A/N: Sooooo... Here it is!
The first chapter of my newest project which is being co-written with the wonderful/lovely/amazing PonchoAndPinstripes on DA!
We decided to do an AU where John's decisions are... Ah, different, than the TV series of season three.
Anyway, we sincerely hope you enjoy it!

Please let us know what you think!

It hadn't taken very long for John to make his decision. The flash drive had burned in his pocket and even hotter in his hand as he had prepared to view its contents. Everything inside him was torn and when he had finally viewed what the flash drive contained, he was justified in his decision. He couldn't stay at their house, where he thought they had built a home. It was a lie; everything about his relationship and his marriage was false. So, he had to return to the only place where he felt remotely safe and normal; the only other place where he had felt a warm sense of home: 221B Baker Street. John did not give his former flatmate much notice, but was almost certain that Sherlock understood the reasoning behind his move.

About a week passed and John's belongings were finally settled back into the place he had called home a little more than two years ago, before everything that had happened. It felt a bit nostalgic, to be honest, and that helped him cope a little. John didn't find himself talking much, however, and he felt as though he were turning into Sherlock: solitary by choice, and rather lost in his own thoughts.

Sherlock had been exceedingly quiet the past week, following John's own silence and taking to studying John more than was usual. The detective had even been silently bringing the doctor a cup of tea now and then. He wasn't sure how to act in this situation, honestly, as he had thought from the very beginning that this whole relationship with Mary had been a bit odd. Now that the two of them had broken up and Mary had left the country (information known thanks to Mycroft) he felt a bit of a loss as to where he should begin to rebuild their friendship. Unfortunately, there had been no new cases worth Sherlock's attention, so he had more time than usual to bode on his emotional standings and how best to help the doctor settle back into things.

Shifting in his favorite chair, Sherlock dragged his feet underneath him, quietly balancing his tea cup and saucer on his lap. A rumble sounded from the detective's stomach and he frowned, noting that he hadn't eaten in four days. Neither of the men had been to do the shopping, and Sherlock sincerely doubted that there would be anything to eat in the kitchen. Sipping his tea gingerly, the detective began deducing the likelihood of dragging John out to dinner at one of their favorite Chinese restaurants, frowning as he stared off into space.

John began to sip the tea he'd been given, an occasional slurp being the only sound in the room. He sighed to himself, thinking how in this moment he'd been wanting something a little more substantial than tea. Placing his cup on the the side table next to him, he rested his chin on his hand as his eyes drifted to the ceiling in thought. Glancing at the detective every now and then, John thought to himself that the detective looked very calm, casual, and peaceful; which felt odd because on a normal day, Sherlock was none of these things. Sherlock had just reached a conclusion of 96.3 percent certainty when John's voice sounded from across the room.

"You hungry at all?"

John's voice broke the silence as he turned his gaze to the detective. Blinking in surprise at the doctor's alignment with his own thoughts, Sherlock cleared his throat before swallowing down the rest of his near-scalding tea. He set the dishes to the side before flicking his eyes to the other man, giving a short nod.

"Chinese. I'll change."

Rising from the chair, Sherlock strode past John and into his bedroom, half closing the door before throwing off his house coat and slippers. Thumbing through his wardrobe, he selected a dark navy button-up shirt and tailored black slacks. He pulled on the new clothes, buttoning and tucking in his shirt and zipping himself up, before sliding into a pair of trouser socks. John was shocked by the detective's swift response. He stared at the spot where Sherlock had just been and wondered why he had waited for John to say anything before going off to eat on his own. John knew Sherlock and food weren't best friends, however, and it was a very rare occasion that he ate unless they were out on a case or Mrs. Hudson had come up with a tray of snacks to coax the detective into eating something. Nevertheless, John slipped on his shoes and coat, sliding his phone into his pocket as Sherlock returned from his bedroom.

Sherlock cleared his throat, noting that the doctor was looking at him with an odd tilt to his head. He slid on his jacket and scarf, shoving his hands in his pockets as he turned to look at John. He really wasn't sure how to act, but it was driving him insane. As the detective opened the door, he decided he might as well just go back to being his normal self in hopes that John would get angry or something and go back to his normal self. While Sherlock understood that the whole ordeal had been traumatic, he couldn't figure out why John had been so different. The doctor was quieter, he didn't eat much or really do much of anything except go to work, visit Mrs. Hudson, and come home to Sherlock.

'Come home to Sherlock.'

The detective blinked, shaking his head at the thought. Hadn't John made it exceptionally clear that he wasn't gay? Hadn't Sherlock himself expressly told the doctor that he was married to his work? Heading down the stairs, Sherlock paused at the bottom for just a few seconds before heading out the front door to try and hail a cab. As usual, John was always close behind.

'I'm always following him in some way, aren't I? This is routine, comforting almost.'

The doctor thought, frowning. This was a weird place for John to be putting his male flatmate, but he found Sherlock comfortable. Through all of the tragedy and the mayhem, some of which Sherlock himself had caused, the detective was the one thing in John's life that was constant, and the one thing he couldn't get rid of if he tried. John wanted to be able to talk to Sherlock like normal best friends would, but he feared it. He knew if he opened his mouth and started spouting all of his emotions, he wouldn't be able to stop and he'd probably turn into a pile of mush. Sherlock, of all people, wouldn't be able or want to deal with that, and John didn't want expose himself and be vulnerable to the detective's scrutinizing.

But, even so, Sherlock's presence and acceptance were nice. The detective had not harassed John for information, at least, not yet. John gazed at Sherlock from behind as long as possible before standing next to him as they waited for one of the taxis to stop, sharing a comfortable silence.