[5:14 PM] Sherlock, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way.

[5:16 PM] I mean, I didn't mean it at all. It was a stupid thing to say.

[5:29 PM] Sherlock, would you come back? I need to talk to you.

[5:39 PM] At least answer. Say something. So I know you're all right.

[5:52 PM] Stupid. Of course you're not all right. Just answer, would you?

[6:11 PM] I'm sorry. I was angry. Leaving a child in danger is a Bit Not Good.

[6:25 PM] I've seen what happens when a bomb goes off, Sherlock.

[6:27 PM] And I've seen what it can do to a child.

[6:41 PM] Do you understand why that might bother me?

[6:58 PM] Sherlock, I'm trying to talk to you here.

[7:10 PM] If you aren't going to answer me, I don't know what I can do.

[7:12 PM] I've apologized. Twice. I'm sorry.

[7:34 PM] I'm ordering Chinese. Your usual. Come back.

[7:39 PM] Please.

[8:01 PM] I know you've got your mobile. I've checked, it's not here.

[8:17 PM] Sherlock, this isn't a bloody game. You could be hurt.

[8:20 PM] Please don't get hurt.

[8:22 PM] And don't do anything stupid.

[8:44 PM] Lestrade's come round. Wants to ask you some questions.

[8:55 PM] I'll have him text you, then, shall I?

[9:15 PM] He's having your takeaway. Your loss.

[9:51 PM] Lestrade's gone. You can text him now. I won't see.

[10:09 PM] I'm sorry.

[10:18 PM] I was being stupid. I was angry. People are irrational when they're angry.

[10:19 PM] You ought to know that by now.

[10:33 PM] I didn't know it bothered you so much.

[10:35 PM] That's no excuse. I just… want you to know it wasn't on purpose.

[11:05 PM] Will you come back?

[11:21 PM] Are you somewhere safe?

[11:30 PM] Oh, god, I hope you're just ignoring me.

[11:49 PM] Mycroft, are you monitoring Sherlock's texts? If you are, will you let me know if he's all right?

[11:56 PM] Never mind that last text.

[12:04 AM] For the record, he didn't answer.

[12:11 AM] This is stupid. For all I know, you're having tea with Mrs. Hudson.

[12:12 AM] Or Mycroft.

[12:14 AM] Look, I'm an idiot. My incoherent babbling should tell you that much.

[12:17 AM] Please forgive me.

[12:24 AM] Please come home.

"Sherlock, it's… it's John. Of course, you know that already. From the phone number. Or you deduced it. It wouldn't have been that hard. I… god, listen to me, I'm buggering this up royally. Look, I'm going to try again, all right?"

"Sherlock, it's John. I'm sorry about that other message. Please delete it. And I'm sorry we argued. It's something we need to talk about, though. Can you come home? Or let me know you're all right? And… Sherlock, about what I said… it was stupid, it was unbelievably stupid, I… I don't even know what I could possibly say that would make things all right again between us, but I'll do it, whatever it takes… You must know I didn't mean it, don't you? You must know it was just a stupid, stupid thing… I was angry, you were… well… anyway, it's not true, Sherlock, you're not… that… look, would you just come home? Please?"

Sherlock's mobile buzzed again. For the thirty-eighth time. He had been studiously ignoring the texts, but this time, on a whim, he pulled out his phone and opened the message. The time across the screen caught his attention more than the words below it, although he couldn't help but scan those briefly as well.

12:24

Please come home.

Not likely, he thought drily.

Briefly scrolling up through the preceding thirty-seven, another caught his eye.

9:51

Lestrade's gone. You can text him now. I won't see.

Why on earth should he text Lestrade? It wasn't as though there were anything he could do for him. Nothing that Sherlock couldn't do more easily without his knowledge, anyway.

He might as well. Get a jump start on the case the following morning. Why not? After all, he could hardly go back to Baker Street.

"Damn." His pockets were empty. Curse this wretched warm weather – his coat pockets were so much bigger. Sherlock huffed out an impatient breath. "Damn."

He would have to go back to Baker Street.

It wasn't that he didn't feel safe on the streets. It certainly wasn't that he had gone soft. It was just that now, especially when he had a case, he didn't want to tempt his demons.

Already on the walk back he had seen several huddled groups, either on the sidewalk, or slumped against alley walls – walls behind which he knew were more tangled masses – snorting, smoking, and shooting up.

They posed no threat to him. Only to his work.

He had slept on the streets before – for cases – so it wasn't as though he were unfamiliar with the grounds, but now, after what might have been the largest emotional upheaval he had experienced in years, he did not quite trust himself to keep walking.

Baker Street was out, as was Mycroft's. Both went without saying. He had briefly toyed withthe idea of asking Lestrade to put him up (also wouldn't be the first time), but had eventually dismissed that as well. Lestrade would make too easy a target should John decide to come looking, in addition to which, Sherlock hardly thought anyone in that household would approve of his imposing himself on them in that way. It had been different before, but Lestrade had since resigned his post as minder, and Sherlock respected that. To an extent.

The extent ended well before mild forms of identity theft, but as Sherlock had left Lestrade's ID badge in the flat…

He would have to go and get it.

2:53

John stared blearily at the clock, trying to work out the significance of the numbers it was displaying. No wonder Sherlock never slept, if the couch was always this godda–

Sherlock

John froze, not even breathing, and listened with every anatomical part of his ear. There! A slight rustle, no louder than a sigh heard from another room, but it was there.

Sherlock

He didn't know if this was why he had woken up, or if this was merely fate smiling upon him, but either way, he wasn't just going to lie here when he was – what? Angry? Beyond that. Pissed off? Depressed? Homicidal? Hurt? Or… hurt?

"Oh, god…" John scrambled off of the sofa with impressive speed and careened around the various… items… on the floor until he was clear of the sitting room, and staggered upright. "Oh, god…"

Was he expecting to see him dripping blood? Swaying or rapidly losing conciousness? Was he expecting to be punched in the face? Have his (their?) flat set aflame? Whatever he expected, it wasn't this.

Sherlock in the entrance of the kitchen, frozen in the midst of slipping something into his pocket.

John was frozen as well, trying to register everything at once. Sherlock here, Sherlock back, but… was he back? Or just back? To get something?

Mind flailing like a drowning man, John grasped for the words that would not come until he finally managed to haul his way back to vocality, and coughed up the first sentence that surfaced. "Why did you come back?" No! No! No no no! That wasn't what he meant, how had it come out like that? How had it not come out 'God, Sherlock, I was so scared for you, and I'm so inarticulately sorry for my utter, boneheaded stupidity, and how can you have come back after what I said? Am I forgiven, or are you only here to say goodbye?' How had it not come out like that? How had it, instead, served only to slam a barrier down in the minute space that he had thought was beginning to show signs of opening?

Expression completely blank, Sherlock completed the action John had interrupted. Slowly withdrawing his hand from his pocket, he raised an eyebrow, almost imperceptibly.

"Leaving, as a matter of fact." Catching John's apparently bewildered expression, he added somewhat coldly, "Not to fret, I'll be gone in a trice." With that, he turned and began gliding down the stairs. He was at the landing before John had got up enough voice to reply.

"'Not to fret'?" he called down to Sherlock. "What d'you think I've been doing the last seven hours if not fretting?"

Sherlock paused, and thought for a moment before supplying his response.

"Having a cozy chat with Anderson and Donovan?" Only the slightest hint of sarcasm.

"Now, hang on a minute, that's completely unjustified – "

"Yes, well," interupted Sherlock in a carrying voice, easily overriding John's, "terribly sorry, but I can't afford to dally. Adieu."

"– What?"

But Sherlock was already gone, down the stairs, opening the door, and by the time John had fully realized what had just taken place, the detective had vanished yet again.

Stupid, stupid, stupid! Sherlock berated himself as he took the streets once more. He had almost made it, but he hadn't expected John to be on the couch, and John had moved that book – it had been perfectly balanced earlier that afternoon – and he had been caught. Stupid stupid stupid!

Turning back onto the side streets (harder to be followed, harder to be tracked by Mycroft), he set out for Scotland Yard.