The light rapping echoing through the flat had done absolutely nothing to wake him up. It started as a gentle, tentative tap on the heavy door, but soon became a violent pounding that rattled the hinges and doorknob. A voice was muffled by the wood, repeating a singular word over and over again. The familiarity of his name being spoken was hopeful but not enough to rouse him from his foggy sleep.

Sherlock had slipped into unconsciousness on the couch, curled up while hugging his knees tightly to his chest. He let one eye crack open, practically glued shut by the crusty dried tears. His eyes were puffy but still incredibly deep-set, bloodshot and surrounded by dark circles indicating many sleepless nights. The knocking on the door continued, but Sherlock remained still, lacking the motivation to move his stiff, tired joints. The needle that had been jammed hastily into his arm last night was now on the floor, and bruises highlighted the skin around the invaded vein.

He heard an exasperated sigh from the other side of the door, followed by the shuffling of feet and the scratching of keys being inserted into the keyhole. John had brought his key. Sherlock made sure that John knew he was welcome back anytime, before he had gotten married. He insisted John keep his key and carry it with him at all times, should problems arise or if he wanted to stop in for a visit. John had then inquired why Sherlock would even need to tell him that, wondering why Sherlock thought that he wouldn't come back unless by invitation. Sherlock had remained silent, not daring to give the answer channeling through his mind: Because when I left Baker Street, so did you, and I want you to know that I will always be there for you.

But he didn't respond.

The door creaked open, and Sherlock shifted to face the back cushion of the sofa, a habit he had taken on when pouting and sulking from John. What he wouldn't give to go back and take the assistance and company John had offered him when he was in a bad mood. But he had chosen to keep his stiff upper lip and sullen mindset when faced with an unpleasant problem. He realized now that he should have used those times for growing closer to John instead of pushing him away as he had so desperately attempted to do. It was all his fault that John had left him, all his fault that John had moved on, all his fault that John had been hurt, all his fault that Mary had treated him so poorly because he had left John first. He had avoided his own feelings in order to keep John out of danger. It was his fault that he hadn't seen Mary for what she was. He had caused all of it and John didn't deserve any of it and he didn't deserve John. He never deserved John and never would for what he put the only perfect thing in his life through.

"What the hell is this?" he heard John say. He spoke in a calm voice, but it was demanding as he moved around the room. He no doubt saw the used cigarettes scattered on the floor, empty bottles of alcohol on almost every surface of the flat, dirty needles and pills laying around in the open. He began to get nervous; Sherlock wasn't responding to his questions, and he was almost perfectly still. John had only seen him under the influence of drugs a month after the wedding, but he suspected that the loneliness of an empty flat and the temptation of the "under cover" work was what caused this sudden relapse.

He gripped the handle of his duffle bag and moved slowly towards the couch. He stood above Sherlock, still lying on the couch, and stuck two fingers against his neck. He felt the slow but steady pulse, and Sherlock had stiffened a bit at the feel of John's warm fingers against the bare skin of his neck. John grabbed his shoulders and attempted to roll Sherlock onto his back, and was fairly successful despite the bony, malnourished man's silent protests. Now flat on his back, Sherlock stared blankly at the ceiling, still refusing John as he demanded to know when exactly Sherlock had relapsed and begun using routinely again. Eventually, John was able to cajole a groggy, slurred answer from Sherlock, "Five months ago. The night of the wedding," he mumbled, still staring at the cracks in the ceiling.

John nodded as if saying that he understood, but remained in a stiff, upright, and seemingly distressed manner. He looked around the flat once more, the smell of rotting food and stale liquor creeping into his mind. The kitchen table was, for once, free of any experiments, as was the refrigerator. His chair had clearly been moved out of the living room once again, for reasons that completely escaped John. Nowhere in his mind did he think that the reason Sherlock had moved the chair was because of the grief he felt after John's departing from Baker Street. Sherlock was strange in his habits, and John knew all too well that the detective was prone to acting upon his ideas faster than he can explain them to anyone. This was what led to many adrenaline induced, spur-of-the-moment high speed chases while out on cases; the ones on which Sherlock dragged a seemingly unwilling John but after which John was more giddy than ever, heart pounding and giggles rising into his mouth and out into the air. It seemed like it had been decades since anything even close to that had happened. John stood now in the hallway leading to Sherlock's bedroom, wondering if he even dared to see what was behind the bedroom door. Taking a deep breath, he briskly cracked the door open and stepped inside. What he saw in the room was the last thing he'd expected.

The room was identical to when he'd seen it last; everything in neat order in the closet, floor and desk clear of random items or papers, and bed made to near military specifications. Has Mrs. Hudson been in here…? But no, there was a strange amount of dust coating the surfaces of the furniture for the room to have been regularly cleaned, and as John now knew, "dust is eloquent." In fact, there was too much dust for any activity to have happened in the room on a regular basis; it had nearly clouded up John's vision when he stepped into the room, and he could see it floating in the air in the beam of light peeking through the split in the curtains. He was still carrying his bag, and decided to put up in his own room. Although Sherlock was obviously crashing on the couch nowadays, John figured that he himself would feel more comfortable staying in his own familiar room while trying to sort out his friend's situations. As he trailed back through the living room, he stopped to place a reassuring hand on Sherlock's shoulder, as if to silently tell him that it would be sorted out soon.

Making his way up the staircase, John noticed another odd change; the door to his room was wide open, when he had always made sure that it was shut before leaving. It was a habit that he had gotten used to while living alone, because he was accustomed to shutting the front door of his flat after he left, but he continued shutting the door even living with Sherlock. It was a natural thing to do for him, not a caution of privacy. But now it was swung open, clearly the room had been accessed recently. He wondered whether within the past five months was recently, but shook the idea off as he reached the top step. The entire room was visible now, and he began to piece things together. His armchair from the living room was close to his bed, with a dip in the seat cushion where someone had been sitting recently. The bed itself was unmade, as opposed to its usual clean lines and precise folds. The floor was covered in dirty clothing, but not John's; suits were hastily crumpled on the ground, a silky blue dressing gown thrown over the desk chair.

This room, too, smelled like alcohol and cigarettes, but not quite so violently as the others. John set down his bag and strode over to his armchair. He sat down in it after pausing for a moment, only to feel that something was not quite right. It was like Goldylocks and the Three Bears; someone had obviously been sitting in his chair-not Goldylocks, but Sherlock. The chair had warmth trapped in it, someone had recently been sat in it. It smelled like Sherlock, but not the smoking, drinking addict Sherlock. It smelled like the tea-drinking, experiment loving detective. It smelled like fresh air, like it had smelled in Dartmoor. Not like the polluted London air, but fresh, open, earthy air. It smelled like Sherlock's shampoo, rich, musky, expensive and from a small shop in Paris (although Sherlock hated to admit it). It smelled like Sherlock, it was him, it was what he had subconsciously been missing and wanting ever since the wedding. Ever since the fall. Ever since he met Sherlock. John wondered what all this meant. He'd only been gone for five months, could Sherlock really be grieving his absence so much so quickly?

Then it hit him. This was exactly how he'd acted after Sherlock's fake suicide. Long, lonely nights with no violin to lull him to sleep. No bickering before bed. No sleep. Barely eating. He had even, admittedly, spent many nights sleeping curled up in Sherlock's chair, or Sherlock's bed, trying to get the last bit of him out of the ridiculous things his best friend had left in the flat. The last smell of him, the last sign of him, the last hint that he was still there and would be coming back to him later on that night. The last hint that they would sit and drink tea and discuss whatever case they were working on. The last hint that Sherlock would stay with him forever in that stuffy old flat with the wonderful landlady and the awful wallpaper and the huge messes left on every inch of surface on the flat.

He stood, rising out of his chair, and quietly padded down the stairs. When he was next to the couch, John nudged Sherlock's legs up and sat at the opposite end of the couch. Sherlock straightened his back a bit to allow John to sit.

"Sherlock, I know it's been hard for you. I know how it feels," John said. He paused, waiting for a response, but there was none. "But I've come back. At least for now. Mary and I are having…difficulties," he swallowed and clenched his fist, "and I'm here because I'm worried about you."

Sherlock was silent for a moment, but quietly managed to mumble, "Why do you care about me so much?"

It almost killed John that Sherlock would even ask that. Of course he should care about his best friend, why would he doubt that? John knew that Sherlock wasn't the best person when it came to emotional and social skills, but how could he think for a second that John didn't hold him in some of the highest regards when it came to his safety and health?

"I care because…you're my best friend, Sherlock. And you always will be my best friend, no matter what happens. You should know that by now, genius." He nudged Sherlock's leg gently, smiling at the other man. The edge of Sherlock's mouth seemed as if it was going to raise into a smile, but he remained in a grimace, huffing loudly. "And I care about you. More than you know. More than I think you'll ever know, to be honest," he continued.

It was quiet for a moment. The only sound to be heard was the two men's steady breaths, filling the air. "I care about you as well, John," Sherlock responded, "More than you know. So, so, so, so much more than you know."

Tears threatened to spill over in Sherlock's eyes. But he kept his emotions at bay long enough for him to stand and exit the room, shutting himself in his room for the first time in about six months. John sat alone on the couch, contemplating what just happened. Was Sherlock….crying? Sherlock admitting to care for John was perhaps the greatest compliment he had ever given him, even topping his best man's speech. Whatever had changed in Sherlock in the past months, John was confused by and determined to bring to surface. After all, something had changed in John too.