AN: If you've been waiting for this story to update/finish, thank you. I'm just about done with it, actually-but a girl has to stretch this as long as she can, doesn't she? Lol.

Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoy.

The sunlight is muted mostly by the curtains, though it's still bright against his face. The duvet is warm, pulled around his body in its entirety. Sherlock's mouth is dry and he smacks his lips as though trying to wet them, swallows down the little bit of saliva still in his mouth. And his body is sore. Not very much, just a twinge of ache, just a little reminder. A pleasant one. He inhales deeply and opens his eyes, tips himself over to look upon John's face. Yes, John. He'd come round last night and had stayed when Sherlock asked him to.

Oh. John isn't there.

Well, no matter. Obviously he's already up. Usually is, quite the early riser. Has been since Sherlock has known him, at any rate. Army training, yes. Sherlock's well aware of the early-to-rise motto of the serving soldiers. John Watson, forever scheduled to awake at six in the morning, on the dot. Sherlock rolls his eyes affectionately and buries himself into the sheets and pillow. It smells right, finally. John all over, his soap and shampoo, his aftershave. The smell of his skin, the combination of all things. Right there, in the little fabric of his pillow.

When he lifts his head from his unintended sanctuary, the smell of breakfast wafts into his nose. Eggs and sausage and beans, everything that John quite enjoys fixing up when in the mood to. Everything he'd force down Sherlock's throat—and Sherlock would gladly accept this time around. He'd sit and John would slide the plate far too full in front of Sherlock. He'd say something like "You look like you haven't had a bite in weeks," and Sherlock wouldn't deny that he'd eaten very little in the time. So he'd oblige, and John would be pleased with the change in demeanour.

And he'd stay. Of course he'd stay. They'll have to go round to Harry's, Sherlock finds himself thinking, to pick up his possessions. Oh, he can only imagine what sort of hole Harriet Watson lives in. Some little, dirty flat. Probably smells of old take-away and lager. John would be ecstatic to get out of her hovel. Sherlock would accompany him, of course. He'd stalk about the sitting room and pretend to be observing what are surely dark bottles of wine and wrappers. He'd check for spots on the ceiling and in the carpet, he'd try to decide if he can see the outline of John's body in the cushions (he's been sleeping on the sofa, obviously.) Perhaps they'd do that just this afternoon.

And when they both returned to Baker Street, Sherlock would insist that John's possessions—all of them—be put away in his room. Then it would be there room, once again. But this time, there would be no hesitation. There would be no slow amalgamation. All in one go, theirs. Sherlock feels a little silly, overly giddy. He's thinking too romantically, is being far too sentimental. He promises that when he goes to the kitchen to greet John, he will have eviscerated the ridiculous vision of "his-and-his" towels hanging in the bathroom.

Not that they had crossed his head, mind you.

It takes him a moment to finally chuck the blanket from his body and throw his legs over the side of the bed. His body feels much stiffer than he had anticipated—a single month of going without and already he's resorting to some sort of novice state. He pads toward the wardrobe and pulls from it a blue dressing gown. The fabric feels cool and smooth against his naked skin—he wonders, for a single moment, why he hasn't worn them in the nude more. He ties it closed around him quite loosely, fumbles with the rope in a mostly obliging sort of way. For the sake of posterity and all.

Sherlock holds back on whistling as he walks quietly down the hallway. The smell of breakfast is more tempting than he'd realised. Perhaps it had been quite some time since he'd eaten properly, perhaps sex and breakfast would fix him up quite right. John is a necessity in this flat, in Sherlock's personal workings. This is obvious. He thinks, to flatter John, he might tell him all those other things that didn't quite make it out of his mouth the night before. He can watch the lines of John's face shift into the warm smile he seems to reserve for lovers, for Sherlock. Can watch the way John's eyes go soft, how his shoulders hunch gently, relax in something like a shrug.

Sherlock thinks he might be a whole new man. Well, perhaps that's stretching it a bit far. He thinks at least twenty-two percent of himself has been altered in the course of an evening. Maybe a bit more.

"A full English? You must be feeling ambitious," Sherlock says just before he rounds the corner. He knows John will scoff, will retort something about how it's more than he can say of Sherlock Holmes. He rounds the corner and looks to the stove, familiar in the same spot it continues to stay.

But he does not find John there.

Mrs. Hudson gives a startled little jump backward, away from the oils and fires that burn before her, and turns to look to Sherlock. "Goodness," she says, giving her face a delicate little fan with her fan. "You gave me a fright, Sherlock. You should announce yourself, stalking about as you do." She turns back to the stove, shaking her head as she continues. "Could've given me a heart attack just then."

Sherlock's brows furrow and he stares at the back of his landlady's head as though another has sprouted from it. "What are you doing?" he asks her. Suddenly his dressing gown feels much too light, much too loose. He feels like he might as well be standing naked in this kitchen, with Mrs. Hudson just feet away. He pulls it tighter around him, covers up to his neck as though the best of him has been exposed.

"Fixing breakfast," she tells him simply. Her scolding features have gone light and pleasant once again, a bright little smile coming across her face. "I was going to come round and give you a shake if you weren't up before I finished up here—it's never the same once you have to reheat it, is it?" she goes on, her head tilting from side to side as she meddles with something before her. "Could've heated up the oven a bit though, let it warm and kept your plate in there..." she trails off thoughtfully. Sherlock hears her inhale as though she's preparing to continue speaking when he stops her, "I had company."

There's a smirk in Mrs. Hudson's voice as she speaks again. "Yes, I heard. You ought to look into a new mattress, Sherlock. If you're going to-"

"Where is he?" he cuts her off.

She turns to look at him. Her hand rests on her hip and her brows furrow. "Well, I haven't a clue, have I?" Once again, she's back to her eggs, or perhaps it's bacon, Sherlock doesn't much care. "It's not as though I was snooping about to see who your gentleman friend was, it's none of my business." She shakes her head, gives a quiet, maternal sort of chuckle beneath her breath. "I hadn't thought you would be the sort, but it takes all sorts I reckon."

A confusion wells up in Sherlock. The bathroom door was open when he passed it, as he recalls. He crosses into the sitting room—no, don't be daft. If John were there, Mrs. Hudson would've noticed him. She's elderly, not blind yet. Not deaf, either. And she'd have commented, something about reconciliation or some other lark. But he checks anyway, looks to John's chair expectantly. When he receives nothing in the way of a man, he re-wraps his dressing gown and stalks up the stairs two at a time. His legs ache as he does so, a now confusing reminder of what had transpired just the evening before. Perhaps John was in his old room, was waiting for a conversation about what happened next.

But the room is empty, and smells of dust.

Sherlock shakes his head. He takes a deep breath. He tries to rationalise what he is seeing. He thinks perhaps John has already gotten a jump-start on the moving procession. He's always been the early bird, has always preferred to get an early beginning on his days. So logically, he could've quietly woken and dressed and went to Stepney. He could be there now, packing up his belongings, sating his sister. Yes, of course he is. Sherlock remembers the look in John's face when he'd decided to stay and he thinks that anything else is illogical.

(Wrong.)

He wets his lips as he makes his way back down the stairs. Surely there's a missed phone call or two, a message waiting him. "Don't fret, I'm at Harry's. Picking up my things, see you soon." Sherlock imagines John's voice light and pleasant, tinny through the speaker. He imagines the sound of a footie match on in the background. "Mrs. Hudson," he calls from the last few steps. Sherlock gets no reply, and so he calls for her again. "Mrs. Hudson, has my mobile gone off?"

Still nothing. He can hear her humming and he sighs wearily as he makes his way back into the kitchen. "Mrs. Hudson," he snaps, and she rounds in that startled fashion of hers once again and stares blankly at him. His voice returns to cool and nonchalant. "My mobile," he repeats, "Have you heard it this morning?"

"I can't say I have, love," she replies, in that warm way she has. Sherlock can't help the tiny half smile—he likes Mrs. Hudson. He may very well love her as the mum he didn't much have in his own. He believes she hasn't heard his phone—she wouldn't have been listening for it, wouldn't have been paying attention. He heads back into the sitting room to find his phone.

He doesn't need to look long.

There's something ominous about the way it sits on his chair. Sherlock knows what it is. He doesn't have to think too hard about why this position of his mobile, the way it lays centred on his chair perfectly, is ominous. It is because it was sat there with intent, a message waiting. He doesn't think the dread that is welling up in his chest is pre-emptive in the least as he goes in for it. His fingers sneak up beneath it and curl around the rectangle, bring it up to look more closely at the screen. His thumb flicks across the screen and it comes to life, and there it is- a single text message.

I'm sorry.

JW

Sherlock thinks he's forgotten how to breathe. He thinks he might be misreading these words. For moment, he thinks maybe John is apologising for the time wasted, the month of nothingness that had ensued because of him. Sherlock tries to think this for a moment to relieve the heart attack that is surely about to grip him. It doesn't, of course. His heart does race, but the feeling drops off until it feels like it might stop all together. I'm sorry, John says. And though Sherlock wants to believe that it is for the former, he knows the truth. I'm sorry for staying the night. I'm sorry for the sex. I'm sorry for coming round. I'm sorry it wasn't what you assumed.

I'm sorry you're gullible, Sherlock Holmes.

But he's not, he thinks. He is not gullible. Somewhere in his mind, surely he had foreseen this. Surely he had calculated for John to have meant no, that his resolve would last. Surely he hadn't believed that John would stay just because of a forceful kiss and a single shag. But the lead weight that sinks into his stomach, the one filled with nausea and ache and that dread that was not pre-emptive at all. And he realises that he had been gullible. Had believed in a one-night stand with a former lover. Had thought, without consequence, that it would make things right once again.

And yet he knew. Had known, somewhere. Hadn't let it surface. So unlike him, so uncharacteristic of him. Nothing like himself to fall into such a trap. I'm sorry, John says, and Sherlock thinks he should be sorry, should have stayed to apologise. Should have said very clearly that when he agreed to stay, it was for the evening and not in the manner in which Sherlock had asked.

Sherlock thinks he should be mad. And he is, sort of. But it's outdone by all the weight that's resting on him—on his shoulders, on his chest, in his stomach. He thinks he might sooner collapse there rather than anything else. He thinks he might reply and doesn't. Mrs. Hudson continues cooking, continues humming. And Sherlock tries to recognise it, tries to pull himself up out of this sudden slump. But the smell of food, once tempting, is now sickening, and he wants to snap at Mrs. Hudson, tell her to fuck off and take her food with her. He wants, he thinks, to hole up and lick his wounds. "Just about ready," Mrs. Hudson says.

"Not hungry," he hears himself reply. It sounds hollow.

"You never are," she replies, and that reminds him of John.

He doesn't think to reply. He thinks he might make a few calls. He thinks he might partake in something that will get his mind back up and running, his seven percent solution. He doesn't make a decision right then. The ability to do so seems to have melted away from him, is left in a puddle where he had stood just moments before.

Sherlock's feet feel heavy as he walks through the kitchen unnoticed. Mrs. Hudson calls out to a closed bedroom door and, much like doors tend to do, gets no reply.

(Idiot.)

How could hopes have gotten so high?

(Fell for it.)

How could it have happened?

(A sap, a fool. Just like the rest of them.)

Idiot. Just like the rest of them.

(This is what happens when emotions are allowed.)

Not a genius, just a sad man, just a man.

(Idiot.)

Fool.

John feels guilt at first. Of course he does. He really and honestly hadn't meant to do it, hadn't meant to get as involved that evening as he had. He had meant to leave, was prepared to get out and not look back. He had expected himself to be out the door well before the ten minute mark, back in a cab and heading to Stepney with nothing more than a final farewell. Not a kiss, not a shag, not a night spent. He hadn't expected that quiet plea. Please stay, Sherlock had asked. And it was needy and desperate and it hurt, and John—weak as he seemed to be—couldn't simply say no. He shouldn't have stayed, he had thought once he had awoken that morning.

But Sherlock had been wrapped about him. Had his arm and leg flung over, had his face tucked into John's neck. He couldn't wake him. Couldn't watch him break again.

It takes John a full two weeks to come to terms with what has happened. He made a mistake, and he remedied it in the only way he knew how. Sherlock had made no attempt to contact him. And so, John moves on. Or he tries. There's a heaviness that stays with him, that follows him around. He finds himself wondering what Sherlock is doing, what he's thinking. He imagines him angry and upset. He imagines him wounded.

That's not Sherlock though. John has to remember that.

What has probably actually happened, John thinks, is that Sherlock has moved on. He has probably gone through some form of mourning the loss. He has said his farewells in whichever way he might. And Sherlock has moved on. John figures he's back on cases, is taking on more. He's not eating, not sleeping, is fully emerged in thoughts and deductions—just as he wants to be, just as he always wanted to be. The only difference now is that there is no John to stop him, to force him back to humanity. John thinks, after all is said and done, that perhaps Sherlock is more content now than he has been in a long while.

And there's a part of John that hurts to hear it. He knows that it's true, somewhere in his heart, but it feels like lead and it makes him only slightly sick to think of. Sherlock will be okay, is already okay. It is John who is still caught up in the worst way.

It isn't until at least a month has passed that John regains himself. Or so he feels. Regains himself enough to feel normal, like things are settling. He works and Harry drags him out every once in a while. Mike Stamford calls him round for tea, for drinks. He talks to strangers at the pubs, he cracks jokes and he laughs. He's even remembered how to be charming, has had invitations from lovely ladies to see their flats. Eventually, he comes to meet a woman called Karen.

Karen is a few months older than he is. She's a few inches shorter and looks quite—basic. But it's a nice basic, a pretty basic. A woman next door sort of basic, appealing in the averageness of her. Dark blonde hair and brown eyes, a round face and a fair build. She laughs when appropriate, she likes to cook. She's a librarian. Karen is the sort of woman that men settle down with eventually, the type to have children and cook meals and plan holidays for the family. And though John is nowhere near ready to settle, not with anyone, he likes her company well enough that he semi-dates her.

It's been two months since John has seen Sherlock Holmes. He thinks, without thinking too hard, that he has finally moved past the guilt and settled for accepting what has happened. Now he is casually seeing Karen, and that evening they'll be going out for drinks. Harry wants to meet her, John tells her no way in Hell. But they're meeting closer to Karen's—a place not far from Bart's. John thinks this is a test, maybe. Not that he thinks Sherlock Holmes will be seen in a pub, but he could very well be within the area.

He doesn't think he'll need to worry too much about it. He thinks the chances that Sherlock will be outside and anywhere near the establishment is slim to none. This eases the small (large) bout of nerves that leap and dance about in his stomach just enough to allow him to smile. Yes, smile. That's a good lad, nice and easy. Good.

The cab ride in passes in mostly silence, aside from a few text messages sent to and from Karen. "Leaving now, be there soon," he sends her, to which she replies, "Running a bit late. Start without xx" He plans to. He knows the pub all right enough that he can decide, before he sets foot inside, where he'll be sitting them. Not at the bar—not very personal. Not too far in the back—bit too intimate for a pub. Somewhere near the middle, he decides. Nice and open, doesn't force any sort of promise from either of them.

It's packed when he goes in though, something he doesn't think to counter in (damn.) This is what he gets, he thinks, for inviting a person to a Uni bar on a Friday evening (piss poor planning.) John decides to head for the bar instead. It doesn't seem as nice as a table, nor will they get the chance to sit, but at least they'll have drinks, and that's the more relevant bit anyway.

It's difficult to get through the crowd. He tries his best to manoeuvre his way through the crowd, but people have been drinking for far longer than anticipated, and no matter how politely he attempts to push his way through, someone is always shouting at the telly just in front of him.

"Excuse me," he tells no one and everyone.

"Pardon," he tries to politely push his way through.

"Sorry, sorry," a meek girl replies at one such instance. She raises her drink well above her head as she turns, trying to keep it from knocking against any of the people around. The voice sounds familiar, the one that stammers out more unnecessary apologies, and then it says "John?"

It takes him a moment to double back and see who knows him by name. She's shorter, with a long, straight ponytail of brown hair and a familiar face. Tonight, she looks just as he always has seen her, with the exception of a missing lab coat. "Molly?" he asks in reply. Familiarity seems to take the both of them over and easy smiles come across their faces.

"How are you? How are things?" he finds himself asking her. She babbles something over the din of noise about what she's been doing, in a vague sort of fashion. More bodies, she says, more autopsies. Nothing quite unlike what she's done in the past—with one exception. "It's funny you should be here, actually," she tells him, and the buoyancy of her voice falters just slightly. John finds her hand resting on his shoulder as she leans up toward his ear. "I've been meaning to find you. I needed to ask you something."

John's brow quirks and she gives him a little pull. There's something on her face, something other than what must be a forced pleasantness. "Just a minute, it won't take long," she assures him. He hasn't even gotten his own drink yet, but he manages to follow Molly Hooper up to the door—that's where she's stopped, because of the drink. Another stammering slew of apologies comes tipping from her mouth, flustered as she attempts to find a place to set the uninteresting lager down. John ends up taking it from her, setting it on the nearest table and gesturing for her to lead the way outside.

"Is something wrong?" he asks, and she doesn't immediately speak.

"How are you?" she asks when she finally does speak. She crosses her arms over her chest—it's just a little cool outside, she must be feeling it, and watches him. He shrugs. How does he answer? He hadn't even sure she'd remembered his name most of the time, but now here she is. "I'm okay," he replies simply. "Are you cold? Do you want my coat?"

"No, no," she says with a dismissive wave, "I'm fine. So what have you been doing?"

This is small talk. John knows that's what this is. There's something else on Molly Hooper's mind, something she's trying to ease her way into. He won't push it. He can't imagine what Molly might be needing with him. "Same old," he says with a shrug. "Work, pub. Not much different with me." He gives a sigh and switches his weight. "Look, Molly, as much as I enjoy catching up, I've got-"

"Hang on," Molly says quickly. "I just-" she pauses with a quiet sigh and what looks like a mental push to continue. "I haven't seen Sherlock in ages," she spits out. He sighs and she shakes her hands in front of him. "No, no. I know you lot haven't been—you know—in a while. But I thought maybe you might know if he's—okay, at least." She says this all quickly, like a burst of energy shot out of her. Her arms cross over her chest once again and she looks to him expectantly. John's mouth opens as though he may speak, but nothing seems to come out. He looks around the area, to see if Karen might be walking up. But not yet, so he looks back to Molly.

"I don't—I haven't spoken to him," he says.

"How long ago did you?" she pushes.

"Not for—I don't know. It's been a while."

"He's just—completely dropped off, John," she says, and it sounds almost pleading. "I haven't seen him for months, and you and I both know how he used to lurk about the labs."

John doesn't like the way it sounds. He doesn't think Sherlock would be drastic enough to do something like—he shakes the thought from his head physically, looks to Molly once again. She's still looking expectantly. "I don't know, Molly," he tells her honestly. "I don't know. I saw him once, a couple months ago, and that was the last we've spoken."

Her brows knit and she looks him over. She swallows and her mouth begins to open, but then it shuts. She nods. There's a lot going on in Molly Hooper's head, John can see that much, but it looks as though she may not be saying it.

(Suicide?)

No, that's not like him at all.

(He was hurt.)

He doesn't feel like that, doesn't hold on so tightly.

(He wanted to try again.)

It wasn't going to work. It wasn't.

(Wasn't it?)

"Are you concerned?" she finally asks. John looks to her once again and watches her wet her lips. It's compulsive to watch such an action. "About him, I mean? You still care, don't you?" And he wants to tell her that yes, of course he is. That they haven't spoken in a long while and it's secretly killed him. That he will probably always care for Sherlock Holmes, the ultimate exception in every way a person can be. But he doesn't say any of that. Instead he sighs quietly, like the question has been asked over and over again. "He was my best friend," he says finally. "I can't not care, can I?"

"And you haven't spoken to him at all?" she asks.

"We went through a lot," he answers, and he can feel some testy irritation building up. "We went through it, and then it was time to bow out. We couldn't just go on like nothing had happened—and that's just how it had to be. How it has to be."

"But-"

"He's got family, you know," John interrupts. He feels guilty, and upset, and he wonders if he should go to Baker Street and check on 221B. But he won't, and he knows it, and that's even more upsetting than before. "He's got Mycroft. Mrs. Hudson lives just below him, she'd be able to tell you." Molly looks a little taken aback, eyes gone slightly wider, brows knitted just a bit deeper. "You could go round yourself. I'm sure you know the address, easy enough to remember," he goes on. He doesn't realise he's begun speaking with his hands until he's shoving one down the street, in the general direction of where the flat is. He doesn't realise he's been snapping and spitting his answers out until he goes quiet. John takes a deep breath and holds it until he can't, then releases it slowly. He pinches the bridge of his nose and does it again.

"I didn't mean to... upset you," Molly says meekly. "I just thought—I figured if anyone might know something-"

"No," John says, holding a hand up. "No, it's—it's fine. You're fine." He feels deflated. Low and sad once again. He looks up and he can see Karen coming down the road, her hand tucked in her purse and her head tilted against her mobile. "I'm sorry I couldn't be of any help, Molly," he tells her, and he means it. "But I don't know what he's been up to. It's—it's not my job to know any more," he adds.

"Of course. I don't know what I was thinking," she says sheepishly.

"You might want to get in touch with his brother," he suggests.

"Yes, yes. Of course," she agrees. He has a feeling she already has, has tried and failed. He thinks she's already given the rest of those things a go has well. He thinks he might have been a last-ditch effort to find out what's gone on. And he feels—bad. He does. Karen is getting closer and he wants to give Molly some sort of reassurance that Sherlock Holmes is perfectly fine, but he can't seem to do it. So he gives her shoulder a pat and says, "It was nice seeing you, Molly."

"Yeah. Yeah, you too, John," she replies, but it sounds false and it doesn't meet her eyes.

Karen greets him from a few feet away with a wave and he gives her one in return. She looks quite pleased to see him—he feels awful that the feeling isn't reciprocated for the moment. He introduces her to Molly, who smiles and acts genially. When Karen asks how they know each other, Molly offers up that they worked together briefly, a little while back. It's not completely false, and it's better than "I fancy his ex-boyfriend."

John does the gentlemanly thing and opens the pubs door for the both of them. Molly walks through first, quiet and shy as she is, and instantly loses herself back in the crowd. Karen gives John a flirty little wink as she passes him and makes straight for the bar. John wonders if he should tell Karen he'll be back in just a bit, that he's just had something come up that he needs to check on. He resists. He'd said it himself. Caring after Sherlock Holmes is no longer his job, hasn't been for a few months now. Won't be ever again, he reckons.

It doesn't make him feel any better.