John heaved a great sigh at the sight of the homeless man huddled on the front step of his flat.

It had been some time since one of Sherlock’s “irregulars” had shown up here.

When Sherlock had died, it had taken a while for the word to pass down to his “eyes and ears” throughout London, and many of them had loitered around 221B Baker St., looking to provide their favorite consulting detective with information, and maybe make a few quid in the bargain.

John had to admit that, while he had kindly informed the first ones of Sherlock’s passing, as time went by and they became unwanted reminders of what could now never be, he had grown more impatient with them. Sometimes he would thrust a handful of notes at them without a word; sometimes he couldn’t even be that polite. He would march right past them with a heated, “Sod off, he’s dead!” and slam the door hard enough to shake it in its frame.

Those days always seemed to end with his leg seizing up so bad that the stairs were agony, and his hand shaking so hard that he couldn’t even properly hold a cup of tea.

Between his rudeness and time’s inevitable passage, the homeless network had more or less forsaken Baker Street, and now, three years later, John was hard pressed to remember the last time he had needed to pay or tell off a vagrant.

For the millionth, or billionth, or trillionth time, John thought, “Christ, I miss you, Sherlock.” He sighed again and switched his cane to the other hand so that he could reach into the pocket of his jeans for the change he’d stuffed in there after lunch.

“Hello,” he said. “Who are you, then?”

As he got closer he noticed that the man—maybe? The person was curled in on his or her side, back to the street, shivering despite the large black coat wrapped tightly around his or her skinny frame.

“John,” the voice was deep and masculine, but raspy, reminding John of Harry’s voice after a three day bender.

“Well, ‘John’, if you’re looking for Sherlock Holmes, you’re three years too late,” John said, a trace of bitterness in his tone. He was sadly unsurprised that it still hurt.

The man was turning now, facing him and pushing himself slowly to his feet.

John’s cane fell to the sidewalk with a clatter. The coins in his other hand skittered across the pavement as they dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers.

“John,” Sherlock Holmes said, holding onto the metal fence to support himself. “There’s something different this time.”

John stared. And stared. And stared some more.

Sherlock was gaunt, almost skeletal.  A patchy ginger beard covered his cheeks where they weren’t smudged with dirt, and his eyes seemed too big for his face.  As John continued to stare, Sherlock gripped tighter to the railing and used his other hand to brush his hair away from his forehead.  John noticed that his hands were ungloved and sporting multiple bruises. The thick fringe of his hair fell forward over one eye but not before John had seen the large cut on Sherlock’s forehead and diagnosed it as infected.

“Bloody hell,” the words came out of John in a great whoosh of air, like he’d been punched in the stomach.

“John,” Sherlock said again, and his voice sounded a bit stronger, more like the voice that had been haunting John’s dreams for the last 36 months. “Coffee, thank you.  Black; two sugars; I’ll be upstairs.”

Despite this declaration, Sherlock remained standing on the step swaying drunkenly, until John gathered his wits and rushed to his side.

“Sherlock! My God; Sherlock!” Cane and coins were utterly forgotten as John fumbled instead for his flat keys and took hold of Sherlock by the arm.

“Something cold will do,” Sherlock told him.

John ignored the odd phrase, still muttering Sherlock’s name as he opened the door and led Sherlock into the hall. Sherlock steadied himself against the wall and took a deep shuddering breath as he glanced around, first down the hall towards Mrs. Hudson’s flat, and then upstairs. He looked back at John, and found the other man staring at him with a mixture of hope and horror.

John was still clutching Sherlock’s arm and he swore there was nothing but bones under the coat sleeve.

“Okay,” Sherlock said tiredly, “you’ve got questions.”

“Sherlock—how—no, never mind. Later. You’re alive!” John thought that if he hadn’t kept up the exercise regimen he’d learned in basic training to ward off too many nights of beer and takeaway, he probably would be having an actual cardiac event, right here on the landing.

“So far, so obvious,” Sherlock huffed in a tone so haughty, so disdainful and so bloody, wonderfully familiar that John had no choice but to throw his arms around Sherlock and hug him as hard as he could.

There was an awkward moment where Sherlock did nothing, followed by three more awkward moments as Sherlock patted John’s back, but then his arms went exactly where they were supposed to, and the two men clung to each other, shaking and grinning foolishly up and down the hall.

“Doctor Watson, what do you think?” Sherlock whispered into John’s hair.

“Sherlock,” John turned to face him. “I don’t know what to think.” He blew out a shaky breath. “It’s been three bloody years, Sherlock! I—no, no. You know what? I don’t care. Just—just let’s get you a wash and a cuppa and then you can dazzle me with tales of your brilliance, all right?”

John pulled away but kept a grip on Sherlock’s arm, recognizing that the stairs might prove to be a challenge to the obviously ill man, but when he tried to lead Sherlock towards the steps, he was pulled back into Sherlock’s arms instead.

“John,” Sherlock said. And then he leaned forward. John adjusted his stance, thinking that Sherlock might fall. The other man gave him a smile and John only had time to think “Oh!” and then Sherlock was pressing his lips to his forehead, his cheek, and then his mouth. Sherlock’s lips were dry and rough on his own, but that was just fine.

“Three kisses says it’s a romantic attachment,” Sherlock told him. And then he did falter, but John caught him easily and helped him up the stairs.

***

In the bathroom, Sherlock sat docile on the toilet seat while John removed his coat and then the worn cardigan and dirty salmon coloured shirt he was wearing underneath it. The coat could probably be cleaned, John thought, but the rest were for the bin.

Sherlock’s pale skin was mottled with bruises and just under his very visible ribs there was a long scar that John didn’t remember ever seeing before. Not that he had been given many chances to view Sherlock sans clothing (something that even now he hoped to remedy) but there had been the occasional wounds,  the sprung ribs from some criminal’s kick, or that one time with the ballet dancer and the letter opener, but—

John ran his hands over Sherlock’s chest and down his sides with a doctor’s knowing precision, gentling his touch when a hiss of pain from Sherlock told him he’d pressed too hard. Nothing was broken, distended or crackling under his fingertips, and even many of the bruises were starting to fade to hideous shades of yellow and green.  Ugly, but encouraging.

“Nothing broken, thank God,” John told him needlessly.

“Yes, thank you for your input,” Sherlock replied, averting his eyes when John gave him a curious look.

Ignoring it for the moment in light of more pressing matters, John turned to the sink.  He ran water until it warmed and then filled the sink half-way and poured a small amount of antiseptic into it.

It took a while to clean up Sherlock’s face as he kept pulling back from the cloth John was using to wipe carefully at the grime. The cut on Sherlock’s forehead re-opened and John frowned as he rinsed out the cloth and the water turned pink.

Sherlock’s eyes were slightly unfocused during the ordeal, but not in a concussed way. More like he wasn’t seeing John, but rather, was looking in on his own mind. John had seen that look on Sherlock’s face countless times years ago; it was Sherlock’s deduction face, and John quietly rejoiced in it, while waiting for the inevitable “ah ha!” moment that was sure to follow, once Sherlock had arrived at the answer.

There was no “ah ha!”

A bit more worried now, but unsure what to say, John stuck with what he knew best; what his hands and mind could do even with a heavy heart.  He cleaned and dressed the cut on Sherlock’s face and then offered Sherlock the shower.

“Why should I?” Sherlock asked him, looking troubled. “I’ve got nothing to go on; what’s in it for me?”

John fell back on his default setting—the confused stare—but nothing more was forthcoming.  After a moment, Sherlock raised one trembling hand and tugged at a greasy lock of his own hair, and then touched his scruffy chin. John waited, but Sherlock remained mute, hand on his face, eyes on John. When John cut his eyes over to the bathtub, he saw Sherlock flinch.

“Did—” He cleared his throat, tried again. “D’you want a hand, then?”

“Now and then, yes,” Sherlock whispered with what sounded like relief.

John found a new package of razors and his shaving cream and swallowed hard when Sherlock tipped his head back and bared his throat trustingly.

The only sounds in the room were John’s quiet breathing, Sherlock’s slightly more labored breaths and the scrape/glide of the razor over Sherlock’s face as John carefully ran the blade over his chin, cheeks, neck and that spot just above his perfectly harlequin upper lip. John’s hand stayed surgery-level steady throughout and he kept his touch light as he moved the razor over the hurt places on Sherlock’s face.

When he was finished, John wiped away the last traces of foam with a soft towel. Sherlock swiped at his neck just behind his ear and smiled when his fingers came away clean. John smiled back, happily noticing that just being clean shaven made Sherlock appear far less damaged and more like the Sherlock that lived in John’s heart and mind.

“Right,” he said briskly. “Hair next.  I’m going to get a chair, okay?”

Sherlock closed his eyes and nodded.

***

John held the back of Sherlock’s head and used his toothbrush cup to pour warm water over his hair, taking care not to drip on the fresh bandages or into his eyes which were dark and solemn as he gazed up at John.

He shampooed Sherlock’s hair twice and had to smile as Sherlock closed his eyes and hummed contentedly when John massaged his scalp.

When the water finally ran clear, John helped Sherlock to sit up and dried most of the water out of his hair.

“No conditioner,” John apologized. “That was always more your thing than mine, and since you—” He paused and cleared his throat.

“I am clean,” said Sherlock.  He squeezed John’s forearm and attempted to stand.

John caught him easily, still feeling sick at how much weight Sherlock had lost. He gave the tumbled mess on top of Sherlock’s head a troubled glance.

“D’you want me to try and comb out the worst of it?” he asked.

Sherlock shook his head and said, “Haven’t the faintest; hungry?”

He appeared to be surprised by the words that came out of his mouth, and then frustrated. He looked down at his ruined trousers, his shirtless, bruised torso and his right big toe, which was currently poking through a hole in his sock, and then he turned that frustrated look on John.

“Dinner?” he asked again.

John scrutinized him carefully.

“Do you want to eat?” Sherlock’s voice held a note of anger.

“Of course, Sherlock.” John stroked his arms and then pulled him to his feet and into a hug. “Anything you want.”

Sherlock trembled in his embrace, and whispered in his ear, the breath of his voice ghosting over John’s skin and making it his turn to shiver. “I like company when I go out and I think better when I talk aloud.”

John gave him a smile and said, “And the skull just attracts attention, right?” The smile faded as the words slipped from him. But when no more was forthcoming from Sherlock except more shivering, he shook away the odd feeling and touched Sherlock’s chest briefly. “Wait here a moment, I’ve just the thing.”

***

John sipped his tea and watched Sherlock eat.

The blue cable-knit jumper was an older one of John’s and stretched at both the waist and sleeves, but the cuffs still left Sherlock’s wrists bare and made his hands look gangly and uncoordinated as he carefully dipped his toast into his tea.

Without thinking too hard about his motivation, John had gone with tea of course, and some toast for Sherlock.  He had smeared butter and honey liberally on the bread and then cut it into “soldiers”—the neat strips that his mum had always made for Harry and himself when they were small and feeling poorly.  Tea and soldiers had always made him feel better.

He could feel Sherlock’s keen gaze on him as he plated the toast and dumped sugar into their tea, but he had made no comment until John was seated across from him at the small kitchen table.

"No, it's... fine,” he said and when he picked up the mug of tea, his hands only shook a little.

John was desperate to question Sherlock; it had been three years, after all; but for now he was content to sip his own tea and watch Sherlock delicately dipping his soldiers and eating them in quick, economical bites. He let the silence linger for a bit, and when he was finally ready to put all the thoughts jostling around in his brain into words,  Sherlock surprised him by speaking first.

“Keeping up appearances but not planning ahead,” he mumbled around a mouthful of toast as his gaze drifted over the kitchen counters and off towards the front room.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” John replied. “If you’re asking why I’m still here—why everything’s still here, well, what else could I have done?”

Sherlock stared at him, and John felt a sheepish smile crawling onto his face.

“You rather ruined me for anyone else, you know,” he said, and then tried to hide the blush he could feel staining his cheeks in the depths of his cup. The silence, not wholly uncomfortable but weighted with questions spun out again. But when there was nothing left at the bottom of his mug but dregs, John looked up and he couldn’t hide the hurt in his voice when he spoke.

“Why did you do it, Sherlock?” he asked. “Why did you let me think you were dead?” John was surprised to find his vision suddenly blurry with unshed tears.

Sherlock stared at him, the toast in his hand seemingly forgotten. He didn’t speak, but his lips moved, and John could see his mouth forming the word, “Moriarty”.

“You went after him?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Without me?”  John glared at him. “Why?”

“’Cause you're an idiot,” Sherlock looked surprised at his own words. “No no no, don't be like that, practically everyone is.”

John wanted to be offended, but at Sherlock’s perplexed expression, he found himself more worried than hurt by the words. But the fact that Sherlock had left him behind and lied about it—three years gone and he was still aching from a loss that had been a lie.

“I can’t believe you thought you’d do better without me; after all we’d been through,” he said.

“It took effort,” Sherlock told him quietly. He paused, glared at John, the kettle, the table and then back at John. He threw his toast down onto his plate in a display of toddler viciousness. “It would have hurt!” His tone was at once harsh and pleading.

“I could have helped you, Sherlock,” John argued.

“Bit risky, wasn’t it?” He picked up his toast but didn’t make any attempt to eat it.

“It would have been worth the risk, Sherlock,” said John. “My God, these last three years…you have no idea what I’ve—“

“John, you probably want to shut up now,” said Sherlock.

“Dammit! I will not shut up!” John shouted, jumping to his feet. Sherlock startled and dropped the toast he had been playing with.

“You think Moriarty such a threat that you fake death to pursue him, leave me behind without explaining anything, leave me to grieve the man I—” John’s fists were clenched tight as he held his arms tight to his sides and wondered at this man’s ability to make him want to simultaneously punch him and kiss him. “No!” he cut off the thought he’d been about to put into words. “No—and then you come swanning back in here looking like ten miles of bad road with no explanation, spouting rubbish when I—”

“No, that’s not right…” Sherlock muttered.

“How did you even get here?” John demanded.

“Bitterness is a paralytic; love is a much more vicious motivator,” Sherlock replied, voice a bit louder to match John’s volume.

 “Sherlock, I don’t understand. What happened? Is Moriarty—is he dead? Did he do something to you? Can’t you just—”

“I could just walk out of here!” Sherlock snapped back dropping his toast into his mug.

“You’re serious? After all this? And in the shape you’re in? I fucking doubt it!” John replied, blue eyes bright with anger. He didn’t notice Sherlock’s increased trembling until one of his shaking hands knocked the cup in front of him over, spilling lukewarm tea and soggy toast bits into Sherlock’s lap.

“Jesus, Sherlock—” John’s anger deflated at once as he finally noticed the other man’s growing distress, and he remembered that, no matter what heartache he’d been through, his flatmate—his friend—his whatever Sherlock was—had been through worse. But before he could even begin to formulate an apology, Sherlock had pulled himself to his feet so that they were standing across from each other. He was still shaking, and his eyes were dark and wild.

“Shut up, everybody! Shut up! Don’t move! Don’t speak! Don’t breathe! I’m trying to think!” Sherlock’s voice rose as he flung himself out of his chair and into the front room, pulling at his hair and spinning around while John followed as far as the doorway, unsure about getting any closer. Sherlock was suddenly feral, and John knew that there were animals in the wild that would harm themselves if trapped. The thought kept him frozen in place as Sherlock continued his pacing around the room. “Anderson, turn your back—your face is putting me off!” Too weak to keep up the exertion for long, however, Sherlock staggered, bounced off the mantle and stumbled over the ottoman John had recently purchased for the nights when his leg was giving him extra misery. He fell to the floor with a grunt as the wind was forced out of him.

“Sherlock!” John found his voice and his legs at the same time and rushed to his friend’s side. Sherlock looked up at him and John was shocked to see tears in his eyes. “Turn your back!” Sherlock beseeched him, and then: “Did I get anything wrong?”

More tears and John could see they were of frustration, not pain, and Sherlock was fisting his hair again, pulling hard enough to make John wince on his behalf. He tugged at Sherlock’s arms until the distressed man gave a shuddering sort of sigh and let go of himself, and John hauled him into his arms.

“Sherlock, hush now, hush!” John pressed his hand to the back of Sherlock’s head and Sherlock tucked his face into the crook of John’s neck with a hitching sort of a sigh. There was no dramatic sobbing or wailing, but John could feel the wet tears on his neck.

“Shhh,” John said. “Shhh.  It’s all right, now, Sherlock. You’re just tired, yeah?” As he spoke, John ran his hands through Sherlock’s hair and stroked the back of his neck, his other arm wrapped tight around Sherlock’s shoulders tight enough to feel the tremors coursing through his thin body. “It’s been so long and you’ve been working so hard. It’s okay, now. You’re home, Sherlock and I’m going to take care of you.”  John had no idea how he was going to keep such a promise, but already his mind was formulating a list that started with his own therapist and ended with Mycroft Holmes.

Sherlock lifted his head.

“Oh, I see,” he snarled, but there was no heat in it, only exhausted confusion. “So you’re a proper genius, too?”

John used his thumb to brush away the tears on Sherlock’s cheeks. Fresh ones replaced them almost immediately.  John kissed the new ones away.

“Actually, do you know what? Ignore me,” Sherlock said.

“No,” John replied, tucking Sherlock’s head under his chin and pressing a kiss to his hair. “I can’t. I won’t.”

 “I’m not in shock.” Sherlock’s words were muffled as he spoke them into his chest, but still understandable. “John, it still hurts.”

“I know, Sherlock.  But I swear we’ll make it right.”

More tears tracked their way down Sherlock’s face when he raised his head again, and John could see his throat working.  John kissed him softly on the mouth and then got them both back up to their feet. He kept Sherlock in his arms which made their steps over to the couch a bit of a clumsy dance, but neither of them were about to relinquish their hold on the other.  John sorted them out on the sofa so that Sherlock was nestled comfortably between John’s legs with his head on John’s shoulder and John’s arms were locked tightly around him. The silence was long and peaceful and the front room started growing dark as evening approached. 

Just as John was wondering if Sherlock had fallen asleep, he felt Sherlock’s head move, and heard him speak, soft but clear:

“John,” Sherlock said with a lopsided smile. “How do you feel about the violin?”

Le Fin.