A/N: This is set immediately after The Empty Hearse, and it will contain spoilers. I've only seen that episode once, and I haven't had time to proofread, so I apologize in advance for any errors.

After everyone had left, press and friends and fiancés, Sherlock stood alone in the middle of 221B Baker Street. He'd ushered Mrs. Hudson back to her flat, telling her that, for once, he would do the tidying up himself.

Sherlock usually opted for solitude, unless he was thinking out loud or showing off, which he'd found himself doing more these past two days than he had in the past two years combined.

During his hiatus from being Sherlock Holmes, he'd infiltrated a monastery to dismantle a drug ring, caught criminals, convicted killers and withstood torture in a Serbian celler. He hadn't spoken to anyone about these things, not even Mycroft. Especially not Mycroft. It was bad enough that he'd seen-

Sherlock picked up several of the empty champagne glasses that were grouped together on the coffee table and set them down, rather pointlessly, on the mantle

He hadn't told John or Mary or any of them about how he had, unaided, brought down Moriarty's network, but an hour back in London and he was showing off his flimsiest disguises, laughing at his own jokes, trying (in between interruptions and the occasional attack) to explain to John how he'd faked his death. The one person he wanted to tell, and the one person who didn't want to know. Sometimes Sherlock wished he'd kept the skull.

Especially now, when the emptiness of 221B Baker Street seemed even more oppressive than the dust. (And why had they kept his rooms shrouded like a tomb when they didn't think he was coming back? It was silly. And worse, it was making him sneeze.) Sherlock had gotten used to the monastery. After a while, he'd even gotten used to the dungeon. The human mind, even other humans' minds, was remarkable in its ability to adapt. Harder, for some reason, was adapting to the idea of an empty 221B Baker Street.

John had never been a particularly noticeable flatmate. He spent most of his time reading the paper or writing his little blog. Maybe watching a bit of telly with the sound turned low so it wouldn't interrupt Sherlock's thinking. (And of course Sherlock had noticed that; he noticed everything.) But he'd always been there, in the background, reminding Sherlock of his presence now and again when he overreacted to the severed hand in the vegetable crisper or pushed a mug of hot sweet tea into Sherlock's hands. Read a funny obit aloud or turned up the telly when reruns of Connie Prince came on. Branded an empty carton of milk and shouted-

"What's the matter with you?"

Sherlock turned. John was standing in the doorway, peeling off his coat. There was a black poplar leaf clinging to the collar. The first of the poplars were planted three blocks away on Bickenhall. So he'd walked three blocks, then turned around and come back. But he'd hesitated. It had been a quarter hour since he'd left and the walk was less than five minutes either way, even accounting for John's limp, which was largely gone now, but returned sometimes if he was upset. And he must have been upset to hesitate for over five minutes. Or maybe he'd been talking with Mary, but he'd returned alone, which meant-

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Did you not hear me? What's the matter with you?"

"Some sort of attention disorder, according to Mycroft, but Mrs. Hudson says that's just my natural boyishness. Bless her," Sherlock said, with some condescension, but hopefully enough fondness to make up for it.

"I mean physically."

"Physically?"

"Have you seen a doctor?" asked John.

"I can see you."

Sherlock knew he was being deliberately obtuse, but he spent so much time being accidentally brilliant that he felt he was due. Anyway, he hadn't the faintest idea what John was talking about. That happened more than he'd admit to, but it didn't worry him much anymore. He'd adapted to it. Anyway, it was always John's fault.

John sighed. "You haven't, have you? You of all people should know how tricky head injuries can be."

Suddenly Sherlock was standing seventy feet above London, the wind tossing his curls into his eyes, obscuring his view of view the body on the roof with the gun in his hand, the hole in his head, that grin still on his face. Then Sherlock blinked and he was back in 221B Baker Street.

"I've seen you wincing." John was still talking. "I ought to have taken you to the hospital."

"I've had enough of hospitals. Anyway, why should that be your responsibility? I am an adult, despite Mrs. Hudson's cooing."

"Seriously, Sherlock. Even minor head injuries can have complications."

"They weren't exactly minor," Sherlock muttered, aware he was being petulant, but not entirely sure why. Come to think of it, why hadn't Mycroft called up a doctor? Not that Sherlock needed his help, but it was so like Mycroft to provide a barber but not a doctor.

"Well, you know. Training. It just kicks in." John's voice was tight. He shifted his weight again, glanced about in a reflexive gesture that he probably didn't even notice, but Sherlock recognized as a search for his old cane.

"Which is really thick of them. That's not how you train someone to run an interrogation. People's memories tend to get a bit dodgy once they've taken one or two blows to the head. If you want information, you go for the phalanges. Plenty of pain, a satisfyingly frightening snap, and it makes it more difficult for them to escape. Though I still could have done, even if Mycroft hadn't stuck his abnormally large nose in my business."

"I don't- You-" John's face screwed up, giving him lines that aged him almost as much as the mustache had. Almost. "What?"

"Phalanges."

"What?"

"Finger bones. Or toes. Really, John, as a medical professional, you should know-"

"I know what phalanges are! I don't know what you're bloody talking about! Who was breaking your fingers?"

Sherlock blinked. Really, it was almost as bad as when John had found the hand in the vegetable crisper. "No one. I was just saying they should have broken my fingers."

"Who?" John looked like he very much wanted to head butt him again.

"The Serbs."

"What Serbs?"

"The ones I infiltrated in order to take to bits the last of Moriarty's organization." Hadn't he told John? Oh, no. Wait. He hadn't. Instead he'd told Anderson some ridiculous story about an air mattress, because at least he knew Anderson would listen.

"That's what you've been doing?"

"What? Did you think I was on holiday?" Sherlock sneered.

"No. I don't- I- They tortured you?"

"Well, that's a bit generous, but yeah," Sherlock sniffed superiorly. "They made a go of it."

"Then it sounds like "infiltrated" is a bit generous too." John sighed again. "No. Wait. Sorry. You were tortured? Why didn't you tell me?"

"I was chained up." Sherlock thought that should have been obvious, but sometimes it astounded him what wasn't obvious to other people. "I couldn't exactly ring you. And you thought I was dead. Sorry, again."

"No. After you got back. Why didn't you tell me? You let me hit you!"

John sank into the leather chair. The cushions were lumpy from all the times Sherlock had sat on the back or the arms instead of the seat. He couldn't seem to do anything the normal way. And now it looked like he'd bunged something up again, because John was rubbing his bad leg, frowning down at the Union Flag pillow Sherlock had bought in a fit of queen and country after his first official case with Greg Lestrade of Scotland Yard. (Of course he remembered Lestrade's real name, but he'd thought it would be best if everything got back to normal as quickly as possible, and that was a trick when people kept going around hugging him.)

"Don't worry about it. I seem to have that effect on people." He had no idea why he was going for humor when it had been failing him so spectacularly of late. John just frowned harder.

Sherlock had told Mary the truth. He knew next to nothing about human nature. Just enough to explain, never enough to understand. But he'd always known about his own nature. It had always been perfectly logical. But now here he was, boasting and joking and begging. Sherlock didn't know how he felt about that. He didn't know how he felt about feeling.

It wasn't the first time Sherlock hadn't understood something, but it was the first time he hadn't understood himself. He was acting almost human.