Sherlock was exhausted. He sat on the edge of John's bed and looked about the room, and even in his tired state he could not help but take in every detail. What was most telling was how little there was to take in. Everything in the room had its place, but there was hardly anything in it. He had a small table. A comfortable overstuffed reading chair next to a lamp. Hardly any dishes or things in the cupboards. The only personal item that he had was a small framed photo of himself and a white woman standing next to a group of black men, women and children in colorful garb in what he could only assume was Africa.

There was no trace of Sherlock anywhere. It was as if he had never existed in John's life.

When Sherlock found out three days ago that John had returned and had his own flat, it was easy enough for him to find it and break in by climbing off the roof and in through the window. He was initially alarmed that John was not more careful about securing his flat, but then he realised that this John, this new John, did not have reason to believe anyone would be interested in him at all. Why should he lock his upstairs window? He had nothing.

Sherlock had been standing in the living room absorbed in the photo when he heard the squeaking footstep behind him. He had turned around, and there was John, holding an umbrella over his head with a look of fierce determination. When he saw Sherlock, he froze in shock and then almost immediately dropped the umbrella and ran down the stairs. Sherlock flew after him and watched in horror as John ran into the street and almost got hit by a van. John went into the alley opposite and vomited on the wall, and when Sherlock called his name, John turned to him with a look of terror. That was when Mycroft pulled up and stepped out and John almost dove into the back seat.

Mycroft was furious with him. He told Sherlock to go up to John's room and wait. So that's what he did. He waited.

Mycroft's driver eventually came to fetch him and Sherlock followed silently down to the black car. It was going to be a long two-hour drive, and even though he had longed to see John for all of these months, even though it had almost killed him, now all he felt was exhaustion and dread. Mycroft had said this would happen if they weren't deliberate and careful. He hated it when Mycroft was right. Mycroft had planned it down to the minutest detail. He was going to bring John out to the estate and explain everything and let John come to Sherlock on his own terms. It was reasonable, it made sense. Infuriating and frustrating and tedious, but it made sense. Sherlock didn't really mean to see John that night. He was just going to take a look around. If he couldn't see the man himself, he at least needed to see John's room, needed to see the evidence, the things that would tell John's story.

But something about the starkness of that flat was crushing. John barely lived there, barely existed at all in the world. He worked and ate and occasionally slept. But he was only a shadow of a person. And it was all Sherlock's fault.

When the car finally pulled up in the circular driveway and parked, Sherlock sat in the back seat for several minutes before getting out. Then he only made it to the doorstep before sitting down again. The moonless sky had cleared of clouds and the stars were so bright it was as if they were hovering right above the ground, right out of reach. Sherlock rarely noticed the stars as they were not usually relevant, but tonight they were so cold and bright, so clear and unmoving, unlike people, that part of him wished he could join them. But eventually Sherlock stood, shivering from the cold, and quietly opened the front door to come inside. He could see firelight flickering in the other room and was drawn to it like a moth. Mycroft was sitting on one of the large chairs and staring into the fire, but John was nowhere to be seen. Sherlock walked over and sat down across from his brother.

Mycroft was not looking at him. He was still angry. Sherlock looked at his hands.

"I made a mistake," he said.

"Yes, you did," Mycroft said. "We had agreed. We had a plan."

Sherlock put his chin in the air and tried to explain.

"I just needed to see his room."

"No, no you didn't, Sherlock. You needed to follow the plan. But just like you always do, you went ahead and did whatever the hell you wanted anyway."

Irritation started to edge out the tired shame. Why was it always him who was having to apologise?

"John has been back for a month, and you only told me three days ago that he was here at all. I've been out here for weeks, Mycroft, and we have been wasting precious time."

Mycroft looked at him for the first time, and even though his voice was calm, the anger was clear in his eyes.

"It was your choice to come out here, Sherlock, and it was the right thing to do. You needed to recover, and there was no way you were going to do that in London. Certainly not under the circumstances."

Sherlock ran his hands through his hair and closed his eyes. He was so tired. It might be because he hadn't slept in three days.

"But he was here and you didn't tell me," Sherlock said, looking back at Mycroft. "I don't know if you've been to his flat, Mycroft, but there's nothing there. It's as if he..."

But Mycroft wasn't looking at him any more. He was staring intensely at something behind Sherlock. Sherlock felt a rush of adrenaline and jumped out of the chair. John Watson was standing in the door frame with a robe over his clothes and his hands in his pockets. Sherlock opened his mouth like a fish and let the air escape his lungs, then closed it again and stood absolutely still.

John studied him with his chin down and his eyebrows drawn together. The panic and horror had left his face and was instead replaced with distrust and wariness, which was almost worse. He seemed smaller than Sherlock remembered, and his beard made him look wrong. Everything about him seemed wrong and suddenly Sherlock was disoriented. He opened his mouth to ask John why he seemed so wrong when John held up his hand and stopped him.

"Don't," he said. Sherlock closed his mouth and stood there silently, watching as John slowly put his hand back in his pocket and walked to the couch, which was set back between the two chairs. John sat down stiffly and stared at the fire.

Long moments passed, and Sherlock could not move or take his eyes from John. Eventually Mycroft stood.

"It's time for me to take my leave of you, gentlemen," he said and then walked towards the front door. Just before leaving the room, however, he turned to face them. "And boys, if the house is not standing when I return I am going to be very disappointed. Good night."

Sherlock heard the front door click shut, and the heavy silence of the empty house pressed into the space between him and John. He suddenly felt the urge to flee, to escape the pressure of the moment as he watched John sit like he was made of granite. But he could not leave, it would not have been possible. If John wanted it, Sherlock would stand there forever.

"Mycroft told me what happened. While we were driving here. After I stopped screaming, that is," John said and then looked up at him with that same look of distrust. Sherlock didn't respond, didn't hardly breathe. John became agitated.

"Stop just standing there like an idiot and sit down," he said. Sherlock looked at the chair Mycroft had been sitting in and then obeyed. He sat and looked at the rug and then heard John sigh.

"What is the matter with you, Sherlock? How could you do this? What in heaven's name were you thinking?" John asked with such sincerity that Sherlock felt a cracking somewhere in his chest. He opened and closed his mouth a few more times and then forced the words out.

"I was... trying to protect you."

John made a sound that Sherlock realised was supposed to be laughter, but it sounded more like a croak. "Yes, well like I said. You're an idiot."

Sherlock wanted to just lie at John's feet and curl up and beg for forgiveness, but he couldn't move. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw John lean forward, rest his forehead on his hand and just sit there. They were both frozen. They needed to get past this. He needed to tell John.

"I couldn't think."

John looked up at him. His eyes were red and heavy.

"What do you mean you couldn't think?"

"I couldn't think when you weren't here."

All of the sudden John's face crumpled in pain. He closed his eyes and brought his fists up to his head and pressed them to his temples. Sherlock could not stand it a moment longer and he stood up to move towards John, but John held up his hand again to make him stop. Sherlock spun around and started pacing back and forth in front of the fire.

"I couldn't think and it just kept going on and on, John, the threads of Moriarty's web. I was right when I called him a spider. One path led to five others and one person was watching another and it was all connected and it was brilliant. And I killed them all."

He stopped still and stared across the room. He didn't feel bad about killing people. He had done it before, and these were not good people. They were cold blooded killers, each and every one of them. But somehow he knew this was not the kind of thing one said out loud. He was afraid to look at John, but he had to continue. He turned, and John was looking at him with his mouth open in shock.

"All except for one, the one he had assigned to you," he said. And as he looked at John, wrapped in a robe and sitting on the couch in front of the fire at his family home, the most precious thing Sherlock had ever known, his insides turned to stone. He didn't care if he had to kill every last person in London if it meant keeping John safe. But maybe now he wouldn't have to.

"Now that you're here, I'll be able to figure it out."

John looked like he was about to pass out, and he lay back on the couch and covered his face.

"Oh my God, Sherlock," he said.

"Also, Mycroft put me in rehab. The Priory, of course."

John's chest contracted and he looked like he was starting to sob, but then he took his hands away and Sherlock realised he was laughing. A genuine, heartfelt John laugh. John looked at him with bewilderment.

"And you went willingly? You stayed?" he asked. He looked overwhelmed.

"Well... someone died, so it was interesting," Sherlock said. For some unexplainable reason this made John laugh more, and when Sherlock furled his brow and looked at him curiously, John just laughed harder.

"Oh Sherlock, what a fucking mess," John said and then shook his head. "I've missed you."

He wiped his face and looked at Sherlock with moist eyes, and suddenly all of the pain and longing from the past year and a half finally broke through in Sherlock's chest and his knees buckled. He sat down on the floor against the chair, resting his head against the arm, and just watched John's face.

The laughter slowly faded, but John's eyes stayed warm as he met Sherlock's gaze. They sat there looking at each other for a long time, until John let out a huge yawn and laid back against the couch and closed his eyes. Sherlock got up and went over to a trunk against the wall. He took out a few blankets and pillows and brought them over. John was watching him carefully with one eye, but he accepted the pillow and the blanket and made himself comfortable on the couch. Sherlock put another log on the fire and then lay down on the rug next to John. The fatigue was starting to overwhelm him and he closed his eyes.

"I'm so tired, John," he said and could feel exhaustion pulling at the corners of his mind. He started to feel his breathing deepen and his mind drift, and then he felt John's fingers wrap around his own.

"I am too, Sherlock," he said. "See if you can sleep."

And just as Sherlock was falling into blackness, he heard John whisper. It was so quiet he might have dreamed it.

"I'll be here."