The slightest nod – he knew, too, and he had accepted. That was the same pain, and yet different. Sharper. More intense. His face twisted at the memory, and he shrugged it off. This was different. And he could work it out! Restraining the urge to shout, he scratched at the patches on his arm. Keep calm. Calm. Calm and in control. It just didn't make any sense! He knew John was suffering, but why wouldn't John just let him HELP? He turned, and, seeming the man before him, a calm settled into his skin. He placed what was needed into the hand stretched before him. Control. This, he could understand. This, he knew.

John woke, drenched in sweat. For a long while, he simply stared at the ceiling, through his tears. Eventually, the shakes ended, and his breathing relaxed. When he was sure he was under control, he pulled himself out of bed. Ignoring the beeping of his phone by his bed, ignoring the bleary eyes' reflection that judged him from beyond the mirror, he stumbled to his door. Today, he felt different. The dream had ended differently. Shaking his head, John drifted into the kitchen. Thought of coffee fluttered absently through his mind. More concrete were the thoughts of finding Sherlock. Of saying sorry. He flicked the switch for the kettle, and sat down. Glancing at the kitchen, he could see no signs that Sherlock was up. What sort of time did that man get out of bed? Frowning, he looked at the kitchen. It didn't seem right. When had he last truly looked at it? At any of it? The last few months seemed blurry, out of focus. Full of dreams, and that heavy weight of guilt. The therapist Sherlock had taken him to see told him to talk, he remembered. And since that day, Sherlock had been asking...begging... John to talk to him. Well, now maybe he should talk. Talk about what had happened. About all of it – the boy, dead by Johns own hands, and the agony of killing. Or, more recently, of what had happened. Talk of getting into a car, talk of dark alleyways and men. Talk of knives and guns and the certainty something terrible was happening. Talk of being told he was helping Sherlock, and of stepping -willingly- into the car. Talk of bombs, strapped to his chest, and a red light following him all the way there. Talk of knowing that he would put and end to Sherlock's life. Talk of standing there, of seeing Sherlock's face. Talk of the disappointment and fear he had seen there. Talk of... he stopped the train of thought. The panic was swelling up again. He didn't want to remember. Any of it. The surge of relief, the cruel hope, the one blissful moment when he thought he had everything he needed, and the way it had all ended. He couldn't talk to Sherlock about this, couldn't stand up and accept the blame he deserved. Where was that man, anyway?

"Sherlock?" he croaked. His voice sounded weak, uncertain. He tried again. "Sherlock!"

John was panicking He had searched the house, from top to bottom. Four times. Limp forgotten, he tore through the building in desperation. Where was Sherlock? He had began calm- then, finding a newspaper by the front door, had began to panic. It was the 23rd. It took John a few moments and some hurried mental maths to realise why this scared him so, why it sent ripples of uncertainty through him. It should be the 22nd. He had last seen Sherlock, looking hopeful and sad and angry all at once, with an armful of blankets, on the 21st. The flat looked as though no one had been in it for several days. John had slept through a whole day and a half, and in that time, Sherlock had not been here. Where was he? What was he doing?

Suddenly, he remembered his mobile. He dashed for the stairs and flung himself into his room, grabbing it from where it lay by his bed. 4 unread messages and 2 voice mails. Messages first.

00:24 Have to tell you something important. Been a bad day. Sorry. Home soon. SH.

18:50 Have you seen my brother? He wont answer his phone. MH

18:52 Don't tell M anything. Home soon. SH

23:08 So sorry. John. Call. Call now. SH.

John's panic, bad before, became full blown. The first message had been on the 21st, 4 or 5 hours after Sherlock must have left. The other three were from yesterday. With trembling hands, he dialled voice mail.

John, call me. Call me now, I need you to... now. Call me John. Please? John! This was from just after the last text. The final message was garbled, incoherent. John was not aware of standing up, or of running to the door. He was only aware that when he called Sherlock, the phone did not ring. Cursing, he flung open the door and stepped out into the street. Where could Sherlock be? Damn that man! Didn't he know John couldn't survive without him?

Sherlock winced. His head hurt. It took him a few moments to realise what had happened. A bad batch. Nothing more. Standing up, stumbling slightly, he ran a mental check. Arm broken. That would need fixing. He better get back. Where was he, anyway? His head was fuzzy. It was cold, here. And wet. Too much was happening, he couldnt take everything in. Noise and sight and confusion. Hunching his shoulders, he shuffled towards the loudest noise he heard. Cars. People. Road signs. He had to go back home. Find John. Say sorry. For walking out. Leaving him. To deal with it all alone. Sometimes, it just too much. He had to get away. Glancing at his arm, he winced. Thankfully, the mass of bruising and swelling covered any incriminating marks. This was doing him more and more harm – once, it had made everything clear. Now, it left him helpless. He thought of John's face, took a deep breath, and began to walk. Setting his stride, he began to search for a way back to John.

"What do you mean? I don't care if this is what he does, we have to find him! Ever since... he wouldn't leave me alone." John stood straight, defiant, but Lestrade shook his head. John fell back into his chair. He's a grown man, John. He's always been like this, John. He'll come back, John. The same bullshit for three days now. Sherlock had been gone- gone!- for four days, and no one else cared. When the detective inspector got up to leave, John did not bother seeing him out. He sat in his chair by the curtain, pulled his knees up to his chest, and waited.

John woke with a cold chest and a crick in his neck. He had heard the door. Leaping to his feet, he spun around and came face to face with-

"Sherlock!" For a moment, he had nothing else to say. Relief flooded him, followed by anger, and then horror as John took in the state of Sherlock An arm that hung useless, obviously broken in several places. Haggard, tired eyes, and paler than usual skin. John did not need to look for marks to know what had caused this, where Sherlock had been the last 4 days.

"John." Sherlock replied, his voice as calm and nonchalant as ever. John took a deep, calming breath., as Sherlock continued. "You're looking better."

"You're...not."

"No. well, some things happened. Got out of hand, in fact. I lost track of time, but I'm back." It was only because he had spent four days dwelling on that face did John notice the flicker of emotions that crossed it. Nervousness. That was unexpected, and it threw him for a minute.

"Sherlock... what the hell happened? I've been looking! I've had Lestrade in here, trying to make him help! It's been... I've been – I was worried!"

"Well, John, I'm fine. No need to worry any more."

John's vision swam, and an echo of an echo played out in his mind/

"Alright? Are you alright?" Sherlock face was panicked, his voice rushed. He pulled the jacket from John, fumbling in terror, and slid it across the floor, ignoring Johns instances of

"I'm fine. Sherlock. SHERLOCK!"

John blinked, and Sherlock, as he stood now, swam into view. John suddenly launched himself forward, surprising himself, and flung his arms around the taller man's neck. To his intense horror, his eyes filled with tears. Sherlock simply stood, his arms rigid at his side, and waited. After a few moments, John pulled back. Embarrassment turned to anger – couldn't Sherlock show the slightest concern for him now, like he had then?

"Dammit, Sherlock! Where the HELL did you go?" he spat, furiously. "In fact, no. I don't want to know what seedy little dump you went to shoot up in. Keep your secrets that you love so much. I'm through with this!" his legs wobbled, but he stood firm

"Through with what, John?" Sherlock's obvious ignoring of the accusation was enough.

"You wont even deny it! What if one day you take too much? What would I do then, Mister Sherlock fucking Holmes?"

"Survive" Sherlock said, as though it was the single most obvious thing in the world. "You're being melodramatic, John, and it's unnecessary. Your concern is touching, but-"

"This? This is NOT concern, Sherlock. I am past concern! I tried concern, and it got me fucking nowhere! If I can't do anything to make this better, tell me why I should try any longer, Sherlock. Tell me."

"You shouldn't"

Sherlock was confused. He hadn't known he was having an argument. He had known John was in an argument, but he had only said what he thought to be true. John couldn't make it better, and shouldn't be trying. Maybe he himself was the one who should be trying. But articulating this to an incoherent-with-rage John had proved impossible, and each thing Sherlock said seemed to make John more angry. In the end, he had walked away. Just to make the shouting stop. John wasn't allowed to shout at him, he needed to think. He needed to work out how to untangle this problem he and John had created – trickier by far than any murder case. He wanted to untangle it, he did. First John was withdrawn, shell-shocked, and now he was furious. Sherlock wanted his real John back. The proper John. It was seeming less and less likely each day. And that was another new type of pain, too.