He felt his chest tightening as she helped the strange man up the stairs. With a hallow thump, the man was suddenly laying on his favorite chair. His. Chair. He looked up at the blonde, but she paid no attention to him. She was at the strange man's side, holding his hand endearingly. Why was she holding his hand?
Eyes rolling over the sleeping lump, he drank in all he could about the man's background; but it all came up to a blank. He couldn't place a thing about him, but the basics. His curly red hair was damp with sweat (obvious); Rose undoubtedly knew him, possibly a romantic connection (wait...what?); and his face bore a striking resemblance to...his. This was impossible. Mycroft would have nagged his ear off ages ago if he would've had a twin. Especially a ginger twin.
Suddenly, Rose stood. She wrapped her arms around Sherlock's torso and sobbed. It was apparent that she didn't need his response. she just needed him there. "It's him..." she mumbled. "He came back...oh, Sherly. He came back...he came back for me..."
He came back for Rose Tyler. Why? Rose Tyler was nothing special. She was an ordinary, everyday shop girl who wore too much make-up, and had an adorable smile. She was the Rose Tyler that could make him laugh, that could make him eat on cases, that was so much more than just Rose Tyler.
No, he decided, this man had no come back for his Rose.
She was one of his...friends.
And he didn't just give friends away.
Never.