Sherlock fell into a flurry of thoughts and time passed in a blur. He didn't hear the footsteps coming up the stairs behind him and he didn't notice the door open out of the corner of his eye. He did however hear the small squeak that Mrs Hudson emitted before collapsing into a dead faint on the floor. He frowned and lifted her gently onto the bed, then fetched a glass of water and waited for her to come round, which didn't take long. She gasped when she opened her eyes and saw him kneeling beside the bed. She just whispered: "Sherlock... oh, Sherlock..."
"It's all right, Mrs Hudson."
"Oh Sherlock, I thought you were dead! And John, and your brother- and that nice policeman! Where on earth were you? What happened?"
"I can't tell you now, Mrs Hudson, I'm afraid it would take too long. Tell me quickly now, where is John?"
"He said he was going to the only place he could stand to be. He's gone back to Afghanistan."
Sherlock felt his breath leave him in a rush. No John. Possibly no John for a long while. He had always been in control of his emotions, but right now he felt as shredded as that day on the rooftop at St Bart's. And he felt... abandoned.
"You abandoned him, Sherlock. We all thought you were dead. John said he saw it happen, the poor love. A year ago he pulled himself together, swept away the mess you'd made of him, dear, and came down one morning all ready to leave. Wouldn't hear a word against the idea."
Sherlock listened to Mrs Hudson with half an ear. It seemed he had incorrectly computed the effects of his death on John. Did John feel how Sherlock felt now, empty and cold?
"I need to know," Sherlock cut off Mrs Hudson's ramblings. "How long will he be away?"
"He was deployed about six months ago Sherlock. Before that, he had to do some basic fitness training, but they wanted him back. Experience, you know."
"Yes, yes," he said impatiently. "But when will he be back here?"
"He doesn't live here any more, Sherlock, he has officer's quarters on his regimental barracks when he's in the country. As far as I know, his company is coming back on Friday, I think he said. Mentioned he might pop over if he had the time."
"Thank you."
Sherlock collected his thoughts. John was returning from a six month deployment in Afghanistan in three days. He would wait here, in London, maybe even in 221B for him. And Sherlock would try and make things okay. He would make John not hate him. Sherlock was sure that was how John would feel, because right now he hated John.