Author's Note:This is my first foray into the world of Sherlock and you readers are awesome! Thank you so much for your kind reviews it was much appreciated. This is not SLASH. Friendship only between Sherlock and John in this one. Although if you squint you can read it anyway you like. As promised, here is the Saturday posting...

**Thank you so much for following along on Sherlock and John's journey. This was as deeply as I wanted to get into the emotional aspect of these two men. I'm not sure if they would talk about everything and John still doesn't know the specifics of what Sherlock went through. He will discover the truth though.**

PLEASE REVIEW:Since this is the first effort in a new fandom, if you enjoy the story and want to see it finished, please leave a review so I know. Cheers!

Disclaimer:Sherlock does not belong to me…such a shame…it is the brainchild of Arthur Conan Doyle and the current iteration belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and PBS Masterpiece (although the genius behind the relationship between Sherlock and John is the character interpretation by Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman). I am not making any money off this; it is purely for the story monkeys in my head and anyone else that wants to read.

Sorry this wasn't the Saturday post...I had work related stuff over the weekend.

Chapter 16

221B Baker Street

The two men stared at one another, finally one of them had to say something. Normally, this would be John, but this time the consulting detective felt that it was his place to start the conversation. After all, John had just saved his life…again.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock finally asked the doctor softly. His fingers plucked at the fresh white blanket and the muscles in his legs jumped as he shifted uncomfortably. A quick glance at his pain pump told him why, it was turned nearly all the way down.

John turned to stare over at Sherlock and finally nodded. The consulting detective raised an eyebrow. "You have just killed a man."

"He wasn't a very nice man." John responded evenly. The sentiments that had been spoken on their first case had become a very specific way to communicate.

Sherlock smiled. "No, no he wasn't." His smile slipped from his lips and he sighed when the pain lanced through his chest. He didn't miss the look of concern that immediately crossed John's face.

"Sherlock?" John frowned. "I don't think you are okay."

"Is that my friend John or the doctor speaking?" His voice took on an air of innocence that was uncharacteristic of him, even he was aware of the change.

John blinked in surprise. "Both…and I'm not talking about your injuries." His gaze dropped he pulled in a deep breath.

"Any chance we can table this discussion until we're back at Baker Street?" The thin man's eyes were pleading as he stared at the doctor. Sherlock wasn't sure that he was ready to talk about everything yet. He wanted to tell John about literally everything he'd seen in the time they were apart, but not yet.

A painful realization occurred to Sherlock as he stared at John. The doctor no longer resided at 221B. He had moved out; moved on. And while the consulting detective had been so sure of their relationship before he'd returned…now he wasn't so sure what would happen once they left the hospital.

He watched several emotions flit across John's face before he nodded slowly. "Fine. But we are discussing this."

Further conversation was cut short when Mary, Mrs. Hudson and Molly Hooper rushed through the door of their shared room. Sherlock watched the reunion between his best friend and the woman he'd chosen to bring into their world. He didn't fully understand why he had trusted her so quickly. Something about her was certainly off, but her devotion to John was second only to Sherlock's and for that he was willing to give her a chance.

Mrs. Hudson fussed over them both. It was both irritating and not wholly unexpected. Sherlock had come to know the older woman quite well and he knew that she would mother them both into wellness.

Three days later…221B Baker St.

Sherlock shuffled to his leather chair, a cup of tea teetering loosely in his shaking hands. He wasn't moving with much efficiency today and he hated it. The flat felt empty without John's presence and he was all too aware of the silence. It was an unusual feeling, this loneliness that seemed to permeate the entire flat. He sighed and slowly sank down into his beloved chair.

His gaze landed on the empty seat across from him and he sighed before taking a sip of the tea. Sherlock made a face and set the cup down. It wasn't as good as what John made…it wasn't even as good as Mrs. Hudsons. He hadn't realized that she came and made him tea in the mornings. Unfortunately for him, this morning she was in Suffolk with an ailing friend. Which meant that Sherlock was more alone inside the Baker Street flat than he normal.

"You seem…better." Mycroft's voice cut across the flat and Sherlock pressed his lips together with suppressed emotion.

"I'm alive. No thanks to the imbecile you posted outside my room."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and settled into John's empty chair. He did not miss the shortened breath from his younger brother. "Well, Moran did have him pay for that with his life. I think that is enough. Don't you?"

Sherlock reached for the tepid cup of tea and then grimaced at the taste. He saw the concern that his brother generally tried to hide plain on his face as he took in Sherlock's physical state. The way he was hunched over, what was obviously, a cold cup of weak tea. His eyes were clear, though glazed in pain as he sat quietly.

"Where is Dr. Watson? I assumed he would be here."

If the air inside the flat could have dropped several degrees, it would have. The look that Sherlock sent Mycroft was cold and void of the emotions that had been there moments before. "He has a life outside of 221B."

Mycroft interlaced his fingers as he assessed his younger brother's defense of the absent doctor. "And this life no longer includes you?"

"That is not what I said." This time Sherlock's baritone had dropped and he let his gaze slide toward the fire burning to his right. He did not want to have this conversation with Mycroft. He and John were fine.

"Did you think that meant I wouldn't be here for you anymore?" John's words pulled Sherlock's face up. John was leaning heavily on a set of crutches, a bag slung over his shoulder and a smile on his face. His knowing gaze flicked between the two Holmes brothers as he tried to determine what he'd just walked in on. On a good day these two men were difficult for him to read…and this did not appear to be a good day.

"John…What are you doing here?" Sherlock's voice was calm and even, but his eyes were searching for something specific. He leaned to the side and his ribs protested an a wash of pain. He bit back the groan that begged to be voiced.

John limped into the room, his eyes switching to where Mycroft still sat in his chair. It only took one look from his younger brother for Mycroft to haul himself and allow the injured doctor to lower himself gingerly into the fabric-covered seat.

Sherlock watched quietly as John settled his bag and the crutches next to him and then sat back, folding his arms. His pale gaze jumped to his brother and then the door. Mycroft got the hint and blew out a slow irritated breath before making his way to the stairs. "I'll check on you tomorrow." He said, almost as an afterthought as he made his way from the room.

Before Sherlock could answer, John responded. "We'll be fine, Mycroft. I'll keep an eye on him."

There was a brief pause of the footsteps on the stairs and then they continued until the front door opened and closed softly.

"Well, you look terrible." John said as his attention shifted to the younger Holmes brother. On the table next to Sherlock was the prescription medication the doctors had given him for the pain. The seal had yet to be broken. Which meant that the consulting detective had to be in a lot of pain. The sheen of sweat on his forehead was a good indicator of that.

Sherlock shifted again, his arm wrapping protectively around his side as he did. The blue dressing gown slid down his shoulder and the ratty t-shirt that he preferred offered little protection from the cold evening. The rain pounded against the window as the wind drove it in unnatural directions. The chill from the outside made the flat colder than normal. John was wearing his favorite grey jumper and he looked relatively warm, which made Sherlock wonder if he was the only one that was freezing.

John's eyes flicked over to the half-full cup of tea. "You made tea."

"I can make tea, John." Sherlock responded dryly.

"Really?" he laughed. "I've never seen you make tea. Not once in the entire time I've known you."

Sherlock grimaced. "Just because I happen to like yours better, does not mean I cannot do it." He slowly forced his aching body up and stood to move closer to the fire. "Why aren't you at home with Mary?"

John shrugged. "We felt that I would recover better here. It's closer to the surgery—"

"And you can keep an eye on me." It wasn't a question; it was almost more of an accusation.

"It's not about that, Sherlock." John heaved a sigh and leaned forward. The cast on his foot drew the consulting detective's eye down and he furrowed his brow before a muscle jumped in his cheek and he looked away. "And it's not about that either."

"Then what is it about?" he demanded. A wave of nausea twisted his stomach as he waited for John's answer.

John shook his head and leaned back in the chair. "You. This is about you…and me."

Now Sherlock was completely confused. "About…what?"

"Sherlock, it's been a long two years and we have a lot to talk about." John watched as his words dumbfounded his friend. The pale thin man swallowed thickly and then moved toward the tea on the side table.

"Tea?"

John huffed and then nodded. "Tea would be lovely." He leaned over and grabbed his crutches before he levered himself up and followed Sherlock into the Kitchen.

The Bunsen burner sat unlit on the table and the beakers were clean of any experiments. The kitchen was actually somewhat clean; a state that John had rarely seen it in. Sherlock moved slowly between the cupboard and the stove as he pulled the tea and another clean cup. John measured the tea as the detective put on a pot to boil.

Sherlock clamped his eyes shut as shooting pain lit up his side in a very tangible reminder of their ordeal. He leaned against the counter and bit back the reaction. His knuckles were white against the blue-green of the kitchen.

John didn't say anything as he took in the expression on his friends face. Sherlock watched out of the corner of his eye as the injured doctor hobbled back into the living room. Great, this isn't going at all how I want. Not that he'd had a plan. He hadn't expected to see John that night and now nothing was going, as it should. Sherlock took a deep breath and then pushed away from the support of the cabinets. A moment later John shuffled back into the kitchen and set something down in front of Sherlock.

It was the bottle of pain medication. Sherlock's surprised eyes shot up and connected not with the doctor-version of John, but with his friend. "Please take something for the pain."

"It's morphine." He said quickly. It was almost defensive. John's head tilted the side and his expression softened. "It dulls my mind and I need to be sharp." Sherlock continued.

"Why? You're here in Baker Street. You can let your guard down for a few moments, Sherlock." He blew out a frustrated breath.

The younger man shook his head and pulled out a chair. He lowered himself slowly onto the hard rough wood of the kitchen stool. "No. I can't. Every time I think I've got this figure out…" He sighed. "There's someone else out there." He finally revealed. Sherlock's shoulders were slumped and he could feel his body shaking with both the pain and the effort of simply sitting upright in the hard chair.

John's face shifted and then he pulled the boiling kettle off the stove and proceeded to add the tea to allow it to steep while they continued this conversation. "Was it someone trying to get to you through me? Someone outside of Moran?" he turned back toward the detective and then limped to the empty chair on the other side of the table.

"I don't know." Sherlock answered simply. He considered what he did know, which wasn't much, and then shook his head before letting it drop into his hands as he ruffled his curly locks in agitated frustration. "I don't like not knowing."

"Can we leave it for another day?"

Sherlock's head shot up and he stared wide-eyed at his friend. Leave it? Was John losing his mind? This person had known what was going on with John and Sherlock and they had chosen to intervene at the last moment. And what about Mary? What was her involvement in this whole debacle? "You could have died." He said instead.

John nodded and rolled his shoulder gingerly. "Oh, I know that." His wise blue eyes shifted to pin Sherlock with intensity. "We both nearly did die."

They both descended into silence for a few moments before John slowly stood and grabbed the tea from the stovetop. He set a cup in fresh cup front of the detective and then settled into the chair again. "Sherlock?"

The multi-hued gaze lifted to meet his. The emotions that were boiling beneath the surface were vast and endless. Sherlock couldn't hold that attention for long and slowly lowered his attention to the cup of tea in front of him. He had wanted to have this conversation with John for so long and now that it was here, he wasn't sure what he wanted to say. There were so many things that his friend deserved to hear, but Sherlock was not good with people…he never had been.

John must have recognized the hesitation; because he didn't say anything he simply sat there and drank tea.

Finally, Sherlock found his words. "I'm sorry." It wasn't much, but they were some of the most honest words he'd ever said to his friend.

"For what?"

It was Sherlock's turn to look confused. "For what? For nearly getting you killed. For faking my death and…hurting you…for so many things." He sighed and let his eyes drop away from the intense gaze of the doctor. He could see John assessing him in a way that tore away at his defenses. It wasn't that the man could see through Sherlock's lies and half-truths, but he had a way of making the consulting detective aware of these things.

"Sherlock…" While John wanted to hear these things, he could see it was tearing at the younger man.

"You died, John. You were dead and it was my fault." His body shook with the effort this conversation was demanding from him. It was the first time that Sherlock understood what he'd done to his friend. He'd been aware of John's reaction to his death on the pavement. At the time he had been so focused on the upcoming adventure of tracking down Moriarty's network that he hadn't been focused on what his plan would do to the people in his life. Sherlock had never expected to be anyone's best friend.

John pulled in a long slow breath and swallowed the thick lump of emotion building in his chest. "But I didn't die. You saved me."

Sherlock smiled slightly at that. His deep baritone rumbled as he found the words he wanted to say. "We saved each other."

The doctor smiled at that and nodded. "Yes. That's true isn't it?" He raised his eyebrows as Sherlock picked up the two pain pills sitting on the corner of the table. He watched as the detective swallowed the pills and then sat back.

John's gaze shifted down Sherlock's thin frame and he frowned again. "Are we going to talk about it?" he asked softly.

"I thought we were talking about it." He looked genuinely confused as he missed the intention behind John's question.

The doctor rolled his eyes. "No, about the last two years. Are we going to talk about it?" He inhaled deeply. "I saw your chart at hospital, Sherlock. I might not be as observant as your brother, but I can read a medical chart."

Sherlock turned away from the knowing gaze of the doctor. He was under no illusions about John's ability as a medical man. He had more skill in that area than most doctors. He considered his friend's request, but a part of him was not ready to delve back into those memories. Not yet…he still hadn't analyzed how much pain it would cause once he allowed them to the surface. He needed to know that before he could have a conversation about it with John. He considered the best way to sidestep John's request and quickly decides that was best to be honest. "I can't. Not yet."

John's head tilted to the side. Sherlock could see him trying to determine whether or not to push the issue. He could only hope that John's own history would allow the military man to give him the time he needed to work through the messy memories a bit on his own. "But you're saying you will? At some point you'll tell me about it?"

The dark-haired detective finally nodded, agreeing to the doctor's request. They sat in companionable silence for several minutes before, "How long are you staying?" Sherlock wasn't sure that he wanted t know the answer to that question, but true to his nature, he couldn't not know.

"I don't know. For a while." The truth of his words were written opening on his kind face.

The detective furrowed his brow, "What about Mary?" Sherlock still wanted to look into the past of the woman that John seemed to have chosen as a partner. After the last two years, he couldn't just allow someone into John's life that may not be all that they appear to be. And there was no question that there was more to Mary than even John knew.

John shrugged. "She agrees with me on this."

Sherlock's eyebrows cut together in confusion. "Really?"

"Really." He answered quickly. "I've missed being here." John smiled a bit at something he did not say aloud. Sherlock's assessing gaze never left his expressive face as he considered what he wanted to say to his friend. "We don't know who sent that message, Sherlock. And that worries me. So I want to be around when you figure that out. We're better as a team…we always were."

The last statement landed heavily on Sherlock. John was right. He thought better with the doctor around, he was better with John around. And judging by how little he knew about the unknown player on their field, he knew that he needed to be clear and focused as he moved through this new game of wits. He finally nodded and then slowly levered himself out of the chair and made his way back to the living room.

John followed and everything in 221B finally slid back into the normality that Sherlock had craved since his return to London. The grey-haired doctor settled into his own chair, the crutches lying next to him on the floor and a fresh cup of tea in his hands.

Sherlock couldn't help the feeling of warmth that spread through him at the sight. "Hungry?"

John smiled easily. "Starving."

221B 221B

The darkened room was full of the ominous nature of the two minds sitting at the center table.

"So, what do you think?"

"About his skills? They're good. I'm curious how he'll cope once he knows the truth."

"As am I. When do we start?"

A quick breath and then, "Give them some time. Let them heal a bit first. After all, the next game won't be so easy."

The End…Sherlock and John will return.

Author's Note: Thank you for sticking with me through this first Sherlock story. I am working on a new one, as evidenced by the ending on this one. Let me know if you're interested in John and Sherlock's next adventure.