Time seemed never-ending, as the two men sat there, neither one wanting to break the embrace.
Nearly an hour passed before the discomfort of their position finally caught up with them.
Sherlock's legs had fallen asleep, while the former doctor's were simply stiff.
"Sherlock."
A disbelieving whisper.
"Hmm?"
"Did Mrs. Hudson ever clear up the tea?"
Sherlock stiffened in the man's arms.
"Umm, no."
He drew the word out, slowly pulling away from his doctor.
"I said that I'd do it."
John shook his head, but the traces of a smile bloomed at the corner of his lips.
"Git."
Sherlock smirked.
The former doctor stood, taking the detective's hands, helping him stand.
"I'll clean up, why don't you go-"
The detective's brow furrowed.
"What do you do, John? You're not working anymore. That's clear."
John blushed slightly.
Taking that as an answer, the detective moved, picking up the broken shards of glass.
After a moment, however, he spoke.
"Do you want the truth, or what everyone thinks?"
Sherlock frowned, looking up at his blogger.
"What does everyone think?"
"That I had gone into early retirement."
He leaned against the wall nearest the detective.
"Wandering around London and pining after you."
Sherlock winced, another wave of pain flowing through him.
"And the truth?"
John took a deep breath, nodding.
"Volunteering. Your homeless network still needs a doctor, after all."
Sherlock jumped up, his hand clenching around the sharp glass in his hand.
"What? John do you know how dangerous that is?"
Blood began to drip steadily onto the floor.
"I'm fully aware."
a pause, the doctor's gaze going to the other man's hand
"Shit."
John hurried forward, gripping Sherlock's hand and turning it over, examining the severity of his cut.
"I need to clean this up."
He tugged the detective to the bathroom, forcing him to sit on the edge of the counter.
"At least you have proof that I'm alive."
John allowed a mirthless chuckle, steadying the detective's hand and pulling the bigger shards from his palm.
"So is that what you were doing today, then? Working with the homeless?"
John shook his head, grabbing a pair of tweezers from the cupboard.
"You're the genius detective. You tell me."
Sherlock studied him.
Tear stained cheeks, most likely from his earlier bought of emotion, but possibly some from an earlier time.
Dirt on his shoes, along with grass stains.
In a field.
Nice clothing, not new, but well cared for, ironed and pressed the night before.
Planned outing, wanted to look nice.
Hair slightly disheveled, as if by wind.
Standing in the open.
Floral stains on the fingernails.
Working or touching plants.
Tightening of jaw, droop of eye clenching of shoulder muscles.
In pain, emotional and physical.
"The graveyard."
John nodded.
"Well done. Good to see that the man I visited there is still in fighting form."
The detective winced as an alcohol swab came into contact with his injured skin.
"John I-"
The doctor shook his head.
"I don't want an apology. You, being you, must have had reasons."
He wrapped the hand tightly in a bandage.
"I just want to know what they are."
Sherlock nodded, flexing his hand in the tight wrapping.
"What were your reasons for working with my homeless network?"
John ran an appraising finger over the swelling bruise on Sherlock's jaw.
"As far as I knew, their only benefactor had taken a swan dive off of a fucking building. The least I could do was take care of them in his name."
The detective paused, the meaning of that statement sinking in.
"You helped them, because of me."
John rolled is eyes.
"In a way. It felt good, you know? To have that purpose again. The danger was still there, and sometimes I could even go without a cane because of it. It kept me going."
He shrugged.
"You need to ice this bruise, it looks rather nasty."
Sherlock smiled.
"I can say that the man who delivered it is having a bad day."
"You were a doctor!" "I had bad days."
John smirked, stepping back and limping into the kitchen. He brought the broom and dustpan in and carefully swept of the remaining bits of glass.
Sherlock watched the proceedings quietly.
"I am sorry you know."
John looked up from his sweeping, his eyes blazing with a cold fury.
"Did I not just-"
The detective held up a hand.
"I know. I'm not sorry for the fall. Like you said. I had my reasons. I am sorry that I let things get this bad. I had been assured that you were doing alright."
The former doctor froze.
"You were spying on me?"
Sherlock's eyes widened, and he stepped back slightly, hoping to avoid the maority of the doctor's wrath.
"Yes. I was. Mycroft and a few others were informing me of your condition. It's obvious now that I had been lied to."
John shook his head, emptying the contents of the dust pan.
"What did they tell you?"
"That you were okay. That your limp had returned, and you'd retired from the surgery with the money I willed you from my trust. That you were dating a nice woman and were planning on leaving Backer Street to move in with her."
The former doctor leaned against the table for a moment, before bursting into a fit of giggles.
These, unlike those shared a few hours ago, were genuine.
"Settling down with a nice woman? Sherlock that is the biggest- And you believed it?"
It was the detective's turn to blush.
"A little."
"Did they give this mystery woman a name?"
Sherlock nodded.
"Mary Morstan."
John doubled over, his howls of laughter bringing a very concerned Sherlock to his side.
"John? What's wrong?"
He looked up, one arm clutching his stomach while the other wiped tears from his eyes.
"Mary Morstan. Mary fucking Morstan."
Sherlock's brow furrowed in confusion.
"Yes that was the name provided. I fail to see the humor in it."
The former doctor shook his head, tossing it back and gulping in air.
"Do you remember- Oh of course you do you're bloody Sherlock Holmes- when you texted me to get lube?"
The detective nodded slowly.
"Yes."
"Well I had dropped my phone, I can't remember why, but she picked it up and caught sight of some message of yours. Something completely embarrassing and incriminating."
He shook his head.
"Well later that day she was one of my patients. Now imagine having to carry on a conversation with a strange woman, who knew you and the man you worked with were now shagging. It makes for a very awkward office visit."
Sherlock shook his head.
"Mycroft most likely fed me that name just so you would laugh at it."
John nodded.
"Probably. Wait though-"
John straightened, his face falling back into that hard glare.
"If you thought that I was moving out. That I had moved on. What are you doing here?"
Sherlock swallowed thickly, trying to avert his gaze to anywhere but his blogger.
"I, well I-"
"The Truth, Sherlock."
Another nod.
"I came here to confirm for myself what Mycroft and the others had been telling me. I needed evidence that you were alright."
He bit his lip.
"Also to steal one of your jumpers. You remember the one, right? Lumpy, misshapen, looks horrible on you?"
John's eyes widened a bit in surprise at the honesty of the answer, as well as the memory of the last time anyone had worn that jumper.
"The one you wore."
The detective nodded.
"But then I saw the flat. Saw how things had really been for you and I-I broke down. I had wanted to believe the lies John. I wanted so badly to believe them."
The detective was on the verge of tears again, and it was all John could do not to run.
He was so unfamiliar with Sherlock showing emotion, least of all so much in such an open manner.
"Hey, hey there. It's all right. You're back. It's all right. We'll be alright."
The detective rolled his eyes rubbing a hand over his face.
The cold and calculating mask that appeared had long since been shattered, and was a poor cover for the man behind it.
John chose to ignore the obvious in favor of restoring some semblance of peace.
"Look, why don't I call for take out, and you get cleaned up, yea?"
The detective nodded, excusing himself from the room in favor of searching out any other changes that had been made to his beloved flat.