Molly's at work, inspecting a severed arm, when she hears a familiar voice over her shoulder.
"Molly?"
She looks up, surprised, and smiles at John. He's standing about two feet away with a slightly hesitant look on his face, as though he's reluctant to know exactly what she's doing with severed body parts.
"Hello, John," Molly says, brushing a stray hair out of her face before remembering she didn't take her gloves off first. Gross. "It's been a while. How're Abigail and Mary?"
"Ah, yeah, it has been—a long time," John fumbles. "And Abigail's doing really well. Mary too, they're both—great."
Molly sets the arm aside and gives John her full attention.
"Is something wrong? Is it Sherlock?"
John looks a little relieved.
"I have a few questions for you about him, actually. Can I buy you lunch?"
Twenty minutes later, they're sitting in the St. Bart's canteen, Molly idly picking apart some mushy pasta as John sips on a depressing cup of tea.
"All right," Molly says, pointing her fork at John. "You bought me lunch. Now talk."
"Have you spoken to Sherlock recently?" John asks, fiddling with his napkin.
"I did about a week and a half ago. He wanted me to help him babysit again, but I was out of town. I haven't heard from him since. Why?"
"Wait, hang on," John looks perplexed. "You've helped him babysit? When?"
"About five or six times now, I think," Molly says, and then stops. John's face is a little weird. "Didn't you know?" she asks in surprise. "I've been to your house at least three of those times."
"No." John runs a hand over his mouth, confirming Molly's suspicions. "So you've been — you've been helping him babysit." He laughs. "I guess that makes sense. He never was very good with kids."
"I think he's quite good with Abigail," Molly says, a little more sharply than she intended. "He holds her and talks to her, and he makes sure she isn't alone. He just doesn't know what to do when she starts crying, that's all. And he doesn't always remember to feed her."
"Right." John lets out a long breath. "Right, so — he's asked you for help."
"I think it makes him feel better, to be honest," Molly confesses. "I don't think he trusts himself with her."
"Well that's rubbish," John says. "I know he'd never, you know, hurt her. Deliberately, anyway."
"But what about accidentally?" Molly points out. John stares at her for a moment.
"Oh," he says, as though he's just realized something.
"Is Sherlock okay?" Molly asks, because she's a little alarmed by John's thoughtful expression.
"I don't know," John says truthfully. "He's holed himself up in his flat all week. He refuses to speak with anyone, even Mrs. Hudson. I've forced my way inside once or twice and offered to go on a case with him, but he just ignores me."
"That is a little weird," Molly agrees with a frown.
"No, it's stubborn, is what it is," John says, and stands up abruptly. "Thanks, Molly. You've been a great help."
Molly huffs into her pasta as John practically sprints out of the canteen.
"You're welcome," she tells the empty seat.
"He's gone where?"
"Abroad, apparently," Mrs. Hudson explains, and John stares at her incomprehensibly. "He didn't say where, exactly. But it sounded like he'll be gone for at least a week."
"But why?" John says desperately. Mrs. Hudson shrugs.
"It could be for a case. This isn't the first time he's gone away, you know. He's been out quite often ever since your Abigail came along."
John stares at her, the wheels turning in his head. Sherlock doesn't leave the flat to go sightseeing—he always leaves to conduct research or to work on a case. Maybe he is on a case right now. It'd be about time.
"Right," John says, "I'm just going to check in with Greg. I'll see you in a bit."
"Bye, John," Mrs. Hudson sighs.
Outside 221B, John pulls out his mobile and calls Lestrade. But it turns out that Sherlock isn't on a case at all.
"I haven't seen him since the shooting," Lestrade admits, and he sounds a tad worried now. "Has he been holding up alright?"
"I don't know," John says, which is the truth. He's lost touch with Sherlock recently, and he never wants to do so again.
He hangs up and thinks for a moment. Who would know, without a doubt, Sherlock's whereabouts? A second later the answer comes, and John hails a cab.
Mycroft is deeply engrossed with the Korean newspaper when a most unwelcome voice breaks the silence.
"I'm here to see Mycroft Holmes. Where is he?"
Sighing in exasperation, Mycroft strides to the door and pokes his head out. John has been, predictably, converged upon by stern-faced guards. Mycroft gives them a long-suffering look and merely motions for them to deposit John in his office.
"How many times, John?" Mycroft scolds once the door has been locked, "We have a policy of absolute silence."
"Yeah, and I really couldn't care less," John counters rudely. "Where's he gone?"
"If you mean Sherlock, then he's away," Mycroft says, sinking back into his chair. He picks the newspaper up again, already bored.
"Yes, I know he's away," John says irritably. "I want to know where he's gone."
"I'm afraid I can't reveal that, as it would endanger several top-secret MI-6 operations," Mycroft states calmly. "However, I can assure you that Sherlock will be back within two weeks, and no longer."
"I thought Sherlock stopped doing your dirty work," John says angrily. "Didn't he have enough of that in the two years he was supposed to be dead?"
"If you're referring to the scars on his back, that was hardly my fault," Mycroft says indignantly.
The look on John's face says that he was not, in fact, aware of the scars. Damn.
"What?" John demands.
"Never you mind," Mycroft says sharply. "A position came up, I offered it to Sherlock, he accepted, and he'll be back in two weeks. That's the end of it. Now scuttle."
John stands up quickly, expression twisted into a rather amusing look of disgust.
"Sherlock was right," he says petulantly, "You are a rubbish big brother."
Mycroft merely turns the page.
It's raining heavily when Sherlock finally makes it back to the heart of London. He pulls up his coat collar before exiting the cab, but that does nothing to protect his head from the downpour. Squinting, he strides to the door of 221B and ducks inside, shaking water off his coat and onto the floor. Mrs. Hudson won't be pleased, but it hardly matters. She always does the mopping on Sundays.
He takes the steps two at a time, eager to sleep in his own bed. He walks straight through the sitting room…and then stops.
John is asleep on his couch.
Confused, Sherlock moves closer. John merely snores in his direction. His clothes are wrinkled and he doesn't smell particularly clean, so Sherlock deduces that John has been waiting in his flat all day. Mycroft must have told him when Sherlock planned to return.
But what on earth is he doing here?
Too tired to give it much thought, and giving it up as a lost cause anyways, Sherlock leaves John on the couch and heads to his own bed.
"Coffee?" a loud voice asks in John's ear.
John bolts upright in shock and unintentionally head-buts Sherlock, who promptly drops the cup of coffee in John's lap. John yelps and scrambles off the couch, disoriented and most definitely burned by the scalding liquid.
"For God's sake, John!" Sherlock says, one hand clutched to his forehead.
"What the hell, Sherlock?" John splutters, frantically hopping from foot to foot in an attempt to lessen the pain in his legs. "Can't you wake people up normally? Jesus—ow!" He is most definitely burned. "I'm taking these off. Find me a spare pair of pants."
And he retreats into Sherlock's bathroom.
Sherlock blinks after him for a moment. Then he retrieves the old pair of pants that John left in 221B years ago. Sherlock's been meaning to give them back ever since the wedding, but somehow it had always slipped his mind.
John comes out of the bathroom with a slight wince.
"Do you want ice?" Sherlock asks uncertainly.
"No, I'm not too badly burned," John says. "But you have ruined my pants."
"Oh." Sherlock looks at him. "Sorry. What were you doing on my couch?"
"Why did you go abroad?" John counters.
"Well…Mycroft had a job that needed doing, so—"
"Don't give me that, Sherlock," John interrupts unhappily. "You haven't wanted to take a case from Mycroft ever since—ever since you came back from the dead."
Sherlock doesn't answer. He can't deny that.
"You were running away," John accuses.
Sherlock can't deny that either.
"Why?" John asks.
Sherlock takes a deep breath. He's had a lot of time to think about this, and it's now or never.
"Look, John," he says slowly. "You must have noticed by now that I'm not...a safe person to be around. I realize that I'm your best friend, but the fact is that you have a family now. You must understand that you have a responsibility towards your daughter."
"Obviously," John says with a frown, and it doesn't seem like he's following the conversation. "She's my daughter, of course I'm responsible for her. That still doesn't explain why you ran away."
"I wasn't running," Sherlock denies. "I was simply away. It's safer for Abigail while I'm gone."
John stares at him for a very, very long moment.
"No…" he says slowly. "Nope, that's not…it at all, actually. Mary and I don't have another babysitter, you know. It was quite horrible. We haven't had a moment to ourselves in weeks."
Sherlock looks at John blankly.
"Did you really think that I'd make you stop seeing her because of the shooting incident?" John asks incredulously. "God, you're daft. Have you forgotten who her parents are? Any day now someone from Mary's past could show up at the house and try to murder her. Of course we're not safe. No one is, these days."
He looks at Sherlock closely.
"And I'd rather keep my best friend around, if that's alright with you."
"It's not that simple—"
"It really is that simple, Sherlock," John interrupts. "Really. It is."
Sherlock considers this for a long moment. Then, carefully, he files the information away in his mind palace. It must take a while, because when he comes back to himself, John looks particularly concerned.
"Well, alright then," Sherlock says suddenly, and moves back into the kitchen. "Lestrade texted. Someone just stole a painting from the National Gallery. Want to come along?"
He doesn't turn around, but he hears the grin in John's voice anyway.
"Oh God, yes."
For all those who've stuck with this story, thanks so much. Your kind words mean a lot to me!