"Oh," John said. "Oh, Sherlock. What happened?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, a totally superfluous movement that even John had to wonder at. "Not important." He moaned as he dropped back into the chair he had just vacated.

"But…"

"I said it's not important. I'm blind now. That's all there is to it." Sherlock said in a clipped tone.

"Of course it's important, Sherlock. This is you – your vision – we are talking about. It's not like you got a bad haircut that just has to grow out. It's important. You're important."

And that was the crux of the matter. John had a suspicion that Sherlock truly did believe it was not important. How could someone so brilliant and self-absorbed be so utterly clueless to the fact that people actually cared about him?

"John, I…" Sherlock seemed to have been struck speechless by John's declaration of sentiment. John, realizing what he had said and to whom, was feeling the heat creep up his neck.

"Yes, well. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," he said, feeling he ought to at least salvage what was left of his dignity. Besides, all John wanted at this point was to make sure Sherlock Holmes staid in 221B where he was supposed to be. They would have to talk about it sooner or later and as a medical man, John felt almost sure there was something to be done, but he also knew from experience that teasing answers from Sherlock could take time. In the meantime, what difference did it make if Sherlock was blind? Hell, he could die himself purple and sprout a third head for all John cared. Sherlock was home. That was all that mattered.

The two fell into a comfortable silence. A clock ticked softly from the bookcase and John felt it drag him slowly towards sleep. John struggled against the pull, forcing himself to really look at Sherlock. He could practice his observational reasoning and reassure himself of Sherlock's presence all at the same time.

The elbows of the shirt Sherlock was wearing were thinning and John could see a button that had been sewn on with a different colored thread than the others. It had obviously been well loved. Of course, John could not see any luggage and wondered if it might be the only shirt Holmes had at the moment. It seemed unlikely in a man as vain as Sherlock, but then, Sherlock had been on the move for the past three years. His skin showed the effects of his travel too. His face and hands had picked up a slight tan and now seemed less like porcelain and more like human flesh, although John was concerned about the slight tinge that made him look sick. The tan was fading, so he had probably spent the last few weeks indoors or out of the sun. Perhaps Mycroft had subjected Sherlock to a rigorous debrief. It would explain why the elder Holmes had been so irritating during their visit. Dealing with Sherlock for long periods of time had an unfortunate tendency of making people grumpy.

His hair had grown out far beyond anything resembling stylish and now hung almost to his shoulders. So he had taken the time to clean up before he came home, but had not worried about anything more than washing up. Had he wanted to come home that much or did he simply not care now that he could not see? John thought it was probably the first given the fact that the rest of his clothes were clean and well-presented but certainly not up to his usual designer standards.

"Are you finished?" Sherlock asked. He did not sound irritated, simply curious.

John looked away, aware that he had been staring more than was strictly appropriate. "Sorry."

Sherlock frowned. "Why?"

"Because I was staring and it was rude."

"Is it?"

John chuckled a little. "Yes, Sherlock. People generally find staring to be intrusive and rude."

Sherlock waved this aside. "Oh. Dull." Then he grinned. "What did you observe?"

"What?"

"Oh don't be like that. I know you were observing me. I know you have been consulting for Lestrade. I also know you have spent some time studying my website and found my methods fascinating, even if you found my interest in tobacco erroneous. Ergo, you were deducing me. What did you observe?"

Quite speechless, John simple stared at Sherlock for a moment before he collected himself enough to answer. "I have. How did you know?"

"I still read that horrible blog you keep."

"You still read my blog? I didn't post anything for over a year."

"And I imagine that was an unwise move on your part. I'm sure your readership would have grown substantially in the wake of my suicide."

"You imagine…. Sherlock, I was in emotional turmoil and you think I should have been writing a blog? Have you lost your mind?"

"Quite the contrary. Was that not the purpose of the exercise in the first place? To accommodate your therapy sessions?"

"Yes, well," John said, suddenly quite uncomfortable. "You said therapists were rubbish."

"But you never seemed to listen to my thoughts on the matter."

"Whatever, Sherlock. So I didn't write on my blog. My readership was the last thing on my mind at the time."

There was a beat of silence. "You still didn't answer my question."

"Which was?"

"What did you observe about me just now?"

John sighed and leaned back into his chair. "Not much. Just that you've not been taking care of yourself even more than usual. You've been traveling light and were most likely in a sunny location before you came back to London at least a week ago, probably longer. You were eager to be home, but nervous too. Satisfied?"

Sherlock grinned. "Quite. You've come a long way, John Watson. Of course, you've missed a good number of things of importance, but you are progressing nicely. What gave away the last?"

"That you were eager to be home?"

Sherlock nodded. "And nervous. What led you to those conclusions?"

John shrugged, then realized the futility of that motion. This would take some getting used to. "You're clothes. You are still wearing old clothes that don't really fit you anymore and you didn't cut your hair, so you were more concerned with being home than with keeping up appearances, but you took the time to clean up properly before you came. You wanted the mental preparation that comes with the routine, but you didn't want to waste any more time than you had to. So, probably nervous and needing control over the situation, but also eager to be done with the whole ordeal and be home."

Sherlock nodded. "Good. Right on almost everything."

"Oh? What did I get wrong?"

"I'm not taking care of myself?"

"Not hardly."

"I'm still alive."

"You know there's more criteria than that."

"I am fine."

"Fine? You're skin and bones! You've got black circles under your eyes. Have you eaten since you left?"

"Eating slows me down."

"Right. And unless I'm mistaken, you're running a fever. I bet you haven't even taken anything for it."

"I'm fine," Sherlock repeated.

John had opened her mouth to respond but a series quick knocks at the door made him pause.

"John, dear?" It was Mrs. Hudson. She had impeccable timing really. "I heard shouting," she said as she stuck her head around the door. "Everything alright?"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson. Everything's fine." John smiled at her and hoped she'd take the hint. "I just got carried away a bit. Nothing to worry about." Mrs. Hudson had fully let herself into the flat and had made straight for the dining table with a tray of sandwiches, sighing over the abysmal state of his kitchen, which John had neglected to clean in the past few days, before John could do more than stand.

"Right then. I brought sandwiches. Heaven knows what you might have to serve with tea. Really, dear, you ought to go grocery shopping every now and then."

"Thanks. You didn't have to do that," John said as his land lady began to rummage in his cabinet for plates.

"Nonsense. I had extras and they'd just go to waste otherwise. It's just the once, mind you." She dished out two sandwiches apiece. "And where is Mary? I thought she said she would be around this afternoon."

"She's out. I don't know if she'll stop back by. I'm afraid I was a bit rude earlier. I think she might be angry with me." In truth, John was surprised that Mary hadn't called to set him straight yet. He was worried that she might be furious with him and not want to talk to him at all. He would have to call her later to make sure she got home and to explain.

"Now, John. You had better apologize to that girl. She's the best thing that's happened to you and you better make sure she sticks around."

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson. I will." He said mildly.

Mrs. Hudson set the plates on the coffee table between John and Sherlock. "Oh, and Sherlock, dear. Do try to eat a few of those. They are supposed to be eaten, not played with and you need fattening up."

Mrs. Hudson was half way back to the table to collect her tray when she realized what she had said. She spun on her heal to face Sherlock, who was still sitting in his chair, the image of repose.

"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson said. John, not liking her color rushed to stand beside her.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson. I'm home."

"Oh," was all she managed to say before she fainted on the spot. John caught her, but was unsure whether or not he could get her to the couch on his own. He glanced to Sherlock, hoping the genius might help him, but found the man standing with a look of concern on his face. Well, and wasn't that a new expression for the great Sherlock Holmes.

"John?" he asked. "What happened?"

John lowered his land lady to the floor. "She's just fainted Sherlock. She'll be fine in a moment. Toss me one of the pillows from the couch, would you?"

John caught the chair pillow that sailed towards his head, marveling for a moment at the accuracy of the throw and ignoring for the moment the lost look in Sherlock's eyes. John eased his land lady down and slipped the pillow under her head to make her as comfortable as he could. He had just begun to wonder if he had anything that might help revive her when there came another knock at his door.

"Yes? Who is it," he called, not really in the mood for more company.

The door eased open and a rather concerned Mary slipped inside. It took her a second to take in the scene, then her eyes grew wide with alarm. "John, what's going on?"

John sighed and sat back on his haunches. "Mrs. Hudson just had a bit of a shock is all. She'll be fine in a moment." Seeing she still seemed a little unsure, John gestured towards the genius detective who was still hovering around his chair looking uncertain as to what exactly was expected of him.

"Mary," John said. "I'd like you to meet Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is my fiancé, Mary Morstan."

Sherlock at least had manners to fall back on, when he wanted to use them anyway. He straightened up and held out his hand in Mary's direction. "A pleasure to meet you, Miss Morstan."

"Sherlock Holmes?" Mary was looking a bit faint herself.

"Indeed."