Phoning in to the hospital, John arranged a week's leave. They were unfazed, he was long overdue a break.

Sitting either side of the crackling fire the two friends talked, one releasing the pent up anger and despair he had lived with for two years, the other explaining, giving his reasons, offering his apologies.

There were questions, each man craved knowledge of how the other had lived, and if Sherlock had been both horrified and saddened to hear how John had suffered it was nothing to the frisson of fear and pain that rippled through John as, in a no holds barred account of his travels, the younger man told his tale.

It was a tale of traps and of capture, of hiding and fighting and sometimes, when every other option was closed to him, of killing. It was also a tale of loneliness, of cheap boarding houses and a longing to return to Baker Street.

As the week progressed John found the old hurts were now nothing more than bruises on his soul, and Sherlock discovered that, despite everything he had said and done before the fall, his one friend remained true.

Now, with normality restored, they acknowledged that the next black car they willingly climbed into would be a London taxi, and in it their next adventure would begin.

A/N: Thank you to everyone who read, favourited, followed or reviewed my first five-chapter story with absolutely no dialogue whatsoever! You people are wonderful!