Whoops. I'm sorry that it has taken me over a month to update! Anyway, I finally feel that this fic has some direction, so hopefully I'll manage weekly updates from now on.

Anyway, enjoy!


Mycroft was true to his word. The next morning, after Sherlock had stayed up all night trying and failing to distract himself with the television, a sharp knock at the door heralded the arrival of a smart black leather suitcase. Attached was a note, written on thick paper in calligraphic handwriting.

You've done well. Go home, Sherlock.

He snorted. Mycroft, proud of him? Mycroft, he was certain, didn't care. Mycroft hated him, hated the irritating, pathetic, useless little brother, who took up so much of his time. The feeling was mutual; he hated Mycroft's smug superiority and success.

His gaze returned to the suitcase. It promised something, a chance to return to his old life, maybe even his old self. Since returning from that horrible final mission, since waiting all night in the burnt out shell of his beloved childhood home, and finally facing the one man whom he had been hunting for three years, he had felt, well, funny. He hadn't been sleeping well, little things had made him jumpy and nervous, and he couldn't shake the feeling that he had done something wrong. However, whenever he tried to remember what, all his mind supplied was the cruelty in Moriarty's eyes, or the writhing, angry body of Moran as he lay dying. Even his mind palace was no help. He felt like there had been an earthquake, and a few shelves of thoughts were still spilled on the floor.

A nagging voice at the back of his mind told him that it was PTSD. Like John had, he mused. But John had been in a war. John had earned his emotional trauma. What had he done? Sure, he had killed people. Sure, he had nearly been killed (the scar left from the deep graze of Moran's bullet served as a constant reminder of this). But it didn't feel like enough. He wasn't suffering, he was just weak. Pathetic. He glanced back at the suitcase. What was he thinking yesterday? He can't return to John. John wouldn't want him back, no matter how badly he wants to be there. John would be furious that Sherlock had left, and disgusted with what he had become. No, he thought, he must remain alone.


Three miles away, John Watson, formerly of the first Northumberland fusiliers, was also alone. Whilst it wasn't his intention to be so, it didn't bother him. Over the last three years he had grown accustomed to it. As he stumbled from the shower, wrapped in a towel in a way that, even now, reminded him of Sherlock stumbling about the flat in a sheet, his thoughts turned to the young doctor who had started work at the clinic a few weeks before. Sarah had left in search of a better job in Manchester, and in her place was a young, slim, elegant woman named Mary.

Lost in his thoughts about her, he bumped into the coffee table and stumbled, catching himself upon the sofa. He was about to swear with frustration, then he realised the ridiculousness of his predicament, and collapsed into hopeless giggles. He was meant to be grown up, a doctor, responsible! And here he was, so wrapped up in his daydream about a woman that he fell over the furniture. It wasn't that funny, he tried to tell himself, but for some reason his laughter just increased into hopeless mirth. He didn't think he had laughed so hard since that first night with Sherlock, when they had chased through London after the wrong man, and returned back to the flat in fits of laughter and... oh. Suddenly he didn't feel like laughing. He picked himself up from the sofa, knocking one of the pillows, with its distinctive union jack decoration, to the floor. A moment ago he had felt, for the first time in three years, young and full of life, but now? Now he just wanted out.

John contemplated calling in sick, but what good would it do? He would just sit at home and wallow in memories that, even now, were still painful to the touch. Adjusting the towel around his waist, he picked his way back to his bedroom and crumpled onto the bed, trying to pull his thoughts back together.