John sat comfortably in his chair in the living room of 221B Baker street reading a book titled "Classic Greek Myths." Sherlock sat across from him with his knees pulled up to his chest. He was watching John.

When Sherlock had faked his death, he didn't think of the consequences for John. He only thought that his actions would make sure that John would not die. Sherlock knew that John had been sad when he died. He had watched from the shadows as John cried beside his grave, but frankly, he had been shocked at the level of emotion John showed when he finally did reveal himself to be alive. There was anger. There were tears, even after all that time.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Sherlock had been afraid that John would forget him. He had woken at night worrying that when he finally did show up on John's doorstep, that John just wouldn't care. The fact that this wasn't the case had pleased him. He had also been pleased when John had agreed immediately to the suggestion that they move back into their old flat together.

Sherlock had not noticed before how odd it was for John to simply agree to live with him without reservations. This was probably because the first time, they had become flatmates only one day after they had met, and it had worked out fine. Now John had a new job across town and he had to wake an hour earlier to make it to work on time. He had never seemed to regret the choice, until now.

But John had not said that he was moving for convenience. If he had insisted on living closer to his job then Sherlock might...he would move with him. But John had said no such thing. He gave no explanation, and the mystery of the thing ate away at Sherlock. For some unknown reason, John didn't want to stay with him anymore. He had thought that being alive would fix everything, yet it seemed sometimes as if John was still in mourning.

Sherlock pulled out his list again.

He's a bit older.

They say the death of someone close, ages a man. John doesn't look older, but he acts it. He jokes less. He does things in a more determined way, a more decisive way. Before we ran through the streets of London like children. Now we stand apart.

He doesn't have a regular girlfriend.

But he does have someone for assignations. He isn't shopping for a wife anymore. He has Cherie, a woman who John treats as a convenience, a woman with dark curls. Curls like mine. A woman who says that John calls out for me in his sleep. I should have asked about the last time. Does he call for me even now? I should find out.

He reads more.

Sherlock put his feet down and sat up in his chair.

"John." He asked.

John looked up over the top of his book. "Yes Sherlock?"

"What are you reading?"

"I was reading the story of the Minotaur of Crete. Do you know it?"

"I know that a Minotaur has the body of a man and the head of a bull. I must have deleted the rest of the story. What's it about?"

John uncrossed his legs and sat forward one leg outstretched. He placed the ribbon between the pages to mark where he was reading before laying the book down on his lap. "The king of Crete's wife developed a passion for a bull. She gave birth to a son with the head of a bull and the body of a man."

"That couldn't happen," Sherlock said, "Genetics doesn't work that way."

"It's a myth Sherlock. The stories aren't meant to be taken literally."

"But it's totally inaccurate!"

"Do you want to hear the story or not?"

Sherlock closed his mouth and looked attentively at John who continued.

"So, she gave birth to this half-bull half-man creature. The king did not want to kill it outright, so he had his most skillful architect, Daedalus, make a maze called a Labyrinth so that it could never escape and never be seen."

"Is that all?" Sherlock asked.

"No. It's an epic. The story of Theseus founder of Athens. I can let you borrow the book."

"No thank you." Sherlock asked, " I was just wondering why you were reading it?"

John shifted in his chair. He touched the thumb and forefinger of his left hand to his lip in contemplation. "I suppose," He said, his eyes unfocused unless they were focused on his thoughts. "I suppose that I'm seeking something relevant to my life."

Sherlock pinched his brows together waving his arms in exasperation, "How can completely implausible stories from three thousand years ago possibly have any relevance to your life today?"

John shook his head, a tight smile on his face. "I can't explain it Sherlock. Either you get it or you don't." John placed the book down on the table. "Well, read it if you want to, I'm going to bed."

In the darkness of his bedroom, the only noise was the sound of John's steady breathing. The hallway light formed a yellow rectangle at the base of his doorway. A light that grew into a large polyhedron as the door slowly creaked open. The dark shadow cast by a man stretched out not quite reaching the edge of the bed where John lay.

The door closed and he crossed the room. His quiet footfalls never rose above the sound of John's heavy breath. The sheet rose and fell as Sherlock climbed into the bed spooning against John whose labored breathing quieted at his touch. Sherlock stroked the short hairs at base of John's neck, poking their rough tips with the edge of his fingers. Then he bent his arm and rested his head in the crook of his elbow.

Sherlock's hand slid across John's shoulder moving slowly down his arm until it rested in the curve of John's waist. Then he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep. His head rolled forward. The breath from his nose causing the hairs on John's head to shiver, dancing across the edge of Sherlock's slightly parted lips.