Sherlock stared at the retreating cab, his pulse hammering in his ears, his vision swimming. He was aware that there were other people on the pavement and other vehicles in the street, but the information his brain normally collected was disregarded. All he could see was John's cab disappearing up the street. He stood frozen, feeling rooted to the ground, unable to move. Other pedestrians were looking at him curiously – he could almost feel it.

Suddenly, the sensation of being watched was too much and he stormed back inside, slamming the door behind him. Sherlock leaned against the wall, tilting his head back and digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. He managed a deep, sucking gasp, then slid down the wall to seated, his left leg extended in front of him, his right drawn up to his chest. He dropped his head, resting his forehead on his knee, and gripped his hair. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, breathing hard, then bit his lip against a moan when he realised John had walked out on him.

He heard footsteps before Mrs. Hudson's door opened and managed to push himself up fast. He stepped onto the first stair to make it appear she'd caught him going up, then schooled his expression into irritated indifference. Sherlock closed one hand over the banister to keep it from shaking visibly.

"Everything all right, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson asked, stepping into the hallway, looking up at him. He glanced down, acting as though he were surprised to see her there.

"Fine, Mrs. Hudson," he lied through clenched teeth, aware that his voice was little more than a hiss.

"I thought I heard shouting, dear. Had a little domestic?"

He stared at her, then recalled that her hearing was going and that she needed a hearing aid but had so far refused to get one.

"No," he replied. It wasn't precisely a lie. To call it a "little domestic" was entirely inaccurate.

He stalked up the stairs before she could ask anything else, closed the door to his flat in a hurry, then turned around slowly. Sherlock leaned back against the door, breathing hard again, aware of how suffocatingly silent it was. He could hear the echo of their last words and the reverberating finality of John slamming the door behind him.

He felt a surge of fear and frustration and the combination made his legs weak. Sherlock pressed himself harder against the door, leaning forward. He raised his eyes, letting them sweep over the flat. He saw the mess – really saw it – for the first time. Every available surface was covered, littered with piles of papers and files and maps and books.

He felt like the space in which he stood against the door was the only uncluttered area in his home – until he realized that the bedroom was still clean, because John refused to have any of Sherlock's work where they slept.

He fled into the bedroom then stopped short, closing his eyes and sucking in a deep breath.

It smelled of John. The bed was rumpled from having been slept in the previous night – John hadn't bothered making it, which was unlike him. Sherlock tried to remember the last time he had slept in their bed. Before Mycroft had been injured. And then it had only been sleeping, both of them tense at the presence of the other in the bed. Not exactly angry. Uncertain.

Sherlock sat down on the bed, suddenly exhausted. He dropped his head into his hand and shuddered as the silence in the flat pressed down on him. He felt it constricting his lungs and gasped in a deep breath, trying to push back against the cold, oppressive feeling. The flat without John was too big, too empty, too hollow. He felt that emptiness settle into his chest and leaned over, closing his eyes and raking his hands through his hair.

The memory of John's laughter assailed him without warning and his eyes flew open again as he caught his lower lip against a gasp. It had been a quiet sound, a chuckle deep in his chest that gave way to quiet moans and whimpers as Sherlock had worked his way down John's body with his tongue and teeth. He could still feel John shifting restlessly beneath him, his hands running up Sherlock's back before his fingers dug into Sherlock's shoulders.

The night before he'd caught Sherlock smoking. It felt like a lifetime ago. He remembered John in Edinburgh, in his kilt, and the image made him shudder. He'd made John shout that night, heedless of the other hotel guests.

He'd made John shout today – but in hurt and anger. The sound of John yelling at him rushed back to him, drowning out everything else. Sherlock hugged arms around himself and leaned forward even more, staring the floor, a small moan escaping his lips. He wanted to curl up and not move, but everything here reminded him of John. The sights, the smells, the lack of sounds. Each breath made him inhale John's scent in the bed and seared his lungs. His eyes stung and he squeezed them shut, refusing to give in.

He pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the momentary dizziness that came from not enough sleep or food and too much anxiety. Sherlock steadied himself with raw, unforgiving effort, and forced himself to leave the bedroom. He couldn't stay in the flat. He couldn't stay here alone with all these reminders of John. It hurt too much, hurt with every breath. He wanted to call his husband and beg and plead for John to come home, but he was terrified that John wouldn't even bother to answer. He wanted to go to Tricia's and pound on the door and demand to see John, but Tricia wouldn't let him in. He couldn't face these things, not here, not now.

There was only one other place right now he could think to go.

"Let me go!"

"Never."

"Sam!" Sandra protested, but undermined her disapproval by laughing and flashing him a grin over her shoulder. "I'm trying to bake."

"I don't see why you can't do that with me here," he replied, bending over enough to rest his chin on her shoulder, tightening his arms around her waist. He grinned then pressed a kiss against her cheek.

"Because I need to move around," she replied reasonably, still smiling at him.

"Well, I'll just move with you," he said and she rolled her eyes.

"Do you want me to finish these scones or not?"

"Hmm," Sam said, resting his chin on her shoulder, pretending to contemplate it. "I'll go with 'or not'."

Sandra flicked her flour-covered fingers at him. Sam coughed as he inhaled the fine powder and pulled away, laughing. Sandra slipped out his grasp and turned around, waving the small bottle she'd been holding in her left hand threateningly at him.

"A bottle of vanilla somehow fails to seem very intimidating," Sam said, advancing on her slowly.

"I could pour it over your head."

"Go on," he said with a nod and a wide grin. "I know you like the smell."

"Mm, then I might not be able to keep my hands off you," she commented.

"I'm really not seeing a problem with this," Sam replied, arching an eyebrow. Sandra reached behind her into the bowl on the counter and puffed another handful of flour into his face. He stopped, coughing and laughing, and held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"All right, all right, you win," he said with a grin and Sandra gave a triumphant "ha!". "Pass me the dish towel."

"I don't know, I kind of like you like that," she replied and kissed him quickly. Sam caught her face between his hands and kissed her back, leaving flour on her lips, then he snagged the towel and wiped himself off, clearing his throat to get rid of the floury taste in his mouth.

"I hope those taste better when they're finished," he commented.

"Oi!" Sandra protested. She grabbed the towel from him, swatted his arm hard with it, then wound it round his neck and pulled him down for a kiss. "Out of my kitchen, Gabriel Mitchell, and you'll be lucky if you get anything when I'm done here."

"Your threats are meaningless," he growled and kissed her again.

"Let me at least finish this. Then we'll talk."

"Talking isn't exactly what I had in mind."

"Hmm," Sandra said, standing on her toes, her lips almost touching his, her breath warm against skin. "Well then you may have to work at changing my mind. Half an hour. Have a nap. You'll need your strength."

"Will I?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow.

She just smiled, her blue eyes glinting, and unwound the towel from around his neck before hanging it back up. Sam stole another kiss then ducked out of the kitchen before she could retaliate, heading into the living room of their small flat. A nap might be welcome, actually. He eyed the couch which looked inviting and then glanced toward the bedroom, frowning. If he went to bed, he'd probably fall asleep for the rest of the day and he was trying to avoid that. Not just for the obvious reason, but because he needed to get back into a regular sleeping pattern after the murder of that Welsh MP, Brace, late Wednesday night. Falling asleep fully now would mean being awake in the middle of the night.

He probably wasn't going to avoid that anyway, but he could always hope.

He sighed and moved the newspaper that he'd left on the couch to the coffee table and was about to sit down when the sound of a key in their lock made him go cold. Sam's eyes snapped to the door, then he was going for his gun before he realized he was moving. Sandra came out of the kitchen, looking puzzled.

"Back in the kitchen!" he barked at her, swinging his gun up to the door, aiming it with practiced ease. Sandra hesitated, watching him, startled.

"Sandra!" he snapped. "Now!"

The door was pushed open and Sam stepped to block his wife from immediate view, keeping the gun trained on the door, his eyes narrowed in concentration. He held his breath, heart hammering – then his brain registered who it was.

Sherlock and John did have a key to their flat, in case of emergencies.

Sherlock was standing in his door, looking pale, tired, and suddenly shocked at having a gun aimed at him. Sam kept the weapon up, feeling a sharp rush of relief and exhaustion coupled with anger. The detective stood frozen, everything in his stance suggesting he was not going to make any sudden movements.

Sam exhaled hard, aware of how fast his heart was racing, how tight his lungs felt, how shaky his legs were. He'd been all right the past two days, he really had. But had been all right with a lot of effort. He generally didn't have to work at it so much now, nearly five years later, but he did have his bad days. Particularly when he was unexpectedly confronted with a murder victim who had been pushed off a bridge to his death.

Sam had actually managed to make it home from that crime scene before throwing up everything he'd eaten that day and then sitting on the floor of the bathroom for half an hour just to make sure he wasn't going to get sick again. He'd sent an email to his boss saying he was taking a sick day the following day, had taken one of his strong sleeping pills and slept for twelve hours. When he'd awoken in the middle of the day on Thursday, feeling groggy, dehydrated, and nauseous, Sandra had been sitting cross-legged on their bed, watching him intently.

He'd realized he hadn't even left her a note. He had promised to let her know if he was going to be taking one of those pills because they knocked him out so thoroughly and for so long. Of course she'd heard the news story about Brace's death and when he checked his phone, he saw she'd been trying to reach him. That meant all night at work worrying about where he was, if he was working on that case.

Since then he hadn't taken any sleeping medications and he thought perhaps he'd had a total of eight hours sleep in the last forty-eight hours.

He didn't actually remember falling from the bridge, but that didn't make Brace's death any easier to bear. It hit far too close to home. And the reason he'd been there was standing in the door to his flat, looking like someone had just pulled his entire world from out under his feet.

"Sam," Sandra said gently.

"I know," he told her, nodding and not looking away from Sherlock. When he spoke to the detective, his voice dropped, turning into a growl. "You really think it's a good idea to just walk in here unannounced? Do you remember what happened the last time someone broke into my flat?"

Sherlock looked surprised – Of course he bloody looks surprised, Sam thought, feeling anger flash through him, hot on the heels of the adrenaline spike. He adjusted his grip on his gun then forced himself to lower it, his muscles fighting him. He clenched his jaw and put the gun aside carefully, making sure the safety was on.

He had no doubt Sherlock remembered what had happened the last time someone had broken into Sam's flat – it wasn't a day either of them were going to forget. But he wasn't in the least bit shocked that Sherlock hadn't thought of it when deciding to break in himself.

He'd probably point out that it was a different circumstance altogether and that it was late afternoon, not the middle of the night, that it was a different flat, anything like that. Sam knew these things – he also knew Moriarty was dead and therefore in no position to invade his home, but telling himself that and getting his body to believe it were sometimes two different things.

Sherlock would really see it that way, though.

Just like he'd see a significant difference between a man falling into the river from a bridge and surviving and a man falling onto the road from a bridge and dying.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" Sam snapped, unable to shake the irritation. Sherlock looked tired. Good. Sam was tired. He wanted a decent night's sleep. He wanted an apology for having been summoned to a crime scene where he didn't need to be. He didn't remember the fall, but he remembered bits and pieces of being in the hospital afterwards. Mostly what he remembered from that was pain.

And now, whenever he closed his eyes, he saw Brace's body splattered on the road. He might not remember the actual fall, but he thought he might remember the terror. At very least, he could imagine what it must have felt like.

Sam clamped down hard on that. The three of them were still frozen in their tableau, Sam glaring at Sherlock, Sherlock staring at him, Sandra standing behind Sam. He glanced over his shoulder quickly to make sure she was all right, then swung his gaze back to Sherlock.

Sam couldn't quash the aggravation that came with having the first few moments in the past two days in which he'd felt somewhat normal be interrupted. He was as low on patience as he was on sleep and he'd gladly turned the McKinney case over to someone else. If Sherlock was there to complain about that, there would be hell to pay.

"What's so bloody important that you had to bloody well break into my flat?" he demanded, annoyed that Sherlock looked so tired and flustered – why should he? "If you were worried about me, you could have called! I actually do answer my phone, you know."

There was a brief flash of befuddlement on Sherlock's face and Sam felt his jaw and shoulders tighten involuntarily. Of course. Sherlock wasn't worried about him. It had probably not even occurred to him that Sam would even be upset about anything.

"John left," Sherlock said, the first words he'd spoken, Sam realised. His voice was flat, hollow, almost stunned. Sam came up short, frowning.

"What do you mean, John left?" he demanded.

"He left," Sherlock repeated, without any inflection, any of the irritation he normally displayed when he had to repeat something.

"Well, what the bloody hell did you do this time?" Sam snapped. He knew as soon as he said it that he shouldn't have. He saw the wince of panic on Sherlock's face. But his patience was already strained and he didn't have the energy to be sympathetic.

"No, don't answer that," Sam said, cutting Sherlock off when the detective opened his mouth to reply. "I don't even want to know. I'm far too tired to be able to care – do you know why I'm tired? Because some bloody idiot called me to a crime scene where the victim was tossed off a bridge! How much do you think I've slept in the past couple of days, Sherlock? Want to give it a guess? Do you want to deduce by my face and eyes and stance how many hours I've been awake because I can't sleep without seeing Brace in a puddle on the road and knowing that so easily could have been me?"

He stopped when Sandra squeezed his arm lightly, taking a breath and holding it. Sherlock was staring at him in shock and Sam let his breath out slowly through gritted teeth. Yes, of course this was the first time Sherlock was bloody well realising that.

"No, I'm not listening to any of this, not right now," Sam muttered, shaking his head and pulling away from Sandra gently. "I'm going for a walk." He stalked to the door, grabbed his keys, then turned back to face his wife, pulling his phone from his pocket.

"I've got my phone on," he said and Sandra nodded, looking concerned. Sam shook his head slightly at her – if he left and walked off the steam, he'd be all right. He knew he was being selfish, that Sherlock probably needed him, but he'd learned his own limits. Through a lot of effort, he'd learned when he needed to be selfish for his own well-being. But there were limits there, too – Sandra needed to be able to get ahold of him when he needed some time out.

"All right," she said.

"I love you," Sam said, forcing the words out, not because they were difficult to say, but because he was not in a mood to feel generous about anything.

"I love you, too."

"I'll be an hour at most."

She nodded and he stalked out the door, closing it behind him, taking care not to slam it.