John heard him before he saw him.

He could tell by his footsteps that he was in a poor mood, stomping up the stairs. A moment later the door opened and Sherlock came in, pulling off his scarf and tossing it aside.

John lowered his paper and glanced up at him. "Nice walk?"

"Oh, go to hell."

He raised an eyebrow. "Is this about the blog post?"

"No, of course not—it's about that other insensitive thing you did recently!"

"Look... I'm sorry." John folded the paper and set it on the table. "I didn't mean it to be insensitive."

The detective flopped down on the sofa, assuming that familiar look of stone-cold scepticism. "Oh, I see, now. You meant 'spectacularly ignorant' in a nice way!"

John couldn't help but sigh out-loud. "I'll take that bit out, if you're so pissed off about it. But you do need to start accepting the truth."

"Humph."

"Fine," John rolled his eyes. "Go ahead, turn your back on me. See if that helps."

The detective's voice was slightly muffled in the sofa cushions, now. "Actually I feel better already, now that I can't see you. Out of sight, out of mind."

Fabulous.

After a while John had made the decision to go back to working at the clinic again. He had quit, after Sherlock's 'suicide,' but now he was finding that just sitting about the flat all day was dull beyond belief, and he would do anything to escape the monotony. Even if that just meant replacing it with a different monotony.

A better one.

It seemed to be going alright, so far. He'd treated a few sprains, several allergic reactions, and more cases of the sniffles than he cared to count in the span of two weeks.

Every morning he got up and biked to work—exercise was good for a soldier—and every afternoon he would ride back to the flat, tired but fairly satisfied.

The days were getting unseasonably colder, and even rainier—if that was possible. Perhaps cabs would actually be a better form of transport…

One afternoon found him pulling up in front of 221B, beginning to shiver in the chill. There had been thunderstorms the night before, and glassy pools of cold, dingy water still stood stagnant in every little rut and pothole in the concrete. He pulled his jacket tighter around his shoulders and mounted the steps, searching his pockets for his key.

When he finally found it and unlocked the door he slipped inside hurriedly, rubbing his numb cheeks with the heels of his hands in an attempt to warm them up.

Bad idea. That just hurt.

John shed his jacket and hung it up on the coat rack, right next to—no, wait. Where was Sherlock's coat?

Had he gone on a walk, maybe?

Too cold…

He wasn't supposed to be going anywhere without John's go-ahead, at least not until he was fully healed.

So where was he…?

"Sherlock?" John climbed the steps warily, raising his voice, his cold cheeks momentarily forgotten.

There was no answering voice from the lifeless flat, and he felt a little prickle crawling up his spine.

This wasn't right.

Something was off.

He could tell.

A quick search confirmed that every room was one hundred percent empty of consulting detective.

But…

"God-dammit…" John fumbled for his mobile and quickly dialled Sherlock's number. He stood there for several minutes, listening to the ringing and hoping against hope that he would pick up.

Beep.

'Sherlock Holmes. Obviously busy; leave a message after the tone. Or not. I probably won't check it.'

"Fucking hell, Sherlock… You're not fucking doing this to me again…"

After one more failed attempt to reach him, John gave up hurried down the steps to ask Mrs. Hudson if Sherlock had said anything to her about going anywhere.

Of course he hadn't.

He never said anything to anybody.

Twat.

After a moment of consideration he walked swiftly back to the front landing, where he snatched up his jacket—and was just pulling it back on when the door opened.

The worry knotting itself in John's stomach slowly began to transform into an angry, seething monster.

"Oh." Sherlock blinked at him in mild surprise. "Work alright? How many times did you get sneezed on today?"

"You… absolute… bastard…" John's hands clenched into fists, and he just stood there glaring at him, back ramrod straight and his jaw set in a hard line. "Where the hell did you sneak off to? Do you have any idea what I was thinking? You're not supposed to leave the flat like that. Do you hear what I'm saying? Not supposed to leave. That means you don't go anywhere! Understand?!"

Sherlock frowned slightly. "I had to leave. I had important business to attend to."

"Oh really?! What the hell kind of business was so important that you had to sneak off while I was at work, without telling anyone where you where going?! Huh?! You're still at risk!"

"Oh please…" Sherlock rolled his eyes with desperate sarcasm, and turned his head as Mrs. Hudson's door opened and she peered out at the two of them, wiping her hands on a dishcloth.

"I heard shouting. Are you boys alright down here?"

"We're better than alright, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock turned to her with a flourish, taking her by the shoulders and bending his curly head to give her a little peck on the cheek. "Don't worry about a thing."

"Oh…" Mrs. Hudson giggled. "Somebody's in a good mood…"

Sherlock had that old self-assured smile on his face as he straightened up, and John watched, slightly dumbfounded, as he went bounding up the steps two at a time.

What the hell…

With one last confused glance at Mrs. Hudson, John followed him up—albeit a bit slower.

When he reached the top step the detective was already perched in the armchair, steepled fingertips rested against his lips.

"Okay. Alright… what the hell was that?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock turned his head toward him, raising an eyebrow. "Whatever do you mean?"

"That." John nodded back toward the stairs. "You're… happy."

"Oh…" Sherlock shook his head with a slight smile. "Of course I am. How could I not be? I have a case."