Sherlock had been there when John woke up, just as he'd promised he would. He hadn't slept at all the previous night, he'd just sat in his chair, not moving, thinking. He'd even attempted to make breakfast for both of them. John had been impressed with the food Sherlock had prepared. But this was because John was unaware that whilst he was showering, Sherlock had recruited the help of Mrs Hudson once again.

It was over breakfast that Sherlock bought up the subject of their current situation. He relayed his conversation with Mrs Hudson as John munched on his toast and jam. John noticed how much more alert. His eyes had something of the old sparkle back in them, the sparkle that John only ever saw when Sherlock was working on a case. He found it reassuring, it meant Sherlock knew what he was doing, and John trusted it as a gauge of where the case was going. But now was not the time to be reminiscing. Sherlock was bringing up a serious and valid point.

"So, seeing as you panic at the mere idea of me departing, and the decision to let you lead your life without me, actually reduced me to tears." John had choked on his food when Sherlock admitted to him that he'd been crying to Mrs Hudson. Sherlock, crying? It was a combination that didn't sit comfortably in John's mind. "We clearly have no option but to stay with each other. Which means, we need to sort this out."

Sherlock left this statement hanging in the air, as if it was on a fishing line, and he was waiting for John to take the bait. He wasn't disappointed.

"What is there to sort? You said it yourself! 'We clearly have no option but to stay with each other.' What more is there to discuss?" John didn't look at Sherlock as he said this. He couldn't meet his eyes, he didn't want to see the spark fade.

"John, you need to understand. I never meant to cause any of this. I had to!" The tone of his voice was desperate as he tried to make his friend understand.

"I do understand Sherlock." Said John, still not meeting Sherlock's eyes.

But Sherlock didn't believe him. He didn't think John knew what he was talking about. Sure, John would admit that the idea of being separated would be hard, but Sherlock knew that the problem was a lot bigger, and more complex than that. John would never know, but Sherlock knew.

John had been sleeping restlessly all night, tossing and turning. Clearly, the nightmares had not gone just yet. Sherlock didn't want to wake him, as it would have been obvious that he was watching him sleep. Sherlock, therefore, did the only thing he could think to do. He had picked up his violin and begun to play. At first it was very quiet, still trying not to wake John, just to calm him. As the notes Sherlock played grew louder, John seemed to relax more. He stopped moving around, laying quite still. Sherlock saw that the music seemed to calm him, so he continued. He played every piece of music that entered into his head, at different speeds, tones and pitches. His eyes never moved from John as he played, making sure that he was still asleep, and calm. Sherlock kept these thoughts to himself, storing them away in his mind palace with the other details about John to be revisited later.

John didn't remember any of this. He had, of course, been dreaming of Sherlock, of the fall. But something had changed, just as Sherlock jumped, his dream shifted, so it ended with Sherlock alive, whole. He couldn't explain why the change occurred anymore than he could explain why he had woken up on the sofa.

Sherlock didn't know what to do. He'd been experiencing this too much recently and it made him uncomfortable. Sherlock always liked to be in control, but now he wait relying on John to direct him. And John wasn't doing well enough for him.

"I think you need to speak to someone." Sherlock rose from the table and reached for his coat and scarf. John frowned. Sherlock was meant to be keeping on the down low. Why on earth was he about to walk out of the flat in his signature outfit, possibly revealing the fact that he was still alive to the whole world?

"Sherlock?"

"John, I've been hiding long enough, and I need to get this sorted out." Sherlock pointed to the long curls on his head, but John knew that he was not talking about that. John also knew that there was no point in trying to argue with Sherlock. He always got his way. He let out a sigh of resignation before moving to get his own coat.

They made their way down the stairs and out of the building in silence, John following behind Sherlock. The younger man threw out his hand to hail a cab. The people on Baker Street gave him curious looks when the saw Sherlock. The consulting detective ignored then and stepped into the cab that had just pulled up to the pavement. The taxi driver did a double-take as Sherlock settled himself in one of the seats. John followed. Sherlcok took his phone out of his pocket and began to tap out a message quickly and quietly.

"St Bart's Hospital, please." Sherlock's deep voice filled the whole cab with this simple command. However, the cabbie seemed to have been struck dumb. Sherlock noticed and sighed. "John, please inform this man of our destination as my presence seems to have rendered him quite incompetent."

The cabbie shut his mouth, which had by this point been hanging open. He shifted in his seat and began to drive in the direction of the hospital. Sherlock returned to his phone. John watched London go by as he stared out of the window. He thought about how many times they'd walked those streets, him and Sherlock. They'd probably been down every road in London, but not realised. John spent so much time running after Sherlock during a chase that he never had any time to register where they were. It was only when they'd caught up with the guilty party that John ever took notice of where they were, and then wondered how on earth they had got there in the first place.

They didn't speak to one another until the cab stopped outside of the hospital. John got out and held the door open for Sherlock. But Sherlock didn't move. Without looking away from his phone, he said, "Third floor, lab 3, Molly's waiting for you." And with that, he closed the door again, and the cab drove off, leaving John alone on the side of the street, completely clueless as to why he was there. John didn't want to turn around. He knew that if he did, he'd see Sherlock fall from the tall, white building. Instead, he locked his eyes on the floor at his feet. This was no better. He could remember the blood, the thick, red liquid spreading over the rough, grey pavement where his body had made impact.

Except it hadn't. Because Sherlock hadn't really died that day. But it didn't stop the pain John felt as he finally turned to look up at the hospital. He had believed, after all, that he watched his friend jump to his death. He had believed that he would never see Sherlock again, and that had hurt. As he looked to the roof, the place where it had happened, John's eyes began to burn. He quickly turned away. Both men had spent too much time crying recently, and as Sherlock had pointed out to him on many occasions, crying wasn't going to solve the problem, or make anything better.

He could feel his breathing becoming shallower, and the squeezing sensation that accompanied his panic attacks hit his chest like a brick wall. He began to feel dizzy. Once again, Sherlock had left him, though this time, he wasn't anywhere close by to come and save John from his nightmare.

He felt a small pressure or his shoulder, and looked up. Molly Hooper had placed her rather small hand on his broad shoulders. Her eyes met John, only a few inches shorter than him.

"Sherlock said you might find it hard to be here by yourself." So, that was who he had been texting. "I think you need to come inside."

They walked in silence through the corridors, passing figure after figure in the long, white lab coats that is was custom to wear here. The faces didn't register with John as he moved down another corridor. His breathing eased up in these familiar surroundings, and the sensation in his chest was fading to almost nothing. The lights were too harsh, leaving John feeling exposed, judged, examined. Molly pushed open a door to their right and held it open for John. He stepped through and waited for Molly to join him. She gestured to one of the lab stools, where John sat. She pulled up her own and sat facing him. It was obvious from her position and the look on her face that their topic of conversation was a serious one.

"Sherlock told me you were having a hard time adjusting. I wouldn't bother lying to me John because Sherlock told me that himself and that man knows everything."

"Oh." John had been planning on twisting the truth just to get out of there sooner. He did not like the tension between Molly and himself, especially as neither of them had really spoken to each other before. "No, I haven't been having the easiest of times getting used to it."

"Why, John? What makes it different to before Sherlock left?" She didn't take her eyes from him, but they weren't harsh and intruding, as Sherlock's could often be, they were soft, and full of concern, as if she genuinely cared for the man sat before her.

"I guess-" John sighed heavily.

"Take your time."

"I never thought he'd ever leave. I thought we'd stay in that flat for the rest of our lives, or until I found someone worth leaving for, but I knew that was never likely to happen, not with Sherlock being such a huge part of my life. It was either one or the other, and I chose a life Sherlock."

"So why was it so hard? Surely it would have been exactly what you wanted?"

"I just- It was really hard for me to accept the fact that he had really died. I completely blamed myself for it as well. And I had finally begun to come to terms with that. It was finally beginning to register to me that Sherlock had left my life for good. And I trained my mind to remember that he was dead, and that I should get used to it. So I did. I adjusted to a painful life without my best friend."

"I still don't understand, John."

"I wouldn't expect you to, Molly." He smiled a little at the woman sat in front him.

"So explain to me. I'm not stupid, John. If I was, do you think Sherlock would put up with me so much, let alone ask me for help?"

"True." John even let out a small, breathy laugh. It was true. Sherlock would not have put up with Molly's constant puppy dog, 'I love you so much', routine if he did not believe her of use, meaning she was definitely more intelligent than people gave her credit for. He felt a slight twinge of guilt and pity, but moved the conversation on. Forwards was the best way to go when it came to things like this, and as his father had once told him in a clipped, military voice:

'Son, running from your problems is never the answer. You've got to face them like a man, and tackle them full-on.'

"I guess I'm scared, Molly. I'm bloody terrified."

"Of what?"

"I'm scared that sooner or later, Sherlock's going to want to leave me again. That he'll pack up and leave without any warning, just as he did before. I don't want to get close to him if he's going to put me through that again, because once nearly killed us both."

Molly listened to John intently. She could understand John's concerns. It must have been hell for him, to lose Sherlock like that so suddenly. It was now molly's turn to feel the pang of guilt, as she had played an active part in Sherlock's fake death. She was partially responsible for the rift in their relationship.

"John, when Sherlock came to me to ask for help, do you know how upset he was?" John shook his head. "Well, he was a complete mess. His voice was unsteady, he was shaking like a leaf. I didn't se him cry, but I'm sure that if I wasn't there he would have been. He only wanted to make sure that you were safe. He knew that Jim- sorry, Moriarty would try to threaten you to get to Sherlock, and that ultimately that would end in Sherlock's death. You were his number one priority. Not Mrs Hudson, not Lestrade, not me, not even himself. You. John, Sherlock always had the intention to return after the fall otherwise he wouldn't have faked it. He would have really died that day – he was prepared to do that. But he knew that the threat wouldn't have lifted, even if he did die, so he had to remove it, then come back to you. And after all that, and after realising what affect it's had on you, do you really think Sherlock would willingly leave you like that again?"

John had a lot to take in. He repeated Molly's words, over and over again in his mind. And finally, something clicked in his brain. Suddenly, the world made sense again, the sun appeared from behind a cloud, he could sense a shift in the universe from that one moment of understanding. Why had he ever been so stupid as to worry about Sherlock leaving him again? The very idea seemed laughable now. In fact, John Watson did laugh. His face broke into a smile and he laughed as if he'd heard the funniest joke in the world.

Molly had been watching cautiously at this point. Sherlock had said John was fragile at the moment, but she would never have expected this reaction from the army doctor. She didn't join in with his laughter, but waited timidly until he was finished. She chanced a smile at him, a nervous, tentative, weak smile, but a smile nonetheless. John beamed back at her. A glow seemed to be radiating from him, like a halo of light, rather than the dark rainclouds that had shadowed his face when he had first walked in.

"Thank you, Molly." He said, standing. Molly rose too, extending her hand out to John to shake.

"Glad I could be of assistance," she said quietly. Her smile seemed more genuine, having seen and judged the change in mood of the man stood in front of her.

John did not take Molly's hand. Instead, he swooped towards her and flung his arms round her tiny frame. He picked her up from the floor and swung her around the room, Molly holding on tightly so she wouldn't fly away into any expensive equipment if he dropped her. John was laughing again, and this time, Molly was too.

"Molly Hooper you are the best person in the world!" John said to her through her hair as he placed her back on the ground. "I will never let Sherlock insult you ever again." Their arms were still wrapped tightly around each other.

"It doesn't matter, he's Sherlock. It's what he does. Why would he stop just because you told him?" The two broke apart, trying to cover up even more laughter.

"Because he needs me." Said John, the smile still etched on his face. He looked fondly at the woman who he's never had time for, except those Christmas and New Year parties. He'd always meant to talk to her, but in all honesty, they were both so involved with Sherlock that they had little time for anyone else.

John smiled down at her, and received a wide, warm smile in return. He turned and walked back out of the lab. Suddenly the light didn't feel as bright, and harsh. They were just lights, and they couldn't hurt him. He walked out of the hospital feeling like a completely different person – like the old John Watson, from a time before the fall. He pulled out his phone and hailed a cab. Once he was sat comfortably in the back, he gave the address.

"221B Baker Street, please." He tapped out a message on his phone and pressed send.

About 2 miles across town, Sherlock's phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and read the message.

Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. JW

His phone buzzed again.

If inconvenient, come anyway. JW