It was so good to be home.

The tall man stood, balanced precariously on the ledge of the building, wind whipping his black coat and even blacker hair about, in a way that suggested mystery and mayhem all wrapped up in a hero sandwich. Yes, it was good to be home. Home to his first and only, his one true love. It had been worth it. All of it. The endless travel, the depredation, the mind-numbing boredom, the torture, the occasional case of Montezuma's revenge. Everything. It was worth it to know that his love was safe.

"Do come down, brother mine." Sherlock hung his head and growled at the interruption of his inner narration. "You're gathering a crowd. Sure enough, while he was looking down anyway, he observed that a small crowd had gathered, looking up and pointing. As he watched, one enterprising young man walked through the crowd taking money and giving out slips of paper, obviously taking bets on whether or not he'd actually jump. Again. "Besides, I'm sure London will wait while we debrief you on the latest terrorist threats."

"London?" Sherlock took a hop backwards, neatly landing on the inside of the ledge. If from below there was an audible groan of disappointment, he chose not to hear it.

"Yes, London." Mycroft leaned on his umbrella and crossed one leg over the other, an unconscious imitation of his childhood favorite television hero John Steed. "You were thinking of your one true love, where you not?" Something that might have been a smile, or maybe was a late reaction to the overabundance of lemon in his tea, crossed his face. "Your sentiment was obvious."

"Uh, yes. London. Obviously." Sherlock followed his brother into the building and down a maze of stairways and corridors until they came to probably the darkest, dreariest, office in the building. "I've often wondered, Mycroft." Sherlock flung himself into a chair, one long leg draped over the the arm. "Why is it that you, a man of nearly infinite power and position, cannot get an office with a window?"

"It was the painting or the window, Sherlock."

"Ah, of course." Sherlock looked at the painting that hung in a garish gold frame behind Mycroft's desk. "A painting of a young man in high heels and knee socks or a window. Yes, I suppose the answer was obvious, after all."

"Indeed." The diplomat took a moment to admire the quality of the painting before sighing and moving behind the desk. Sitting, he picked up a file folder and opened it, slowly looking at each page. Then, just as slowly, he looked over the file at Sherlock. "I suppose you'd like to know about John Watson."

Sherlock rubbed his hands together. "Yes," he said. "How is poor John fairing."

"Quite well, actually." Mycroft slid a photograph across the desk. "He has a thriving private practice, a beautiful girlfriend and a mustache."

"He looks quite gray." Sherlock said, a frown of worry crossing his face. "He used to have such a healthy tan for an Englishman."

"That's a black and white photograph, Sherlock." Mycroft snatched at the photo only to have it whipped away by Sherlock who was now standing and pacing.

"Look at him, Mycroft." Sherlock stopped and thrust the picture under his brother's nose. "He's wearing a moustache, Mycroft. A. Moustache." He dropped the picture and put both hands on the desk, hanging his head between them. "He is so obviously trying to hide his pain."

"Perhaps you should go see him, brother." Mycroft quickly put all the papers back in the file and shoved them into a drawer, slamming it shut with a look of triumph. "Reassure yourself."

"Yes." Sherlock twirled this way and that, his body reflecting the turmoil in his mind. "Yes, that's it. I must go to him." He stopped turning and pointed a finger at Mycroft. "Where is he?"

A smile crept across Mycroft's face. "How should I know?" he asked. "Am I my brother's keeper's keeper?"

"You know." Sherlock's eyes pinned Mycroft in place. "You always know."

"Fine." Mycroft snorted. "If you must know, he's taken a small flat." He reached into his pocket and pulled out the latest iPhone. Fingers moved rapidly across the screen. "There. You have the address. Now if you don't mind, I do have work."

At the sound of a sharp ping, Sherlock pulled out his slightly newer, and obviously bigger Samsung, smirked knowingly, and then acknowledged the text. "I had better not be late… brother."

"He eats dinner at eight." Mycroft made a show of sharpening his pencil. "Casual dress."

At precisely three past eight, Sherlock arrived at the door to John's flat. Raising his fist to knock on the door he cursed the dearth of black cabs that night. It had taken nearly two and a half minutes to flag one down and then, when he finally did manage to get one, he was forced to waste even more time by stopping to pay. If he should enter this flat to find John less than alive, Anwar, the taxi driver, would pay dearly for the delay.

"John!" Sherlock shouted as he pounded on the door. "John, don't do it. I'm here. I'm back."

The door opened and there, silhouetted by the light of the television screen was a short, blond man, in baggy sleep bottoms, a more than little worn vest, and a mustache. The man stood, wide-eyed for a moment and then, narrowing his eyes, and tilting his head a bit, took one sharp step back and slammed the door.

Sherlock stared at the closed door as if the act of staring alone would somehow cause it to reopen. It didn't. Sighing, Sherlock knocked again. "John." Sherlock spoke slowly and clearly. "Let me in. I swear to you, I'm no ghost or hallucination. This is really me."

"Go away, Sherlock." John's voice was surprisingly strong for someone who was undoubtedly on the edge of insanity or death, quite probably both. "Jesus, Sherlock. I cannot believe even you… No. No, sod this. Just get the hell out of here before I find a way to kill you for real."

John must be in a worst state than he had even imagined if he couldn't bear to see, or, no… Sherlock's eyes and mouth popped open as realization hit. It wasn't that he couldn't bear to see him. How could he ever think that of his John. No, obviously things were much, much worse and it was that John could not bear to be seen in his now deteriorated condition. "John." Sherlock fought to keep his voice calm. "Let me in or I shall be forced to knock down this door."

The door stayed resolutely shut. Sherlock sighed and put his hand, palm flat, on the door, testing the wood grains to find a vulnerable spot. When he was sure he had found a suitable location, he backed up until he was against the wall opposite the door, then with sudden flurry of woolen coat, he threw himself, shoulder first, into the door. The door remained where it was. The same could not necessarily be said for the shoulder.

After about three minutes of elegant swearing, performed in three languages, the door finally opened. "For fuck's sake, Sherlock. Get in here before you get me evicted."

Sherlock rushed in and grabbed John by his upper arms, holding him still as he raked him over with his eyes, looking for signs of self-destruction. "What have you done, John?" he asked. "Tell me quickly before it's too late."

John's face couldn't seem to decide on an expression. It went from surprised, to angry, to confused, back to angry, to even angrier. Finally, it seemed to settle on furious, and John just went right along with it. "What have I done? What have I…" John managed to move his arms enough to push the lanky detective away. "I'm not the one who went and threw myself off a building and let his best friend deal with the pain."

"I know." Sherlock looked around the room, looking for a gun, pills, rope, a razor, maybe a large bucket of water, or a dry chicken sandwich, anything that might possibly be lethal to a determinedly suicidal man. "I really should have thought that out a bit, but, in my defense, it was a pretty good plan. I mean just getting the giant mattress in place took…"

"You are not seriously about to tell me how you didn't actually kill yourself in front of me are you?"

Sherlock stopped, closed his mouth with an audible click, raised his eyebrows in question and after watching John's fist open and close rhythmically several times, quickly shook his head.

"Good." John's stance, which had become rigid in the way an angry drill sergeant's might, even though he had actually been a Captain, loosened slightly. "And you were, I'm sure, about to tell me what a complete cock you were, and undoubtedly still are, yeah?"

Sherlock surprised himself when he didn't even bristle at this. He surprised himself further when he realized that he was looking at his shoes and that his shoes were doing this annoying shuffling thing that they used to do when he was a schoolboy and he was being "talked to" by his father for some silly, little thing, like burning down half the kitchen with an experimental volcano. He heard a voice that sounded suspiciously like his own say, "I am truly sorry, John. I am indeed a… one of those things."

"Right." John gave a crisp nod. "Right. That's settled then." Sherlock watched as his friend looked around as if he would find what to do next written on a piece of paper tacked to the wall or sitting on a table. He didn't, so he sighed and moved on to what one does when one doesn't know what to do. "I'm making tea. Do you want a cuppa?"

Sherlocked shrugged his agreement. Tea was fine. In fact, tea was excellent. Tea was what was needed when there was a chance that English emotion might just spill over into a scene. He followed John into the flat's small kitchen and watched as he set up the kettle and cups. "So," he asked. "You aren't going to hit me?"

"Oh yeah." John's answer was maybe just a tad too enthusiastic. "I'm going to hit you. Hard. I may even break your nose." He put the bags in the cups as he waited for the water to boil. "I just need some tea first."

Sherlock thought this over. "Fair enough." He accepted his tea, happy to find that John still remembered how he liked it. They carried their cups to the sitting room and found seats. After a few minutes of silent sipping, Sherlock put down his cup and steepled his hands under his chin. "So, you weren't about to kill yourself in utter despair or psychological trauma or anything, were you." It wasn't a question.

"No, Sherlock." John put his own cup down and Sherlock had to fight the almost instinctual need to lower his own gaze. "I was devastated by what I had seen, of course. And I missed you very much, more than you can know. I mean, my God, Sherlock. Look at me. I grew a moustache, for God's sake!" He stopped and licked the bottom of said moustache, maybe realizing for the first time how much even he hated it. "But, Sherlock. You know me better. I could never do that. I could never leave my friends with that guilt."

Aw, so there was the punch, and it did hurt, and it did break something. It wasn't his nose, after all, and Sherlock found that he wished it was. Still, there was a mystery here, and even suffering from a broken something, Sherlock knew it was one that must be solved. "But I was so sure," he said, slowly. "It was almost as if it had been written into our destinies."

"Well, that's just…"

"Sentimental?"

"Well, I was going to say stupid, but, yeah, okay. It's pretty damned sentimental." John eyed Sherlock suspiciously. "One might even say poetic."

"But you would not." Sherlock warned.

"No." John smiled. "No, I would never do that."

"Still," Sherlock mused. "I was sure of it." He stood and paced the small flat, even stopping to stare out the window at what wasn't Baker Street but was a pretty nice view of the man in the building across pumping iron.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmmmm?" Sherlock startled as he realized he had stopped talking. "Umm, sorry," he said. "Mind palace." He turned back to John. "You know, I even left before I had finished my mission, the call was so strong."

John pursed his lips in annoyance. "Sorry," he said. "Next time you go off and not really die in front of me I shall try a bit harder to act on my utter remorse."

Sherlock waved his hand absently, as if trying to shoo away silly bits of unnecessary sarcasm. "It doesn't matter," he said, missing the point entirely, which he did really quite a lot considering he was a genius and all. "It was just a small cell in Serbia. I'm sure it would have been an in and out operation." He walked back to the window only to find the view had changed to that of a very old, very naked woman slowly applying moisturizer to places Sherlock wasn't even sure he wanted to know very old women had. He instead watched as a raven danced along the window sill.

"It's odd," he said. "But I feel as though I was compelled to come back. Well." He clapped his hands together as he turned quickly, flashing a rare sincere smile. "You will come back to Baker Street with me, yes?"

John hesitated. "You know I have a fiance now, right?"

"Oh, I'm sure we'll get on." Sherlock's smile widened. "After all we both have something in common."

John rolled his eyes. "Yeah," he said finally. "Yeah, let me just pack some things."

"Good." Sherlock practically beamed as he watched the raven fly away. "Don't forget your razor. You are going to need it!"