As John walked through the airport, he had this strange feeling like everything was too clean. The people, the floors, the small shops serving customers, everything had this surreal quality of wealth and radiance. It made him feel dirty and gaunt, like his entire body was covered with dust and he didn't belong in this place, like he was a ghost coming back to haunt the house where he used to live.

He walked through customs and into the crowd of people waiting to meet international arrivals. He was almost through weaving in and out of the crowd when he stopped and blinked at a familiar face - Greg Lestrade, straining around people to look for someone. John smiled and walked over.

"Greg?" he said, and the detective inspector turned to him. He stared blankly at John for a second and then took a step back in surprise.

"John! Oh my God, I didn't recognize you!" he said, then gave John a huge hug. John smiled and hugged the man back gratefully. When they released, John scratched his chin.

"Yes, well, the beard," he said.

"Yeah - and the hair," Greg said, and John laughed. He had let his hair grow down below his ears and it was slightly sun bleached, and he imagined that with the beard and the tan and a bit of weight loss he must have looked very different.

"So, what are you doing here? You look like you're waiting for someone..."

"You, you lout! I'm here to pick you up," Greg said.

This time it was John's turn to be surprised. He had just assumed that Mycroft would meet him at the airport, and for some reason he couldn't explain he suddenly felt his chest constrict and a lump form in his throat. He looked at the floor and blinked several times.

"You ok, mate?" Greg said, and put his hand on John's shoulder.

"Yeah, I'm fine. It was just a long flight," he said, then took a breath and raised his head with a smile. "I guess I'm a little overwhelmed."

Greg laughed. "Well, you've been in Africa for over a year so I can't see why."

John looked at Greg for a moment and really studied his face. He looked exactly the same as last time he'd seen him.

"It's really good to see you, Greg," he said with a smile. "Thanks for coming."

Greg grabbed John's luggage and tilted his head to the side to have John follow. They walked through the airport and into the cold, wet evening. John shivered. It had been so long since he'd been in the cold English air that it accentuated the feeling that he was somehow a foreign object. Greg kept looking over at John with disbelief in his eyes, like he was trying to get used to this new John, and it only made the feeling of otherness more pronounced.

They got into Greg's car and headed into the city.

"So... did Mycroft tell you I was coming in?" John asked after they were on the M23.

"He called and asked if I would come and pick you up. He said he had something to do or he would have come himself," Greg said, then looked at John. "He said to tell you welcome home."

John nodded then looked out the window. He couldn't help but be a little puzzled by this. Without consciously realising it, he had expected Mycroft to pick him up, to just appear suddenly like he always did. Although John had never used the phone Mycroft had given him, he kept it on him at all times, just as he'd been told, and he treasured it like a holy relic protecting him from evil. He hadn't realised until he had been standing in the airport that he was actually looking forward to seeing Mycroft. Somehow Mycroft felt like the closest thing to family that John had.

He slowly began to notice that Greg kept looking at him, and when he turned towards him he caught Greg glancing at John's hand curiously. Yes, John knew he would get questions.

"So... ah... you're married?" Greg said hesitantly, nodding towards the ring on John's finger. Obviously, John had not come home with someone, so it must have been an awkward question for Greg. John just shrugged.

"It didn't work out," he said, but didn't elaborate. Greg looked ahead at the road and didn't ask any more questions about it. John didn't know how he would have explained it to Greg if had pressed him anyway. After he and Mary split, he couldn't take off the ring. At first he thought it was because he was being sentimental, or he had simply got used to it and liked wearing it. But eventually he realised the ring was an appropriate symbol for John, although not for the reasons people might think. Most people would assume it meant he was unavailable because he was married. For John the ring meant that he was simply unavailable, full stop. It was the reason he and Mary had split in the end, and he might as well let the rest of the world know as well and save people the trouble of trying to get to know him.

John changed the subject and asked Greg how things were at Scotland Yard, and Greg boisterously started to fill him in on the gossip from the past year. Anderson and Donovan continued to have an on-again/off-again relationship, much to his annoyance, and he'd had several unsolved murders in the past year. Greg studiously avoided mentioning the name of John's former flatmate and he tried to keep the conversation light, but every time he started to talk excitedly about a case, he would catch himself, look at John apologetically and then change the subject. After a while, it started to get on John's nerves.

"You can talk about your work, Greg, it's fine," he said, and Greg looked at John's face to make sure he really was ok with it. Greg seemed to be reassured by what he saw and smiled a little.

"You've changed, John," Greg said. "You look alright."

John couldn't help the small sigh that escaped his lips. Of course he'd changed. He'd had the sorrow and the hurt burned out of him, and all that was left was emptiness. It was far better than the torment John was in before he left London, but he had to acknowledge that it was unlikely he'd ever be the same as before. It was ok, though. He had gotten used to it.

"I'd like to think so," John said, and smiled at Greg.

"So what are you going to do now that you're back? You're welcome to stay with me for as long as you like. I'm working all the time anyway, so you probably wouldn't see me much."

"That would be great, thanks," John said with honest gratitude. "I've put in some enquiries, and I think I can start back at the surgery. I want to get back to work as soon as I can, so I wouldn't expect to stay on your couch for very long."

"Sounds like a plan then. You can stay with me for as long as you need. You hungry?"

John could feel a huge grin breaking out on his face. "Starving. I would kill for some Chinese takeaway."

After the first night on Greg's couch, John spent the next couple of days resting and taking care of some business. On the third day he started working at the surgery. He immediately volunteered to work extra shifts and was soon working long days and looking for flats in the evenings. When he had moments of free time, he would text Greg to see if he needed any help with anything, and he started to consult with the police to give a second opinion on victims of violence. He ran into Molly Hooper and went to say hello, but she seemed so disconcerted to see John that he ended up just nodding a greeting and then avoiding her. After the initial feelings of panic that arose the first time he walked into the morgue, he calmed down and handled himself professionally. A few weeks after he returned to London, he found a small one-bedroom flat near his work and moved in.

Even though he and Greg got along well, he was grateful to get out of Greg's flat; the nights had been awkward. John didn't sleep much, and when he did, he didn't sleep soundly. He was used to working himself to such a dead-tired state that he would pass out the moment he hit his pillow, but he was finding himself tossing and turning all night now that he was back in London. He still tossed around after he moved into his own flat, but at least he didn't feel self conscious if he got up at 3 a.m.

He found that he was also having a hard time shaking that strange feeling of otherness, like he was a stranger in his own city. Every time he went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror, he thought about his beard and considered shaving. He kind of liked the fact that his outward appearance reflected the internal changes in him though. He also didn't mind that sometimes past acquaintances didn't recognise him, and he could walk the streets and not be bothered. He knew there was a possibility that a stranger would recognise him as well from his life before, when he'd had his photos occasionally in the papers, and he wanted to avoid that if possible. So he kept the beard. He still had not seen Mycroft, and although it threatened to stir up a deep pain within, he just let it go. Perhaps in this past year, Mycroft had moved on. John hoped Mycroft had been able to accept the way things were and was living his life doing whatever mysterious government things he did. He expected he would see him again at some point, so he didn't feel a rush to seek him out.

Life was beginning to take shape into a new normal, and he was grateful. He was ready to start over and move on, into this next phase of his life. He was alone, but that was for the best. He wasn't much fun to live with anyway. He had nothing to offer.

About three weeks after he had moved in to his new flat, he was returning home loaded with bags from Tesco when he reached to put his key into the lock and froze. He stood still, his lips parted as he breathed out of his mouth quietly, and he leaned in closer to the door to listen. He swore he had heard something move inside his flat. He put his shopping down as quietly as he could and then looked around for something that he could possibly use as a weapon. Unfortunately, the best he could do was his umbrella, so he grabbed it in the centre to hold it like a club, and then quietly turned the key in the lock and tiptoed into the room. Light was coming in through the open window, and as he crept up to the living room and peeked around the corner, he saw a dark form looming in the center of the room with his back to John. The man had a long trench coat on over a hooded pullover, and it looked like he was examining something in his hands. John held up the umbrella and was about to rush forward to hit the man on the head when he turned around.

There, under the tips of soft blond curls, was the unmistakable face of Sherlock Holmes.

The world stopped. For a split instant, it seemed that all the sound in the universe was silenced and the planet had stopped spinning. The air was sucked out of the room and everything disappeared except for Sherlock's face staring back at him. Then in slow motion Sherlock's lips parted slightly as if he were going to say something, and it all came crashing down.

John was stumbling down the stairs, white lights flashing in his vision and the sound of a raging river pounding in his ears. The world was a cacophony of confusion and pain, the air burning his lungs like acid as he blindly ran onto the street. He stumbled out into the honking of cars and then into an alley. All he could think was that he had to get out, he had to get away, it was all too much and the pain was exploding in his chest and he was dying. He reached in his pocket and pulled out his phone, trying to blindly press numbers. He didn't know what he was doing but he heard a voice on the other side. "Mycroft!" he croaked, the words like sandpaper in his throat. "Mycroft - I can't -" He bent over and retched on the wall next to him, putting his hand up to hold himself. He heard his name being called and turned to see that face coming towards him.

"No!" The yell was torn from him as he backed away. "No, you stay away from me!" And he was stumbling backwards in a reeling vertigo. He turned and there was Mycroft stepping out of his car and John crawled into the back seat and sank down onto the floor and covered his head with his arms.

"Make it stop, make him go away, this can't be happening," he said over and over. "This can't be happening. Oh Jesus make it stop."

Time had no meaning, but at some point he felt Mycroft get into the seat next to him, shut the door and drive him far, far away.