He had spent Friday night in and slept late into Saturday. Another dull weekend unfolded before him and he sighed. Where had Sherlock disappeared to? His eyes took on a strange and hurt glow when he realized that Sherlock had left him. Died on him. Again.

"Damn," he said quietly. He missed the unpredictable tall man with the unruly curls, missed his sudden mood swings and tantrums, even missed the mess he created around himself while that brilliant brain of his worked away in perfect accuracy. Sherlock Holmes had been special. John wondered if Sherlock would remember him wherever he was now. Probably not.

It was lunchtime when his mobile beeped and John heaved another deep sigh picking it up. Work, he thought, something to do, and he read: "Not dead. – SH." Then his heart missed a beat. Not dead. How was he? How had he been over the past three years? Where had he been? Why hadn't he been in touch? What was going on?

His reason told him to be angry. Yet he felt excited and relieved. Sherlock had not forgotten him! He smiled and shook his head in disbelief. The fantastic man had not forgotten him. The phone gave another beep.

"Rose Cottage. Old School Lane. Tudley. – Come."

Oh. John's face fell. Of course, he knew that trick. Sherlock had misplaced something and wanted him, John, to get it. Pet. Dog. Doormat. Nothing had changed. Absolutely nothing. Not even after resurrection.

Angrily John pressed the button when his mobile gave the third beep in a row. What now, Sherlock? At once? Could be dangerous? Bring the gun? He found himself good at guessing texts and nearly fell over when he read what Sherlock had written, "I miss you."

Of course, John had taken the next train. Of course, he had walked from the station, still happy to save the cab fare. But he had reached the small cottage by 6 o'clock. He had not answered the texts, had merely rushed here. Head over heels, he realized and felt a bit stupid. Shy, too, like on a first date.

Sherlock had been. Normal. "Ah. John," he had said and John had felt lost and out of place until Sherlock enveloped him in a hug that brought their bodies closer together than would have been considered decent. Oh yes, invade my private space. He smelled nice, intoxicating, of shampoo and aftershave, nothing extraordinary actually, and he was warm and comfortable and skinny and wonderful, and John breathed, "You're. Beautiful," and Sherlock said nothing but John could feel the spindly form caught in his arms mould into the embrace.

All the fitful energy he had known his friend for seemed. Somehow. To have faded. His restlessness and curiosity. Gone. As if his system had shut down. It ached John to experience this side of Sherlock but he put on a brave smile nevertheless. Sherlock noticed the awkward way in which John held him. He cursed himself for having thrown himself on John. That had been. Spontaneous. Unprofessional.

"Why didn't you call?" John finally managed, hoping he didn't sound too accusing.

"Too dangerous. I left messages though. On your blog. You just didn't know it was me," Sherlock had quickly typed into his smartphone and showed John his blog. John took the phone and checked the messages from 32lonely.

How are you? Not good, John had replied.

I'm sorry.

"I'm also Beeswax and Freak1977," Sherlock added.

John scanned his folders.

Bored., You don't know HOW bored I can be., and Entertain me, Beeswax had written, and John smiled. Out of their dialogue context the messages made sense in a totally different way.

Freak1977 had posted, I'm lost., I feel lonely., and I don't have a single friend here. I think I have reached a dead end. They all made sense now. How had John not seen this?

"Wow," John mouthed and shook his head in disbelief, "So you also read my conversations?" John remembered some quite indecent posts that he had rather not shared. To his great surprise, Sherlock blushed at this and admitted, "Actually, I was dark_and_curly_lady, too."

John groaned inwardly but could not hide a smile at the revelation. He scanned the posts and his smile widened in amazement as he read the touching declaration of love:

It's me, John.

Don't you see?

I'm your dark and curly dream.

Obviously.

Think.

I'm tall and slender.

Married to my work.

Solving riddles.

Helping the police.

Elucidating mysteries.

Really would like to see you.

London?

Obstructively impossible to meet. I'm on another continent.

Can you come and see me?

Kiss.

"It's an acronym!" John exclaimed, "How could I not see that?"

"Because you're an idiot," Sherlock tried and John chuckled. Then he looked up and drank in the tall man for the first time in years. His left arm hung a bit loosely by his side, and when he paced, he walked with a slight limp. There was a scar on his forehead, too.

"I know," the detective bit, "Not half the man." John shook his head, "Time goes by," for the sake of it. Sherlock winced. John looked older. Worn and tired. He was right. Time had gone by. What if it was too late? He waved the thought off and eyed John, "What?"

"Nothing. You look. Well. Really. At peace. With. The world," John said and Sherlock huffed, "The world, John! The world has forgotten about me. Might as well forget about the world."

John recognized his friend's love of melodrama. He did not hide his amusement. Sherlock was wrong. The world would never forget about him. It would haunt him given time. And he would love it eventually. He needed the danger. He got off on it, as Sally Donovan had once put it. Oh yes, John mused taking in the slender figure of his friend, long arms in his old gown and thin legs in loose-fitting pyjama bottoms. He remembered this man chasing suspects on his hunting instincts. Oh yes, he got off on it. And he would still.

"John, I think it's rude to speculate about somebody's sexuality when they're in the same room."

"How do-" of course he knew. Sherlock smirked and looked at the shorter man, his heightened colour and the slight bulge in his trousers, very visible, his shifting and shuffling, his biting his upper lip and wrinkling of nose, "Care to join me?" At which John almost did not believe his ears.

"I mean – we should. Get some sleep. I'm tired, John."

"Of course," John smiled and looked at the pale face in front. Sherlock did look tired.

"I had to be so many different people. I don't know who I am anymore." John smiled at the declaration and took Sherlock's arm, "Bed then?"

The detective nodded and allowed John to lead him to his bedroom.

"Will you sleep. With me? Here? Sleep here I mean?" The young man blushed and John nodded. He carefully sat Sherlock down on his bed and sat next to him, fidgeting curiously, "Can I see? Your scars?"

Sherlock agreed and slowly shrugged his coat off. With a sigh he also pulled off his t-shirt while John switched into doctor mode and inspected two red scars on a white back. His eyes avoided the long gash on the flawless chest. Sherlock shuddered under John's fingers, and his shoulder twitched, "Sorry. It does that sometimes." John noticed that he was blushing again.

"Spastic muscle relaxation. Perfectly normal," John said, but Sherlock sneered, "Hateful."

Then John looked at Sherlock's chest. A long scar ran down the middle of the man's ribcage. A nasty, spidery one had formed just underneath his left nipple. John suddenly realized that Sherlock could indeed have died from injuries like these. He had not just vanished from John's presence, but he had very nearly died on him. He tried to imagine the suffering but failed.

"Took half a year to heal properly. Well, properly. I couldn't take five steps without running out of breath at first. Lost a lung."

"Who helped you recover?"

"No one," Sherlock frowned, "Eight weeks in a London clinic. Till I was stable enough to be rushed off to Italy on my own."

John gulped and touched Sherlock's good shoulder to lean in and kiss the other man's forehead. Sherlock tensed, and John wasn't sure whether in anticipation or rejection.

"There's more, John," Sherlock pushed the waistband of his pyjamas down to reveal a scar in his groin. John caught a glimpse of pubic hair and blushed (knowing that as a doctor he shouldn't) which Sherlock noticed.

"That's what causes the limp," John stated.

"I don't limp."

"Yes, you do. But none who don't know you will notice," John declared, "Lie down. Let's get some sleep." As if!

Sherlock nodded, disappointed, and curled up facing away from John while the latter kicked off his shoes and took off his pullover. John spooned him and began stroking his hair.

"So. You do? Remember?" Sherlock quietly asked.

"How could I forget?" John smiled into the dark.

"What's bothering you?" John ventured, and Sherlock sighed. He dreaded to ask, "Are you still seeing Sarah?" He could have asked Mycroft. Could have inquired.

"No. That's. Finished," John admitted.

"Oh," almost relieved, "Is there someone else then?"

"No," John sounded sad, "Are you seeing someone?"

"WHAT? No!"

"But you have. Had partners over the past three years."

"No."

"Still not your area," John's voice carried amusement.

"I had offers!"

"That's good."

"I didn't take them though."

"Why not?" John was curious, but Sherlock did not answer, "Why didn't you?"

"I saw no point. My heart wasn't in it."

"Oh," John hummed, suddenly comprehending, "Oh! So you're saying- no. What are you saying?"

"Nothing."

"You're not interested."

"Not in them, I wasn't."

"But there is someone." Hopeful.

"There always was. There is now." Sherlock turned to face John in the dark.

"So who is she? Or he?"

"You, John. It's always been you. I was hoping-"

"Go on."

"No, I'm being stupid."

"No, I don't think so. Did you just say that you saved yourself for me? Despite there being other offers?"

Sherlock did not contradict him.

"You. Like me?"

"No."

"Oh."

"I think I love you, John."