This is based off a prompt I found on LiveJournal :-D

Summary of prompt: Sherlock is broken and traumatized on his return and doesn't want to leave 221B.

*Note on 21/2/2012- made a few edits on the text*

3 years. It's been 3 bloody years and John had finally decided that he would leave this lifeless flat for good. For Christ's sake, he had the right! All those days, weeks, months had left him angry, frustrated. Especially hurt, upset, and empty. And if that wasn't enough, Life had kicked him hard back to square 1 where he transformed back into the man he used to be before Sherlock: boring John, ordinary John, broken John.

With a shaky sigh, the soldier walked down the stairs from his bedroom in the attic and halted suddenly in front of the living room, where he remembered all the moments that he and his flatmate had shared in the place.

Impulsively, John picked up a small item from his trouser's pocket: Sherlock's old phone. Throughout the years, Mrs. Hudson had placed in boxes and stored away Sherlock's possessions, most of these including his science equipment, case files, framed picture of the Periodic Table and whatnot. But John had specifically made sure that the phone hadn't been boxed away and forgotten, because in the end, it was the only memento he really had of the detective, the only one that really mattered.

John shook his head, feeling all depressed again, and walked back to his room to grab whatever coat he saw in front of him.

As he marched down the stairs yet again that morning, he turned the phone on and scrolled through the messages that he had sent to his possibly dead friend.

Sherlock, where are you?

Stop it! Please! Just stop. You're making Mrs. Hudson worry too much. Her condition will get worse… Ok, sod this, now you're making me worry, Sherlock...

If you're alive, stop pretending to be dead and come back home, you annoying prick.

Fine, then come back even if you really are dead.

Sherlock… I miss you.

The list went on, but so did life. So placing the phone back in his pocket, John grabbed some bread with jam in the kitchen and braced himself for another day of countless hours of social activity.

But that's just when he felt a vibration. It's coming from the phone. And that just doesn't happen. Ever.

His heart beat faster by the minute, he started to sweat, his eyes started to tear up. Fumbling clumsily with the phone he brightened the scream and read the message:

Low battery.

His heart sank, but he gulped down his false hope, tears and nervousness. And this was all replaced by acalm feeling that swept over him. He fetched his keys from his other pocket on his trousers and shoved them into the lock.

He was too concentrated on that simple task to see dark-clad figure in front of him as he opened the door.

"John."

The soldier ignored the noise, thinking it was just his imagination playing tricks on him and only really stopped to look when he literally bumped into the stranger when he took his first step outside.

"So sorry, didn't see you- my god."

"Hello John."

It was Sherlock Holmes, in the flesh –rather just in the skin. He was worryingly paler than usual, looked half starved, half like a zombie, his clothes were a mess -his scarf was missing, he seemed exhausted, but goddamn it, it was Sherlock.

John gulped.

The first thing he felt was anger.

He dropped the keys on the ground and without even thinking about it he clenched his hand tightly into a fist and connected it with Sherlock's left cheek.

The detective stumbled backwards and placed a hand on his injured face while John prepared himself for an attack that never came.

Sherlock didn't seem to have reacted at all.

He just stood there, completely expressionless as if the assault had never happened.

And for some reason, that really bothered John Watson.

So he punched the man again, right in the gut. "Where were you, Sherlock?" He cried aloud, ignoring the pedestrians who stared. "Where the hell have you been? All this time, you were alive! You- you bloody idiot!" He inhaled sharply and exhaled more slowly as he observed the detective double over in pain, not stopping to retaliate in any way.

In a minute, Sherlock regained his composure. "John," He said suddenly, and only now did John notice how weak he sounded. "Let me in." It had seemed more like pleading than an order.

John scoffed in sheer disbelief. "After all you've put me through, you expect me to welcome you in?" He frowned and rubbed his brow. This was crazy. "Won't you even apologize, for pretending to be six feet under?" John, noticing that he was losing it, took another deep breath. At length, the soldier finally spoke up, "Why three years, Sherlock?"

Yet Sherlock did not answer. He stood there, staring at John with those familiar icy blue eyes.

Then the second thing John felt was unexpected relief.

Relief because his best friend was alive, that he had been pretending all along, that he killed Moriarty, and that for now, everything would be ok.

No. That wouldn't be entirely true would it? The third thing John felt that morning was suspicion and sudden realization.

The detective had completely acted unlike himself, John observed. Not talking back, nor smothering him in apologies, barely saying a word, or even a deduction.

Something had happened to Sherlock that had traumatized him. He seemed like a lost 8-year-old who had just found his mum.

John now knew how fragile Sherlock was presently. Shouting wouldn't lead to anything, and he'd already gotten his fair amount of a beating.

Let's just get him inside.

Gingerly he grabbed the detective by the hand, and led him in the flat, picking up his almost forgotten keys before locking the door behind them.

When Mrs. Hudson saw Sherlock, she fainted. Well, cried, squealed and then fainted, to be more exact. And when John finally got her to wake up, she'd forced the living consulting detective to bend down so that she could slap him gently on the head for abandoning her, and next covering him in mother-like kisses all around his face.

"Dear god the man's alive! Where've you been, Sherlock? We thought you were dead! There was even a headstone!"

Sherlock didn't say a single word.

"I don't understand anything!" She began to weep all over again. The detective seemed to space out. "You will explain it all young man. Do count on it." She said, wiping her eyes.

John gulped mentally. Smiling to Mrs. Hudson, he excused himself with the guest and led him to the living room upstairs before the landlady could stress herself out any more.

Once there, he sat Sherlock down on the couch by the window while he took the seat opposite. From downstairs, a shaky voice that belonged to Mrs. Hudson promised she'd be back with sweets from the café next door.

John leaded forward on his knees and clasped his hands together under his chin. "So, Sherlock, what happened to you?"

Of course, Sherlock didn't reply. Him acting so off character was starting to scare John.

"Sherlock." He tried to get his attention no avail. "Sherlock, answer me!" This time John raised his voice, but the man didn't even flinch.

John with his patience wearing thin, stood and strode over to the detective, taking Sherlock's hand in his own. "Just answer me, Sherlock," John tried again, "What happened to you?"

Sherlock, finally a bit more responsive looked up and blinked. "I am never leaving your side again, John." He whispered, deep inside his own little world.