A/N: Early post, thanks to a lovely request from a friend. This is based off Read My Mind, by The Killers, and has the boys doing some actual bonding, instead of just spewing angst everywhere. This is where the story starts to warm up a little. Enjoy!

"There are a lot of scars." Sherlock said haltingly, still a little overwhelmed by the change in their dynamic again. He hadn't slept, had been afraid to, and had spent the majority of his night letting his brain flick over the cases they'd worked together. Flashes of them had haunted him while he'd been away, dealing with broken bones and the darkest sides of humanity possible. Those were the moments he'd returned to: John, looking dashing and brave with a gun held tight in his hand, not so much as a tremor visible as he held himself under perfect control. John, giggling with him at a crime scene, then streaking through London and collapsing together on the couch, laughing like idiots over the fact that they'd nearly died.

Of course, the idea of John dying was honestly a horror too bleak for Sherlock to honestly consider, so he forced his mind back to their current conversation. John was looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to continue. That was what this was, after all. This was his opportunity to express to John where he'd been and what he'd become while he was away. If they had any chance of reconnecting at all, this was how it was going to happen.

"I did not have backup on many of the missions I elected to take on myself. Mycroft sent people to look out for me, of course, but at first I was no better at accepting their help as I was when I was still here. I eventually became better about that, after I broke my wrist and lost out on valuable time, but if I couldn't have my backup of choice, I didn't want anyone at all."

Unsaid was that John was the one he'd have chosen to look out for him, but they both understood. John wished that Sherlock could truly read minds, because then he could see how torn up he was about all of this.

"But you did eventually move on from that." John's statement held an unspoken question, and he began to wonder if maybe Sherlock could read minds, a thought he'd harbored from time to time, because he answered immediately.

"Not moved on, no. You are my conductor of light, John. I need you to truly shine. I accepted the help that was offered to me, but I did not stop wishing that it was you by my side."

"Is that why you did all this? Because you hoped you could come back someday, and it would all be like it had never happened? That you could pull off this bit of magic and things would go back to the way they were?"

"No. I did this to save your life. I had hoped that in time you would be able to look past it all and that we might someday have our former dynamic back again, but I knew better than to expect it. In fact, I was fairly astounded when you invited me to stay here. I didn't expect you to want the danger of working with me back." Sherlock paused, then, frowning. "Of course, I guess you didn't want the danger back, as you aren't working with me, but being here was far more than I expected at all."

"And then I went and blew you off for months and wouldn't explain my thoughts on it." John blew out a breath, a little surprised when Sherlock's cheeks turned pink.

"Well, yes." He murmured, reaching for his mug and taking a small gulp of tea. It took John a second to realize that the younger man was embarrassed by not having anticipated John's reactions, and not having called him on them. It was quite out of character for him not to say something.

"Why did you not confront me about this, exactly?" Part of John had a feeling he knew, but he wanted to hear it from Sherlock.

"I didn't want to lose you completely. I figured that if this was all the more you were willing to give me, it was still better than life completely void of my conductor of light. I wasn't willing to push, when any attempt on my part to explain was met with rejection. I didn't want you to get sick of me and throw me out completely."

"So you thought that I would toss you out if you asked for things to be the way they were."

"I wouldn't have blamed you. I wouldn't blame you even now." Sherlock's words were actually somewhat startling.

"Isn't that a bit illogical for you, though? If it was all based off the logic you worship, then things should revert exactly to the way they were. Shouldn't you be upset because you don't understand this?"

Sherlock looked away so John wouldn't see the spark of pain that flared in his eyes at this comment. He'd been a fantastic actor, and had in fact played his part too well—now the man who was supposed to know him better than anyone else thought, even now, that he was part robot. That hurt, but was to be expected. And it was probably in his best interests to promote the incorrect assumption… though he wasn't sure he could stand doing so.

"I would be lying if I said I didn't miss the good old days, as they say, John. Perhaps I do not feel things like normal people, but I am not as robotic as I might sometimes appear. You have every right to hate me, after everything, but your actions… they have confused me. Sometimes you pull me closer, and other times, you pull me away. I wish to make things easier on you, but am not sure how."

John was trying to reconcile the man who had thought of Moriarty's puzzles as a great challenge, no matter the risk to innocent people, with a man who not only admitted to missing the way they'd lived before, but also to sympathizing with John's feelings. He hadn't actually been aware that Sherlock could sympathize, period.

"Sherlock… I'm not sure easy is an option, between us. I'm not sure it will ever be possible, or that it ever was easy. Maybe that first day, but after that… it never really made sense, the way we just worked together. Solving cases, blogging about it, you forgetting your pants… those things made sense. The rest of it… Not so much. You let me take care of you in ways you wouldn't even let your own brother, and I put up with things I never would have put up with from anyone else. We were always so much more patient with one another than either of us would be with anyone else. That's not easy."

Still unable to look at his blogger, Sherlock rose gracefully, hands clasped behind his back. He wished he was able to read minds, the way everyone had once half assumed he could do. It would be so much easier to know how to convince John to let him in again. It might have been sweet torture, but anything was better than the distance and silence that had only grown since his return, instead of disappearing. He wanted the friendship, if he could have nothing else.

"Sherlock, I… When you were gone, I broke down. I felt like I lost the only friend I ever had; I felt like everything good about my life was gone. Even now that you're here, part of me feels like… you could disappear any day again. Now that you've done it once, it would be so much easier for you to do it again. And I would have no control. It's like if I let myself get sucked back in… I might not remember another way of life, this time. And that's terrifying."

The heart no one knew he had, save perhaps his brother, broke in that moment, all over again. That John feared he might leave again, after everything they'd been through, hurt, but more than that, he hated that he inspired those feelings in the man he considered his only friend.

"I shouldn't have returned at all, John. To make you feel this way…" Sherlock shook his head, gazing out the window. "I have now hurt you not just once, but twice. I have been horribly unfair to you."

"No, Sherlock." John was on his feet in a second, spinning the consulting detective quickly around and gasping at the pain in his eyes. He knew, just from his expression, that he was experiencing every bit as much pain as John was at all of this.

"No, it was not a mistake to come home. Never say that. Maybe we have a lot we need to work out, but we can turn this thing around. We just need to actually be honest with one another. Stop lashing out or shutting down when we could be talking things through."

"Do you think either of us is actually capable of that? It's been, what, John, half a year since my return? This week marks the first time either of us have discussed anything more in depth than the weather, as far as we're concerned. Sure, we discussed Mycroft and Gregory, but you've avoided this like the plague. Why the sudden turnaround?"

There was something dark and desperate in Sherlock's eyes, and though John didn't recognize it, he had to suppress the urge to shiver.

"Maybe it's just time. Maybe I'm just finally ready to run through the fire with you again. I can't explain what it is, Sherlock, but I'm just… ready for this. I need us to be friends again, need to know that you and I are going to be okay again. I know I've made these past six months horrible for you, but to be honest, I was terrified that you were going to go away again at any moment. I'm starting to warm up to the fact that maybe you're here to stay. I can't promise that everything will go back to the way it was, but… I can try."

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat, and everything felt fragile, like breathing wrong would break everything. Then it rushed out all at once, and he surprised John by stepping forward to hug him. It should probably have been more awkward than it was, but it was oddly perfect, and then Sherlock pulled away, beaming.

Before he could speak, his phone went off, and he quickly picked it up—something he'd gotten used to doing for himself—and answered with curt, monosyllabic answers. When he hung up, he still looked pleased.

"There's a case, John. Would you like to come with me?" The offer sounded so hopeful, John knew there was no way he could turn it down. It had been a couple of months since Sherlock had asked him along. He had still occasionally gone, but only when he'd been around when Sherlock got the news, and only when he had chosen to go along. It had gone undiscussed, after the first few times when the consulting detective had offered him an invitation and received a quick dismissal.

"That sounds… yeah. That sounds good. I'll need to get properly dressed, though." John hurried off to his bedroom while Sherlock waited, practically buzzing with excitement.

A few things were the same, but a few things were different. Sherlock paid for the cab, which was new, but he turned to John for his medical expertise, which was the same. Those differences both amused and pleased John. On the whole, Sherlock was more courteous, but his intelligence was every bit as pronounced. He was a bit more joyful as well, though it would be difficult for anyone but John, who was still attuned to his moods, to notice.

It was Dimmock who'd called them, as Greg was gone for another week. He shook his head at Sherlock's antics but only said that it was good to have the two of them back, and then he recorded what Sherlock told him and promised to be competent when he arrested the killer.

Satisfied with that, Sherlock strolled away to catch a cab for them, but he kept his steps slower than normal, and it didn't go unappreciated.

"We're not going to track down the sister-in-law ourselves, then?" John asked as they waited for a cab to come by. Sherlock grabbed his arm and tugged him out of the way when the cab would have splashed water all over the front of his trousers, and only answered when they were in the cab, and he was looking at his blogger, eyes blazing like diamonds.

"No, I think for once, we should trust to the police to do their jobs. And to be honest, I'd like to go home. You're desperately craving a cup of tea, and honestly, so am I."

John just shook his head, an amused smile on his face as the cab pulled away, taking the two of them home.

"Sometimes, I really do think you read my mind. And maybe it's not a bad thing at all."