The cold moist air coming off the Pacific filled John's lungs as he left the reception area of the resort, duffel bag in hand. He wished he'd been allowed to drive his rental car all the way up the mountain, but the posh resort insisted on limiting traffic by shuttling visitors up by hybrid SUV. The soldier in him agitated against loss of control, but the peaceful environment suited his mood. He was exhausted, but also grateful his search for Sherlock was finally coming to an end. He had refused the offer of a ride to the secluded coast house that was his final destination. He needed a hike in the dwindling daylight to help him plan what he was going to say to Sherlock once he finally saw him.

It had been a long journey. John had waited a week after his poorly thought out kiss to send a text to Sherlock. When it went unanswered for three days, John showed up at Baker Street.

Sherlock was not there.

Mrs. Hudson emerged from her flat as John started up the stairs. "If you're looking for Sherlock, I don't know when he'll be coming back. He's gone on a trip. Said he needed to get away for awhile."

"That's my fault, I'm afraid."

"Oh, did the two of you have a fight?"

"Something like that. Any idea of where he might have gone?"

"No idea at all, dear. Why don't you go up and search for clues? I'll bring you a cuppa in a few."

"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson. Sounds good."

The flat was much the same as when John was last there. John hung up his jacket and noted the absence of Sherlock's coat. John glanced around the sitting room. The violin was missing, as expected if Sherlock planned on being gone for more than a week. Nothing else seemed out of place, more than usual. Nothing noticeable added to the disorder. John ran his fingers over the Union Jack pillow and resisted the urge to bury his nose in the blanket on the sofa.

The rattling of porcelain on a tray announced Mrs. Hudson's arrival. "Find anything yet?"

"Not yet." John gestured for Mrs. Hudson to sit down in his chair. He accepted a cup of tea from her and perched on the table that served as Sherlock's desk. "Thank you for this."

"Don't mention it, dear." Mrs. Hudson paused to sip her tea. "I've missed bringing Sherlock his tea and biscuits. I've been trying to keep him on a regular eating schedule."

"You're a saint."

"Well, he doesn't function as well without you."

"Turns out the same is true for me." John lifted the teacup to his mouth, willing his hand to stay steady.

Mrs. Hudson tilted her head and fixed John with her piercing gaze. "What's going on?"

"Just the usual, Mrs. Hudson. I've fucked everything up."

Not able to withstand her scrutiny, John placed his cup on the table and paced the room. Avoiding the pity in his former landlady's eyes, he picked up a piece of paper from Sherlock's music stand, obviously his latest composition.

"Nepenthe", he murmured.

"Oh, is that its name? It's such a sad tune. He's been working on it on and off ever since you returned to Mary."

John did not know for certain how much Mrs. Hudson knew about what had really happened with Mary. Probably all of it, without even being told.

The name sparked Mrs. Hudson's curiosity. "Nepenthe… funny word, isn't it? I wonder what it means?"

"Let's find out." John looked up the term on his phone. "A drug described by ancient writers as banishing grief or trouble from a person's mind." After he read it aloud, he gasped, "Jesus. He wasn't using before he left, was he?"

Mrs. Hudson rose from her chair and stood next to John, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "I'm positive he wasn't. Mycroft was here a few times and never seemed troubled, and otherwise Sherlock had been working on that case with you."

John continued to scroll down. "It's also the name of a restaurant in Big Sur, California."

"Well, that sounds much more pleasant."

The thumbnail images for the restaurant triggered a memory. "Hold on, Sherlock's been there. He told me about it once." John pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes to recall the conversation.

"We were on a case last year, hunting down a crack shot, and Sherlock mentioned his time away. He said the case reminded him of a chase surrounded by families and beauty and if his sniper found him, he hoped to break his fall in the trees that covered the cliffs on the way down." John shook his head. "I reacted poorly to the mention of a fall, still so angry. Sherlock stopped talking and never shared anything else about his time away."

Mrs. Hudson pulled him into a hug as he said, "I regret that now. I have so many regrets."

And as John approached the wood and metal building overlooking tree-covered cliffs leading to the sea, he knew he would have always regretted not following his instincts, which brought him here to the Central California coast. Big Sur.

No stopping now, John thought, and he rapped sharply on the door.

Sherlock opened the door, and John almost wept at the gently pleased look upon Sherlock's face. With his doctor's eyes, John scrutinized Sherlock's health: freshly bathed and dressed in his usual comfort clothing of choice - t-shirt, pajama bottoms, and dressing gown, the blue one this time. His eyes were bright, but clear, and John relaxed a bit, assured Sherlock had not turned to drugs.

While John had been conducting his appraisal, Sherlock had been conducting one of his own. "You look like hell, John."

"Well, thanks. This isn't the first place I stopped. I tried the resort with all the yurts first."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "I've seen you drive, and the fact you've survived Highway 1 while exhausted is a miracle."

Both men laughed, and the tension subsided a bit. Sherlock stepped back to wave John into his suite. It was light and airy and modern, and John immediately wanted to hide there for weeks. The view out of the floor-to-ceiling windows caught his eye, as did the deck. "Is that a stainless steel hot tub?"

"Yep. And it's well shielded from the wind. Quite peaceful out there."

Sherlock sat down on the sofa, and John took the leather armchair. They appreciated the scenery in silence, and then John said, "Eleven hour flight from Heathrow to SFO. Hopped into a rental car and started driving south. Tried the resort with the yurts first, because it sounded so much like you. Then the place with the cinnamon rolls, because of your sweet tooth. Thought this place was too posh, even for you."

Sherlock chuckled. "I did stay in the yurts when I was here previously. Didn't know about the place with the cinnamon rolls." He turned to face John, curling his legs up onto the sofa. "But I chose this place because Mrs. Hudson made me promise to eat and take care of myself while I was away."

Sherlock looked directly at John. "And I do keep my promises, John."

One more miracle. A first and last vow.

"I know you do," John whispered.

The sunset burned red over the ocean. Neither man seemed to need more than silent companionship. As the sun finally dipped below the horizon, Sherlock said, "Too much marine layer in the distance for a green flash tonight. Maybe tomorrow."

Not wanting to assume he'd be welcome to stay, John replied, "Maybe."

"You must be hungry. The mini-bar is surprisingly well-stocked, or I could request food from the resort's restaurant, if you prefer?"

"Mini-bar will do, thanks."

John moved to rise from his chair, but Sherlock raised his hand. "Allow me to play host, since you've traveled so far."

John slumped back in his chair. "I'm too tired to even pretend to protest."

Sherlock smirked and then walked over to the bar. John closed his eyes and had actually drifted off for a few moments before Sherlock tapped him on the shoulder.

"Seriously?" John surveyed the table full of local cheeses, dried fruits and nuts, crackers, and craft beer. "Clearly we've been staying at the wrong places."

"Do you want to know how much this place costs?"

"Nope."

Sherlock grabbed one of the bottles of beer and raised it. John brought the other up to Sherlock's and tapped it in a gentle toast. Neither man spoke, but John believed they both were toasting the other and their future.

They ate in what was still an unexpectedly comfortable silence, considering the circumstances. Finally sated, John opened his mouth to start the conversation he'd come thousands of miles to have, but Sherlock interrupted him.

"Not now, John. You're exhausted, and you're terrible at these sorts of conversations to begin with, even worse than I am, so let's wait until tomorrow." Sherlock's expression was unsure, worried he had upset John. "Okay?"

"Yeah." John averted his gaze. The deepening blue of the sky was a safer sight than Sherlock's open, vulnerable face. "I wish I was better at this sort of thing, Sherlock. You deserve better than what I can give."

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. "Nonsense, John. I find your incompetence strangely soothing."

"Shut it." John smiled, grateful for Sherlock's understanding.

Sherlock responded with a rude gesture, before ruining it by saying, "Go to sleep. Take the bed. You'll be more comfortable."

"You sure?"

"I'll be able to sleep just fine on this sofa. Have done a few times since I've arrived. But just a warning, I'll have to pass through the bedroom to get to the bathroom, so I might disturb you."

"I've dealt with worse." Sleep beckoned to John, but he did not want to retire for the night so soon after seeing Sherlock again. "Will you be disappointed if I go to bed this early?"

"You need your rest." Sherlock picked up a tablet from the floor next to the sofa. "And I've been catching up on the Journal of Forensic and Legal Medicine. I'll have plenty to occupy me."

Satisfied, John said, "Thank you, Sherlock, for everything."

Sherlock nodded curtly, and John forced himself up out of the chair. He grabbed his duffel and walked into the bedroom. One entire wall was windows, and the view would be spectacular during the day. However, that is not what attracted John's attention. He called out, "I think the bed is bigger than my entire room at Baker Street!"

"Go to sleep!"

John smiled to himself as he gathered his toiletries and went into the bathroom. The soaking tub was tempting, but fatigue won out. After brushing his teeth and washing the day's travels off, John examined himself in the mirror. He appeared more content than he had in months, even in these strange, fancy surroundings. More than ever, he knew the decision to follow Sherlock to California was the right one. John never felt more at peace, more at home than he did when he was with Sherlock.

Still, as he was burrowing under the soft duvet, John could not help but feel uncertain. The reunion had gone better than expected, but would it last?

"Will you still be here when I wake up?" John pitched his voice just loud enough to be heard in the adjacent room.

Sherlock's quick response was easily audible. "Yes, John, I promise."