"I…" Anderson was speechless, and Sherlock smirked at the return of the bumbling idiot he knew so well. "I can't believe it!"

"Well, I'm pretty sure you just said you could…" Sherlock trailed off as he glanced at Lestrade, who was staring at him, coffee almost spilling, cigarette dangling from his lips. Sherlock looked him over before grinning. "Those things'll kill you, Gerald."

"Oh, you bastard!" Lestrade handed his coffee to Anderson and pulled Sherlock into a hug. Sherlock patted his back awkwardly, unsure what to do, but kept smiling all the same. It felt good to be back.

"Where the hell have you been?" Lestrade suddenly pushed him away, looking straight at him. "It's been two years, Sherlock!"

Sherlock shrugged. "I've been around. Spent a few months in Siberia before Mycroft pulled me out."

"So Mycroft knew?" Anderson's voice was coloured with disbelief. "Who else?"

"Molly, a few of my homeless network. No one else."

Anderson nodded as Lestrade continued to stare at him as if Sherlock was an angel. Considering I've basically come back from the dead, the idea isn't too far fetched, he thought. He looked to Anderson.

"So, how many cases have I missed?"

"Er… just a few. We figured out the majority… John even came in a few months ago when we needed a medical opinion. Figured the whole thing out himself." Anderson seemed amazed. So was Sherlock.

"How is he? He stopped blogging after I… left." Sherlock almost looked ashamed as Lestrade flinched at the word.

"He, um…." Anderson trailed off, not quite knowing what to say. "We don't see him often."

"He rarely leaves his flat," Lestrade interjected, his voice low. "When we saw him at the Yard, he looked like a ghost." He shook his head, thinking back through the months, the phone calls from Mrs. Hudson, the constant worry.

Sherlock grew paler with each emotion he read off Lestrade's face. He remained quiet as Anderson spoke up.

"I have to get back to the station and tell everyone." Anderson's voice was excited. "We've got a lead on a new case. Drop by later?"

Sherlock nodded halfheartedly as he watched Lestrade. He could tell he had something to say. Lestrade watched as Anderson walked off, then spoke softly.

"Does John know?"

Those three words carried so much weight, two whole years of pain behind them, so palpable that Sherlock carefully thought over his response.

"No, but-"

Lestrade looked so relieved that it threw Sherlock off balance, taking the words from his tongue. Sherlock could say nothing, but stared at Lestrade until he noticed.

"Don't… don't tell him yet. Let me break it to him."

"What?" Sherlock scoffed in disbelief. How could this man, after two years, keep him from John? "Why?"

"Why, Sherlock?" Lestrade stared at him as if the answer was obvious, but Sherlock was clueless. Lestrade grew angry.

"Because you can't just invite yourself back into someone's life like that, that's why! He's finally moved on! You showing up again…" He shook his head at Sherlock's confused expression. "Look, he died inside, a little more every day." Sherlock opened his mouth to object, but Lestrade cut him off. "And don't tell me that I couldn't know what he was thinking, because I could. It was written all over his face. He was and is broken. He wouldn't leave Baker Street for a week, then wouldn't go inside it for three."

Sherlock sat heavily on a nearby bench, Lestrade standing in front of him. "Calling Mrs. Hudson hurts him, and we can see him from our windows, fighting to stay upright on his way past Scotland Yard every morning. Every day is a burden for him. We all ran back and forth to hospital for the first six months." Sherlock looked up at him, his entire body a question.

"Suicide attempts, Sherlock. Because you left him behind."

Sherlock slumped, showing the first real emotion Lestrade had ever seen from him. He looked up at Lestrade, suddenly a little boy. Lestrade tried to imagine how John ever got mad at this man.

"What do I do?"

Lestrade thought for a moment. "I'll call him today. Let him know you're coming."

Sherlock nodded, speaking slowly. "I was already on my way to Baker Street."

Lestrade looked confused. "Baker Street? He isn't there anymore." When Sherlock did a double take, Lestrade explained. "He spent a few months in a psych ward, and then moved out when they let him go. He's down on Brixton now."

Sherlock nodded slowly. His brain was in shock, seeming to function at half the normal speed. In reality, it was probably behaving like a normal human brain for once.

How could John have moved on? After what Lestrade said... Sherlock thought. Once again, he marveled at the resilience of the human race, the ability to overcome heartbreak. Or maybe it was the resilience of the incredible human named John Watson.