Two Years and Eight Months Later.

John dumped the heavy shopping bags on the floor with a sigh. The slight ache in his arms after he had carried the three full bags up the stairs was a reminder that he was no longer a young man. He was no longer the soldier of his youth. There were winkles around his eyes, his hair was growing grey and he had that tiredness at the end of a long day that never used to be there. The soldiers life had damaged his body, made him age faster.

But part of him knew it was not the years that made him feel old but the sedateness of his life. The eight to five at the clinic, he knew the reasons he had to do it. He would do anything for the little boy ho had been left on his doorstep. But he missed the days of adventure. He missed the mysteries, he missed the days at the morgue and the comments on his blog. He missed Sherlock. But Sherlock was long gone and the mysteries and madness with him. What was left was order and schedules and trips to the park and healthy lunches. And that was okay. That had to be okay.

John lifted the bags again ready to carry them through to the kitchen. He froze. He looked around trying to work out if what he was seeing was real. It was so like two years ago. Sherlock had not aged. He still wore a long black coat though it was not the same one. He still wore the dark coloured shirt and black trousers under it. His hair was still the same length. He sat still not looking at John, his fingers stepped in front of his face.

John sighed.

"I don't believe it."

Sherlock looked up at him. Those clear blue eyes meet his and the corner of his mouth turned up slightly.

"John. You redecorated. I can't remember that being part of the deal."

John had indeed redecorated, made the room a light green and got rid of all the clutter. He'd brought a blue rug and curtains and thrown brightly coloured blankets and cushions on the sofas. John shook his head and said the first thing that came into his mind, the most important thing.

"Sherlock, it better be over. You better not have brought any trouble into this home."

Sherlock's brow winkled.

"You wanted to come with me two years ago."

"A lot of thing's change in two year. Is it over?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." Sherlock sounded insulted this time.

"Good, now what are you doing here?"

"I live here..or at least I used to and I was under the impression that you would not be completely adverse to my returning. Unless of course that has changed in the last .. two years eight months?"

"You never rang, no letters, no notes. no nothing."

"Busy, traceable. Has a lot changed?"

"Yes Sherlock, A lot had changed. Such a lot."

"I see."

Sherlock said standing up and beginning to pace.

"I was under the impression that you had .. feelings.. of a romantic nature towards me."

"I did." John said. What went unsaid was the fact that he still did. How could he not think of Sherlock everyday when the little boy who looked just like him was running around| As time went by John got more annoyed with Sherlock, all that time and no contact. He didn't know if he would ever return and if he did then what? He had missed so much and he wasn't the naturally fatherly type. He had tried to stop himself of thinking about him, but nothing could stop his dreams.

"Ah." Sherlock said glancing at him quickly then back away. "Using the past tense. Is there somebody else?" There was a slight hesitation in the question.

"Yeeesss." John said drawing the word out and trying to ignore the way that Sherlock's eyes focused on the floor and his mouth set into a frown.

"But it's not what you think. " John wiped his forehead, he was starting to get a sharp pain behind his eyes. He had not had that type of headache in over two years. It was a Sherlock Holmes headache.

"My time to ask a question?" He said.

"Irene Adler is alive."

"That is a statement not a question."

"Stop avoiding it Sherlock."

"How did you know?"

"That night you said you had had one other sexual encounter? Do you remember?"

"Yes."

"Irene Adler."

"I did not say that.

"But it was her, correct, and she's still alive, correct?"

"How did you…"

"And it was I'd say about eleven months before our night together."

Sherlock had frozen in place. He had that look on his face he usually got when there was one part of a puzzle missing and he was mad at himself for not seeing it.

"John, what is this about."

"JOHN DEAR."

It was Mrs. Hudson's voice calling out followed by the sound of the door swinging open. John just about had time to think 'oh shit' before she had crossed the threashold.

"He's been a …" She stopped speaking when she saw Sherlock stood smiling at her in the middle of the front floor. Her mouth opened, her skin went pale and before John had the chance to rush to her she had keeled over hitting the floor unconscious.

"Oh Christ."

John bent down next to her, he took her pulse and checked her breathing automatically. He looked up to give Sherlock instructions but saw him looking behind him. John followed his eyes. He was looking at the small boy who had been hiding behind Mrs. Hudson. John sighed again.

The boy was now two months short of his third birthday (or what John had chosen to be his birthday, it was close enough to the actual unknown date). He was like most toddlers, he had that pudginess around his face and limbs that he would soon start to grow out of and that habit of watching everything that was going on and taking it all in. He wore jeans and trainers and a red t-shirt with a train on it. His eyes were bright blue and his long brown hair (he screamed whenever he went to the hairdressers so John made it as rare an occurrence as possible) hung down in ringlets that Mrs. Hudson always tucked behind his ears.

"Heart Attack?" Sherlock asked drawing John's attention back to him.

"No, just passed out."

"Good. Who is that child?"

"That, oh that's just your son. Don't worry about him you never worry about anybody else." John snapped. Sherlock's eyes widened. He looked at the boy for a long minute. The boy ignored him, he walked over to Mrs. Hudson and sat down next to her to stroke her hair clearly worried.

"It's alright Hamish." John assured him reaching over to touch his shoulder. "She's just taking a nap. Let's put her to bed shall we?"

Hamish nodded solemnly.

"Sherlock help me move her."

Sherlock was still staring at Hamish but he moved to help John pick up Mrs. Hudson and carry her into John's room. Once she was laid on the bed John checked her head for cuts or lumps. He would have to wait until she was conscious to fully check her over. His biggest worry was her hip, it caused her enough hassle without her throwing it out or bruising it.

"This is your fault."

"How is it my fault?"

"For being dead!" John shouted letting go of years of anger. "For not finding another way. For leaving me and Hamish and for turning back up here without a word and making Mrs. Hudson faint."

Sherlock took a step back and hesitated.

"I am sorry that there was not another way."

"You could have written. It's not like you had to put your name. I would have known it was you and then at least I would have known you were alive."

Sherlock took a deep breath and looked at the floor again.

"I am sorry John."

Two apologies in one day from Sherlock Holmes was nothing short of a miracle but it didn't do anything to abate John's anger. The next words however did.

"I have missed you."