Sherlock knew how John's steps sound on the stairs. Of course he did. He could not only tell John's steps from that of all other people in the world, he also used to be able to tell what mood John was in, what he was carrying with him and how urgently he needed to frequent the bathroom, just from listening to his steps.

He knew John's steps, he just hadn't expected to hear them now.

Or at all, ever again.

And so he only realized what he had heard a second ago when the door to the flat was opened. Not only hearing John's steps but seeing the man himself was overwhelming.

His brain tried to deduce him, all of him, instantly. Sherlock was unable to direct his attention, information washing over him at high speed, none of them really sticking in his mind. Something about his hair cut, his shoes, the shade of the skin underneath his eyes, the wrinkles on his hands and his forehead, the absence of his wedding ring, the little spot of dirt on his jacket, but all the details refused to form a big picture, a sound analysis.

Instead, only one thing kept coming up again and again. John did not come here for a joyful reunion.

Unable to tell why John had come here instead, Sherlock took four uncertain steps towards him and stopped right in the middle of the room. So did John. They stood a few feet apart, too far away for comfort, too close for indifference. But John was here, after all that time, he was really here. For whatever reason. Not to give his final goodbye, he was standing too close for that, too many unidentified emotions rolling over his face.

He was here, and Sherlock knew he needed to say something profound, something touching but not cheesy, something to make him stay. He had imagined that moment in his mind for so many times. It needed to be neutral enough not to scare John away, but slightly heart-warming and open.

"John," he said, his voice cracking just a little bit. Then he no longer knew what else to say.

All right, that did not go too well.

Sherlock's mind remained painfully empty. No words appeared there. John looked at him with mild curiosity, then he averted his eyes for a moment.

"I did not come here for reconciliation", John stated flatly, his voice even, his eyes now fixed at Sherlock's again.

Of course not, that much was easy to deduce. Sherlock nodded, not trusting his voice to speak. He had imagined John's return in head many, many times.

Somehow, it has never included them standing awkwardly in front of each other for a painfully long time.

Deductions were still running through his head, too fast to be read. Sherlock tried to ignore them the same way he was ignoring his pounding heart. John was here. Maybe for the wrong reason but he was here. But why? After trying to concentrate on at least one of his deductions for a while, Sherlock gave up.

"Why are you here?" he asked instead, and then hastily went on, "I mean, it is .. good. Really good. To have you here. I mean. It is. You are here and. You don't have to... But you are ..."

He silently cursed himself. Now that was not exactly what he had wanted to say. Damn it. John's face remained unreadable. He nodded, but at what Sherlock could not even guess.

"I need to get over what happened," John finally said. There was something soft in his voice, something weak. It made John sound pitiful and lost. Sherlock fought his impulse to embrace him.

"Yes," he answered instead. John still fixed him with his eyes, and Sherlock did his best not to squirm.

"Yes," John repeated, bitter. "You got over it pretty well, right?"

Sherlock swallowed down a remark. There was nothing good he could say now. Because yes, he had got over it. But it had been hard work and very painful, and he had needed a lot of people's help to do so. Help John refused by fleeing to … Sherlock checked his shoes for a second … Northern Scotland, by breaking up with everybody he knew and held dear once. And he only got over what had happened that night, he only made peace with his part in it, with his responsibility. He never got over the fact that John had left him behind like that.

But now was not the right time to point all of that out. Now was the time to make sure John would stay, so Sherlock would get a chance to heal him as well.

"You need to get over it," he carefully said instead, "and you came here for it. I suggest to ..." he chose his words very, very carefully now. It felt wrong, to be that careful with John, but at the moment, needs must. "...to establish regular contact so we can ..." become friends again? Help each other seal the wounds? Find out that John no longer wants Sherlock in his life after all? "... work on it."

His heart was still pounding in his throat. Strange that John did not hear it. Or maybe he heard it but did not care.

John looked at him for a long time. Then he nodded once more. "Yes," he said. Nothing more. And with that, he turned around and left the flat without looking back.

Only when the echoes of John's steps down the stairs were long gone did Sherlock realize what deduction had tried to surface again and again. John was angry. Underneath all his uncertainty and weakness there was anger.

Was he up to facing that much of John's anger? Well, he needed to be if he wanted to find out if his John was still living somewhere inside this broken, angry man.

His mobile vibrated. A text message. John!

"See you on Friday?," it read. On Friday. The day after tomorrow. Sherlock allowed himself to smile, just a tiny little bit. Friday. They would meet again, and he would get his change.

"On Friday," he wrote as an answer, and the added, "I am glad you are in London again."

There was no answer but that was all right. They would meet on Friday.