A/N: Sorry for the delay. This chapter's set after Sherlock finds John at the reception hall with no Mary and lets him stay for the week x


Sherlock awoke with a start when he heard his phone go off. His head shot up from where it had been resting on his folded arms and he blearily looked about the kitchen table for his mobile. Finally locating it, he squinted in the darkness at the bright screen, only to sigh in frustration when the words low battery flashed at him. He threw it aside and scrubbed wearily at his eyes, waking himself up. His phone had said it was two in the morning, yet he knew he would be unable to get back to sleep. Not that he had been intent on sleeping in the first place.

With a yawn he got up from the table and made his way across the flat and up the stairs towards John's bedroom. Ever since he'd taken the doctor home from the reception hall after the failed wedding, he had been checking in on John every night, just to make sure everything was alright. Occasionally he'd had to wake his friend from a vivid nightmare; the dreams had returned now that he was falling into a depression. So Sherlock made sure John got as good a night's sleep as he could possibly get.

Quietly pushing open the door, Sherlock peered into the pitch black room, letting the light from the landing creep in and fall upon the bed.

The empty bed.

Frowning, Sherlock walked over and stared dumbly at the rumpled duvet and dented pillow, wondering where on earth it's inhabitant was.

"John?" he called, entertaining the possibility that the doctor was still here in the room but the detective had failed to spot him. Quickly rushing back to the door, Sherlock flicked on the light and gazed back across the room. Nope, John was not here. Sherlock headed back downstairs and stood in the middle of the living room, cursing himself for falling asleep.

"John?" he all but shouted, waltzing from room to room, throwing open doors and switching on all the lights in the flat. He was fully awake now, the last dregs of tiredness vanishing as he hastened about 221B, repeatedly yelling John's name. Where the hell was he? The only solution Sherlock could think of was that John had left the flat and gone elsewhere. If that was the case, then the doctor could be anywhere by now. Sherlock didn't know for how long John had been gone and as far as he knew, his friend had left no note.

"God's sake, John." Sherlock muttered, retrieving his phone from the table and calling Lestrade. He waited for a few moments, and eventually the DI answered.

"I swear to God, Sherlock, there had better be a damn good reason as to why you're calling at this hour." Greg growled. Sherlock ignored him.

"Is John with you?" he asked.

"What?" Greg responded, the surprise evident in his voice.

"I asked if John was with you. Evidently not. Goodnight."

"No, wait Sherlock! You can't just ask something like that and not expect me to question you. What's going on?"

"John isn't here." Sherlock responded. "He's left."

"With no note?"

Sherlock sighed and didn't deign to answer.

"Right, stupid question. Listen Sherlock, I wouldn't get too worried. He's probably just gone for a walk or something."

"At this time of the night?" Sherlock asked with a frown as he moved towards the door and began to pull on his coat and scarf.

"Yeah, he used to do it all the time when you – well, never mind. All I'm saying is he'll probably be back in no time. He's having a hard time, and some fresh air will probably do him some good."

"He may be having a hard time, but what's to say that means he won't do something stupid?" Sherlock argued.

He heard Greg sigh on the phone. "Alright, fine. Well, if he calls I'll tell you, okay?"

"Okay." the detective answered, going to hang up.

"Call me when you find him, yeah?" Greg asked.

"Yes, I will. Goodnight." Sherlock hung up and stuffed his phone in his coat pocket, walking out the door and down the stairs. Once out on the pavement, Sherlock contemplated the possibility of being able to catch a cab at this hour. As he began to walk towards the main street, he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. Quickly withdrawing it lest John was texting, he sighed and rolled his eyes when he saw Mycroft's name appear. He opened the message, wondering why everyone was up at this time. Although to be fair, he had woken Lestrade.

At his flat – MH, was what the message said, and with a resolute nod Sherlock eventually managed to flag down a taxi and direct it towards Kensington, pondering the reasons John might have returned there. The doctor must have known it would do more bad than good, but then again Sherlock wasn't really up to scratch on how people behave when they were struggling to cope. He hoped he wouldn't find John in too bad a state.

Half an hour later and the cab pulled up outside John's flat. Bounding out of the taxi and only just remembering to pay the driver, Sherlock walked up the few steps and knocked loudly on the door. When no one answered after a second knock and a minute of waiting, Sherlock tried the door handle and was surprised to find it open.

Quietly he crept inside and headed upstairs, mindful of the creaky steps. He wasn't sure what to expect; the open door could mean anything. He very much hoped an intruder had not gotten in.

The door to the living room and kitchen was shut, and Sherlock moved closer to it, trying to hear any noises. There was no sound whatsoever, and the detective considered the possibility that John was upstairs in his old bedroom. He made a quick trip up and found the bed empty, the sheets neatly folded and obviously not slept in.

Coming back down, Sherlock pushed open the sitting room door and took a few steps in, his eyes adjusting to the dim lighting. His gaze eventually fell upon John, who was curled on the sofa, fast asleep and clutching one of Mary's cardigans. The doctor had a faint frown on his face, as if his subconscious was aware of the fact that the owner of the cardigan wasn't actually sleeping next to him. His knees were tucked up to his chest, obviously seeking warmth against the worryingly cold room. John obviously hadn't been aware enough to notice the drop in temperature when he'd arrived however long ago.

It nearly broke Sherlock's non-existent heart to see his friend like this, resorted to coming back to the place that would undoubtedly hurt him in order to find solace in Mary's belongings. He almost didn't want to wake him, but he knew that John wouldn't be happy waking up in the morning here.

He stepped forward and placed a hand on the doctor's shoulder. "John." he called, shaking him slightly. John frowned and buried himself further into the couch, away from Sherlock.

"Wake up, John. Come on." he said in a hushed tone and John's eyes opened blearily.

"Sh'lock?" he slurred, blinking up at the detective, rubbing his eyes. "Wasgoinon?"

"We're going home, John, come on." He tugged at John's arm, coaxing him off of the sofa. John staggered a bit and looked around the room.

"Where's Mary?" he asked, obviously still confused.

"She's not here, John. Come back to Baker Street, you look tired."

John frowned, resisting Sherlock's tugging. "I'll jus' sleep here, don' worry." he said, edging back to the sofa.

"No, come with me, please." he said, and John took a heavy step forward.

"Where's Mary?" he asked again. Sherlock frowned.

"Have you been drinking?" he questioned, his eyes flicking over to the kitchen and landing upon the empty whiskey bottle. Now that he was aware, he also noticed the faint smell of alcohol and internally he sighed.

John continued to look about the flat as Sherlock led him to the door. "I was gunna wait for her here." he said with his brows furrowed. "She should be here soon."

"I'm sorry John, she won't be coming tonight. We can see if she's here tomorrow, yes?"

"I–I s'pose." John relented, looking defeated. Sherlock didn't say anything; instead he made sure John didn't trip on the stairs and left him near the front door as he flagged down another cab. He opened the door and turned back to John, who was swaying on the spot slightly and gazing up at his house. Sherlock called his name and the doctor jumped, looking back at the detective and then to the taxi. Without saying anything, he stumbled forward and sat heavily in the vehicle. Sherlock shut the door and made his way around to the other side, getting in and asking to be taken to Baker Street.

The ride passed in silence, John leaning his head against the window whilst Sherlock shot him furtive glances every so often.

"M'sorry." John muttered later on as they arrived in 221B. Sherlock paused in the act of removing his coat and glanced at John, who was looking down at his feet with an almost ashamed expression.

"What for?" Sherlock asked, hanging his coat and scarf up and turning to face John.

"For... for gettin' drunk." he stuttered, obviously finding it difficult to form the words. "M'tryin' not to annoy you with being here." he continued, oblivious to Sherlock's shocked stare. "I don' mean to be so – so desp'rate. I don' wanna be a burdenen." he added the extra 'en' without realising, and it only seemed to add to his pitiful form.

"You're not a burden, John." Sherlock said gently. "I want to help you, I want to help you cope. You shouldn't have to do it alone."

"You shun' have to help." John replied. "S'not fair on you."

"John, I think you should go to bed." Sherlock said, trying to avert the conversation. He had no idea John had felt like he was intruding; he'd thought he'd been as welcoming to John as he possibly could have been. So why did John feel like he was burdening Sherlock? For crying out loud, it wasn't as if it was John's fault that Mary was gone. Well, it could be but it seemed unlikely what with the way John had been mourning her missing presence. He was either a far better actor than Sherlock had thought him, or he desperately wished for his fiancée to return.

"Right, yeah, I will." John said. "Sorry." he added, before turning to the stairs and walking up to his room, not giving Sherlock a chance to tell him not to apologise.

He sighed heavily and sank down onto the couch. He fired a quick text to Lestrade, telling him John had been found, before listening to the footsteps above him. He heard the faint creak of the bed as the doctor lay down, and no more sounds emerged from then on.

He waited twenty minutes before stealing upstairs and poking his head around the door. John was sprawled across the bed, still fully clothed and face pressed into the pillow. He lay atop the duvet and his hands dangled off each side. Sherlock moved forward and gently wrangled the duvet out from the slumbering doctor, laying it over him. He then removed his shoes and placed them at the bottom of the bed.

Taking a few steps back, he took a few moments to observe John. He still looked sad and weary even in his sleep, and Sherlock wished there was something he could do to relieve John of his grief. As he trudged down the stairs and went into his own room, he prayed for John's sake that Mary would be found soon.