Sherlock felt numb in the best way. It was not from unfeeling, but rather from feeling too much. His head was swimming, colors flashed and danced before his eyes, excitement pulsed beneath his skin, buzzing like bees. His heart was there, a strong thumping in his chest, and he tapped his foot to work off some of his unusual energy. And he was happy, so much so that he fought to keep a goofy grin from forming on his face, an impossible battle.

He had missed the city. The rush, the thrill of it all. He missed it so much he felt he could weep with relief, but he refrained.

And so he walked along, eyes darting everywhere, taking it all in, drinking it up like a parched man given water. His heart felt light, lighter than it had in years, and he felt it might float away if he wasn't careful. This was where he belonged.

His body ached, but he didn't care. He couldn't care, not when he was finally back.

He looked up, and a drop of rain splashed on his lips, and another on his eyebrow. His mouth curled, and he laughed, actually laughed, just from pure joy. He was finally done, and he could go home.

Sherlock walked in the rain until he reached Baker Street, smiling so much his face hurt, but he could not stop. He walked into the flat, growing suddenly nervous. He knew John would not be there, but he wondered how much had changed since he had last stood there, how much had been thrown out, and forgotten.

As he stepped inside, he looked around in amazement. It looked almost the exact same, although certainly dustier. Sherlock ran to the bathroom, and looked at the words that still held on the the mirror like he had held on to hope through the past years. Sherlock felt a wave of a strange emotion come over him, and he could only stare.

He was broken from his trance when he heard footsteps, and he turned to see Mrs Hudson. Her face changed from fear, to reverence, to anger, and finally joy. Sherlock smiled at her, opening his arms for her to embrace him.

She did, somewhat tearfully. She tries speaking, but it was clear that she didn't know what to say, so she just held him for a while, and Sherlock let her.

She let go, knowing that Sherlock was probably ready to go and find his other friends.

"Just- just don't leave again, understand?" she said, trying to sound stern, but choking over the last words. Sherlock just smiled wearily, shaking his head.

"I'm not sure I could." He spoke honestly and took his leave.

Sherlock didn't know where to find John. In years past, John would have been at the clinic, working, or right by Sherlock's side. But things change, and Sherlock had been distant for so long, he no longer knew what to expect.

He walked, seemingly aimlessly, thinking about where his friend could possibly be. There was a chance he would be at the clinic, but something told Sherlock that he would not find him there. But Sherlock didn't know whether he could trust his own self any longer on matters like these. He had been gone a long time. Far too long.

He walked and walked, going everywhere and nowhere, and after a while, his aches became noticeable, and he had the thought to hail a cab.

He attempted to do just that, but it seemed someone had gotten to it quicker. A man, middle aged, slight stature, sandy brown hair, and... Sherlock's eyes widened. He hurried over to the curb, wedging his way between the man and the cab, facing the man.

"Excuse me, but I really need this cab," he said, without a trace of apology. He glanced anxiously at John's face.

John sighed through his nose, opening his mouth to give a fragile response, but failing to do so as he looked at Sherlock blankly.

Sherlock felt something akin to pain, sharp and hot in his gut. He's forgotten.

Sherlock knew he was being irrational. The likelihood of John forgetting him entirely was very slim, but part of him wondered it John thought it would be better to have nothing, no trace whatsoever, and to get rid of him entirely. And it hurt.

The next thing Sherlock noticed was anger. Hot, boiling anger, intense and bright. Aimed at him.

Good. Anger was good. Anger is a secondary emotion, his brain supplied. Which meant John was feeling some other strong emotion, possibly relief or disbelief, and was only expressing it as anger.

Sherlock closed his eyes, expecting a blow, a punch, something. He didn't expect to be pulled into the cab.

Now it was just awkward. John was still angry, very much so, but Sherlock was happier than he had been in years. Neither man wanted to speak, and the air around them was tense.

"We're going to talk about this," John hissed, gritting his teeth guardedly, probably trying to control himself. "But not now."

Sherlock nodded, glad to hear John's voice after so long. It was the same, worn and hollow, but the same, and nothing had sounded so good in a long time.

"Of course we'll talk. You have questions, I have answers. And you're my blogger. What would be the point of going on an adventure if there was no one to tell the story?" Sherlock asked mildly, pensively.

John looked at him, startled, and then he nodded, swallowing thickly. "Right," he said, anger evaporating, for now.

John looked out the window, staring at, but not seeing, the cars and people go by. He felt overwhelmed. He was still angry, definitely, and also hurt, confused, and maybe relieved. But he couldn't deny that he was happy. He had missed his detective, more than anyone could know. He just hoped things wouldn't change too much since before all of this happened. Of course things would change, time had a funny way of doing that, but he hoped they would still be the very best of friends, through all time.

Sherlock looked at John, wondering what he was feeling. He was probably feeling sadness anew, fresher than the dull pain of the long years Sherlock was gone. It was strange, like reopening the wound once it had just started to heal. John would be glad to know Sherlock was safe, safe and alive, but seeing his face would haunt him for a while, having believed for so long that his friend was dead. It must have hurt him a lot, and Sherlock felt a twinge of guilt, even if it had been unavoidable. John's shoulders were stiffened, as though he was worried about something. Worried that Sherlock didn't need him anymore, as their encounter had, after all, been accidental.

And Sherlock realized that John really did care, perhaps more than Sherlock deserved, and the knowledge lit a little flame of happiness in his chest, small and warm.