Sherlock slid quietly through the door to the hallway and couldn't help the smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. The moment he had worked two years for was at hand. In mere seconds, he and John would be face to face—and each with his own surprise.

He had to admit, the symmetry was unexpectedly pleasing. They would both have stories to tell from his absence. He understood Mycroft's smirk, now. John had actually been busy, not moping around, and Sherlock had to admit that was … better. He supposed it was preferable to a repeat of the featureless existence John had had before he'd met Sherlock.

At the very least, this would make John one of the very few peers who were even remotely interesting.

His brain snagged on that point, again, caught by the idea of John, his John Watson, being an Earl, a peer of the realm. At this drama-laden moment, Sherlock couldn't think of anything else that had surprised him quite so much … ever, really. Not since the Pool, anyway, and that surprise had really belonged to Moriarty, not John.

John.

Where was he, anyway? Shouldn't he have made it to the door by now? Ah, there. The door was opening.

John was pale behind that ridiculous moustache he had grown. (What had he been thinking?) His eyes were wide as he looked up the hallway, and then even wider as he spotted Sherlock.

John's hand went out, bracing against the wall for a moment as he stared, and, as the silence stretched out and his expression grew positively stricken. Sherlock wasn't sure what to make of that. He had known this would be a surprise, certainly, but John looked like he'd seen … ah.

"Short version, then," Sherlock said, "Not dead."

"Oh my God," came a woman's voice behind John. The blonde. Mary.

"Not quite," Sherlock said, but the quip did not have the expected effect of helping John regain his sense of humour. If anything, he looked now as if he'd been punched in the stomach, or was having a heart attack. A worrying supposition. "I'm sure this is a surprise, but I'm not the only one with unexpected news, John … or should I say Lord Undershaw?"

John was practically gasping for air as he stared at him and Sherlock was beginning to feel concerned that he might have misjudged the emotional impact his return would have on John. "You're making jokes?" he forced out. "Now?"

"Just trying to…"

"Break the ice, yeah," John said. "I remember. And I told you to…"

"Stick to ice," Sherlock completed, suddenly unsure that this had been the right choice.

An uncomfortable silence reigned for a moment as John apparently fought to remember how to breathe. Finally, he wheezed out, "Two years?" Another desperately long inhale. "You let me think you were … dead … for two years?"

Unexpectedly stung by the pain—pain which he had caused—Sherlock did what he always did. He lashed out. "I'm not the only one who was keeping secrets, Lord Undershaw."

John's jaw muscles pulled even tighter. "That's not the same, Sherlock. You killed yourself. Right in front of me."

"No, I didn't," Sherlock corrected. "Not dead, remember?"

There was rage building behind John's eyes now and Sherlock was reminded how lethal John Watson could be when driven to it and felt a moment of trepidation. His date (girlfriend?) apparently recognized the danger signs as well, because she stepped forward and laid a hand on John's arm. "There's obviously a lot to talk about, but is this really the place? I'm sure the press would be delighted to have a story this juicy come out of an otherwise routine charity event, but I'm guessing that's not what either of you want?"

John sucked in another harsh breath, blinking rapidly, and then stepped back, shaking his head. "No, you're right. This isn't the place to bring up the past … the dead past," he spat out. "Tonight is all about making new futures for men and women who have had their lives ripped away from them just because they were trying to do what they felt was right—a need I am all too familiar with."

And with another hard look at Sherlock, he turned on his heel and marched away, leaving Sherlock staring at the swinging door. He glanced down at the blonde, at Mary, knowing his perplexity was written on his face.

"You really know nothing about human nature, do you?" she asked.

"Nature? No…" He looked back at the closed door, wondering how this had gone so badly. "Human…?" He trailed off.

To his utter shock, she patted him on the arm. "Don't worry. I'll talk him round."

She smiled up at him and then was gone in a whiff of perfume and the slither of silk.

#

—Earl of Undershaw? SH

He sent the text and then leaned against the brick wall, longing for a cigarette. How had things spiralled out of control so quickly? He had had faith in his blogger's ability to survive and had been confident John would have forged a new life for himself—however dull—from the ashes of the old one. But, this? Sherlock admitted he had not seen this coming.

—Trouble in paradise?

Sherlock would swear that even the chime alerting him to Mycroft's text sounded smug.

—Why didn't you tell me? SH

—I thought you preferred to deduce things for yourself, brother mine?

And, damn him, it was true. Sherlock vastly preferred to see and touch and learn for himself. It was even possible that he would have disbelieved his brother had he told him—not that Mycroft made a habit of making jokes.

—Nevertheless. SH

It was all he could think to send back. He had worked toward this reunion since Moriarty had forced him to make that leap, and there was part of him that felt … bereft … that it hadn't gone as planned. By rights, he and John should be sitting together at 221B by now while he expounded on all the reasons the last two years had been necessary. Things should be back to normal—or as normal as they could manage, allowing for a certain readjustment period.

Instead, he was standing here alone with only his brother's texts for company.

He supposed he should be grateful that John had refrained from punching him.

—You do know that John's temper flares strongly but burns down quickly.

—Of course. SH

Sherlock put his phone back in his pocket and taking a deep breath, took one last glance at the ballroom door and then turned and walked down the hallway alone.

#

"What life? I've been away."

The words were haunting him now that the value of John's life had suddenly been forced into very clear, smoke-scented relief. The terror of the night before when he thought John's life would be lost in a spray of sparks and flame was haunting him, more immediate than the fear of Moriarty's snipers.

Sherlock had always been aware of a certain amount of hubris. Lack of confidence had never exactly been his problem, either, but how had he thought that John's life would not change at all during his absence? Oh, he might not have seen the Earldom coming (though he was going to have to look into how he'd missed the signs), but still—loyal though John might be, didn't the man deserve a life of his own, especially once presumably bereft of his best friend?

Because he was his best friend, thought Sherlock. He was reasonably confident that it went both ways, still. Once they got past this minor hiccup. Even with this new addition of Mary.

Mary … well, she had been a revelation. So much more interesting than John's prior girlfriends. They had all been insipid and interchangeable in every way except the most superficial differences like hair colour. But Mary … she had almost immediately offered to help bring John around to Sherlock's side, which was an act of generosity he had not seen coming. In his experience, John's girlfriends had tended toward jealousy where Sherlock was concerned. More interesting, she seemed to honestly care for John—even to love him.

That had been clear, last night. Her desperation as they worked to find and rescue John from the bonfire was proof of that. Most so-called normal people paid lip service to the importance of saving lives, but when John was yelling from that bonfire, had anyone tried to help? Had even one of those "normal," good, church-going people made a single move to put out the fire or help the man trapped underneath?

No, of course they hadn't.

Had it been up to that entire crowd of supposedly good and decent people, John would have burned to death, trapped as he was. They probably hadn't actively wished John any harm, but their lack of action to prevent it had had much the same affect.

But Mary … Mary had been right there in the thick of it, trying to help. Which made her quite literally extra-ordinary, since she had behaved outside the norm.

Sherlock supposed that the fact that she knew John might make a difference. She loved him, she said, and well, Sherlock could certainly understand how anyone, once they knew John Watson, would be unable to let him go without a fight. John deserved it, certainly, but Sherlock had been relieved to see it. At least John had settled for a woman who cared about him.

It had been all too appallingly close, though. John had been lucky to get away with a few cuts and smoke inhalation, along with whatever after-effects the sedative had left behind. The important thing was that he was relatively unharmed, though, and Sherlock couldn't be happier about that.

Well, "happy." That implied a rather brighter outlook than he was currently considering. Relieved, certainly, but there was also a sense of … guilt? Maybe, but definitely feeling disgust that after two years away doing everything he could to ensure John's safety, he had nearly been killed when Sherlock had been back less than 24 hours.

That was entirely unacceptable.

If there was any life Sherlock would do anything to keep from being snuffed out like a candle flame, it was John's.

No matter what careless words he had spoken to Mycroft yesterday, Sherlock was all too terrifyingly aware that John Watson's life was too valuable to waste.

Which is why he was here, standing outside John's rather elegant townhouse, vacillating as to whether he should ring the bell. Really, it was entirely unlike him, this waffling. That in itself was almost as worrying as the reception he might expect from inside.

He was just pausing (again) on the pavement when the door opened and Mary smiled out at him. "You might as well come in. He's worried you'll wear a hole into the pavement."

And with a sigh, Sherlock nodded and stepped inside. It was time to make amends.

#