Sherlock walked up the steps into his silent apartment. He had dropped Mary off at home on his way from Mycroft's office. Despite all of his effort, they were no closer to finding John than they had been that morning. Sherlock stood at the doorway with his hand on the light switch unmoving. He had done this ever since John had moved out of the flat. It allowed him to imagine, for a moment, that John was there, just out of sight. Perhaps he had dozed off in his chair and the sun had set while he slept. Perhaps he was upstairs in his room already gone to bed, and Sherlock would see his coat on the hook and his washed mug in the dish rack, his laptop sitting on the desk. When Sherlock switched on the light he had to remind himself that a true scientist must see the world as it is, and not the way one wishes it to be.

Sherlock missed John. He missed his smile, his witty comments, the talks that they would have over dinner where the only sustenance that Sherlock needed was John's presence.

John had asked, "If I came home with you, moved back to Baker street, would it be the way that it was between us?"

But Sherlock had not responded in the way that John had hoped, and he had left. If he would have said the right thing then, would John be here now with him waiting to make him a mug of tea?

The way that it was between them. At the time, Sherlock had thought that he knew what John meant by that: Working together. Living together. Being constantly in each other's company. Now when he thought back on it he realized that John was asking him something altogether more sentimental.

Despite his rough exterior, John was a sentimental man. He believed in Queen and Country, friendship and loyalty. He believed in true love. Had he found such a thing with Mary, or had he been trying to tell Sherlock that he had finally found such a love with him? What had John wanted of him? Should he have gotten down on one knee and asked John for his hand? It was a bit late for that.

John had kissed him, and he had pulled away. It wasn't meant to be a rejection. It was just ... too much. One more thing to catalog in a long queue of experiences waiting to be cataloged. Ever since his mind had started to clear from the drugs, Sherlock had been trying to catalog the experiences that he had felt in the last weeks. He had needed to clear out entire basements in his mind palace to fit in all of the new sensations: The sharp smell of smoke and gunpowder. The feel of flying through the air. Of hitting the concrete and rolling down. The blistering heat and then creeping cold feeling of blood flowing out of him. The way it pooled around his fingers as he tried to move, but couldn't. The trembling waver in John's voice as he told him that he would be fine, that the ambulance was on his way. That everything would be alright in the end.

But it wasn't alright, because John wasn't here. John had left before Sherlock had even been able to catalog the other sensations that he had felt. The feel of John's fingers on his arm. The press of John's soft lips against his own. The salty taste of his sweat. The way that Sherlock's pulse had raced at the sound of John muttering, "Sherlock, Sherlock!" over and over.

Sherlock fought the urge to turn the light off again. He walked toward the mantle staring into the mirror, but no matter where he looked, it failed to show him John anywhere in the room.

Sherlock turned at the sound of the door opening and footsteps on the stairs. He ran across to the door flinging it open as he cried out, "John!"

He looked down and saw Mary Watson carrying a pair of suitcases. Sherlock's face, hopes, and heart fell to the floor. Mary dropped her head and slowed her step as Sherlock turned away to walk back onto the living room.

When Mary entered, he was at the mantle again. "I'm sorry," she said, "I would have rung the bell, but I was afraid that you might not let me in."

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked, his back to her.

"I'm moving in," Mary said. " I told you before that I wasn't going to let you out of my sight. Can you show me to John's room? I'm sorry to admit it, but I've never seen it."

Sherlock turned and led her up the stairs. Mary followed him in as he turned on the light.

"I've been using it for storage," he said. "It's not suitable for guests."

Mary looked around. Boxes were stacked on all of the flat surfaces and against the wall, but the bare mattress in the center of the room was clear. She sat on the bed and put her bags beside her. Sherlock turned his face away.

"Do you have any sheets?" she asked.

"I'll get some," he said escaping down the stairs.

Mary pushed her suitcases onto the floor and fell back on the bed. She put her hand to her stomach. "What was that?" she thought. Sherlock Holmes had only ever showed her one side of his personality. The hard, exotic, brilliant, disdainful side. When he had imagined her to be John, Sherlock had almost overpowered her with his emotion. When he saw that she wasn't John...the hurt that he showed was so deep that she thought it would bowl her over. Was this the Sherlock that John knew? "Oh God," she thought. "Why did I even come here?"