Disclaimer - I own nothing you recognise.

Written for Auction Prompt - Hedgehog

Word Count - 4364

The Center Of My Universe

"What do you mean, you've lost him? How do you lose someone you're supposed to be keeping an eye on, Mycroft?" Sherlock demanded, leaning with both hands on the wide desk between himself and his brother.

Mycroft sighed heavily, somewhat in agreement with his brother even if he would never admit it.

"John struggled after your death. He didn't leave the flat very often, and he refused contact with everyone except Mrs Hudson, and then I believe it was only because Mrs Hudson refused to leave him to his own devices. It took a while to realise that he was indulging himself far too often with alcohol, and later, I believe prescription drugs.

"Almost seven months ago, Mrs Hudson contacted me to inform me that John hadn't been home for a week. We searched all the CCTV for signs of him, but have come up with nothing since then. I… I know it will be hard for you to hear this, Sherlock, but I believe that we may not find John alive."

"How on earth did you come to that conclusion?" Sherlock asked, his brow furrowed as he sank into one of the chairs behind him. His worry and concern for John was immense, and his legs were refusing to cooperate in holding him up any longer.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade heard from one of his colleagues four months ago after a raid on a well known dealer's home. The colleague in question thought he saw a glimpse of a man who much matched the description of John Watson, though he couldn't be entirely sure. If he was correct… you know the statistics, Sherlock."

"John wouldn't do that," Sherlock muttered. "He wouldn't. That's not the John Watson I know."

"He's not the John Watson you knew, Sherlock," Mycroft replied softly. "I believe we may have made a miscalculation in his regard for you. He took your death like one would expect someone to take the death of a spouse, rather than that of a best friend."

"Is he… Can I help him, Mycroft? If I find him, can I help him?"

"If anyone can bring John Watson back… it will be you, Sherlock. I would advise against holding onto too much hope, however. I should hate to think of what it will do to you if you cannot save him from himself."

Sherlock chuckled, a mirthless sound that filled the office ominously as he stood up, tightening his coat around himself.

"You fail to realise, Mycroft, that without John Watson, I am nothing. So that hope if all we have."

John leant back against the wall, sliding down until his bum hit the floor. He'd found an unoccupied alley for the evening, and he could only hope it remained that way. He was so goddamn tired, and yet there was something, deep inside, that wouldn't allow him to just give up.

"Hey, doc!"

Suppressing a groan, John blinked his eyes open to look at the owner of the voice.

"Toby. What's up?"

"One of the guys got in a bit of trouble last night. Needs fixing up," Toby said, tapping his hand against his leg. "Can you come and sort him out?"

John nodded. "Are there any supplies?"

"Bandages, wipes, that gauze stuff," Toby replied with a nod. "S'all still there from last time."

Tiredly forcing himself back to his feet, John followed Toby through the winding maze of alleys that the homeless preferred to habitate in. It wasn't a long walk, but the bone deep exhaustion made sure that John felt every step of the walk.

A slum house was their eventual destination, and John nodded a greeting to those he recognised.

"This is the Doc, G, he'll fix you up," Toby said to a young man who was leaning against a shabby table. John winced when he saw the gash running up the boy's ribs.

"Where's the supplies, Toby?" John asked, a critical eye running along the wound. He was quickly offered a box, which he laid on the table. Cleaning the wound, apologising softly when the young man gasped out in pain, John did what he could to make sure it wouldn't get infected.

Dressing it first with gauze, and then wrapping it tightly, John offered a small smile.

"Keep that dry, and try not to get it dirty, alright? Next time people are drawing knives, do yourself a favour and run."

The kid, for to John that was what he was, nodded.

"Thanks for, well, fixing me up, you know? S'good of you."

John nodded. "Anytime."

"Oi, Doc, you want some cigs? We gots us a sleeve?" Mary, one of the many homeless people John had helped asked, walking into the room.

John smiled, nodding. "Cheers. I'm out. Come find me if you need me, yeah?"

"You should just stay the night, Doc," Toby offered. "At least it's dry here, yeah? S'gonna rain tonight, innit?"

Chuckling, John cuffed Toby gently. "I'll be fine. Keep yourselves out of trouble, okay?"

"Sure, sure. Later, Doc."

"Before you go, Doc, there's been people asking of ya," Mary said, tilting her head slightly to the side. "See, normally we'd tell him straight up, but you look after us, innit, so we thought we tell you first and see what you sayin'."

"Who's asking?" John asked, frowning. The only people he could think of that would possibly still be looking for him were Greg and Mycroft and since he'd made his feelings towards them perfectly clear, he couldn't think of a reason why they'd be trying to contact him now.

"Sherlock, innit, Tobe? He been out and about asking for days."

John shook his head. "Can't be. Sher - He's dead."

Toby snorted. "You not been looking at the paper, Doc? He's alive and all. Somethin' about fakin' his death to get rid of that Moriarty bloke the papers is saying. Doc? DOC?"

Blackness swallowed John whole.

"Doc? Doc? Come on, Doc."

John blinked, surprised to find himself staring at the ceiling.

"What happened?" he asked, forcing himself to sit up slowly.

"You fainted, ah think," Toby said, looking worried. "Here, lean on the wall and ave a cig, settle yourself, innit."

"Sherlock's alive?" John asked, staring at Toby as the moments before the blackness consumed him forced their way into his mind.

"Yeah."

John accepted a light from Toby when he put a cig in between his lips, the first draw of nicotine helping to settle his overactive mind.

"Bastard," he muttered, his thoughts still on Sherlock. "If he comes asking again, tell him I said to fuck off. I don't wanna know."

"You sure bout that, doc?" Mary asked. "Bloke seems awful worried about you, he does."

"I'm sure. If he was that worried, he wouldn't have let me think he was dead for two fucking years," John growled, closing his eyes briefly.

The idea that Sherlock was in fact alive and looking for him wasn't computing properly, and he was half sure that he'd finally gone insane and was dreaming. He finished his cigarette in silence before he pulled himself back to his feet.

Offering a tight smile to Toby, John headed out, pausing only to ruffle Mary's hair on his way past. She made a noise of discontent but the beaming smile she gave him was genuine.

John had been on the streets for months, unable to face another moment in the flat he'd shared with Sherlock. At the time, he'd been drinking far too much, and the prescription sleeping pills he'd been taking far too many of were no longer having the desired effect of oblivion from pain.

Surprisingly, the streets, and the people on them, had helped him to stay dry and away from the pills. He needed to be alert in case one of them got injured and needed his assistance, and he switched his need for alcohol to a need for nicotine, somewhat surprised to find that Sherlock had indeed been correct in his insistence that the nicotine helped him think.

Trudging back to the alley he'd found earlier, John sighed. As much as the streets had helped him, he wasn't stupid enough to not understand that this lifestyle was significantly lowering his life expectancy. The cold of winter was beginning to settle in and that would only make life that much harder.

Thankfully, the alley was still empty, and John bunkered himself down against the side of a skip bin, the metal a suitable guard against the worst of the wind. His coat wrapped tightly around him, John pulled his hood up and shifted slightly, so he could lean himself slightly against the wall as well.

Closing his eyes, John could only hope that he'd be able to get a few hours sleep.

Sherlock was slowly going insane. It had been almost two weeks since his being alive had been announced in the papers, and two and a half weeks since he began searching for John, and so far, he'd had absolutely no luck.

What was worse was that a few of his network knew exactly where John was and they wouldn't tell him. By all accounts, when they'd broached the subject with Sherlock's blogger, John had fainted and then told them to tell Sherlock to 'fuck off.'

Like that was going to happen.

The good news, if anything at the moment could be classed as good news, was that John was apparently clean. He wasn't drinking, and Mycroft's fears that John was indulging in illegal substances was completely unfounded. That made Sherlock happy, or as happy as he could be at the moment. He'd known his John wouldn't do that.

Another night was drawing in, and Sherlock would once more begin his rounds to see if he could find anyone who would tell him where John was staying.

Dipping silently into an alley when he heard familiar voices, Sherlock stayed out of sight as he listened to the conversation happening a little way down.

"Doc'll be able to fix you up, Tobe," a female murmured, comfortingly. Sherlock recognised her instantly as Mary. She was one of his favourites, if only in his own mind, because she was one of the least selfish people Sherlock had ever met. "We'll get you back t' the 'ouse, an' I'll go 'n get him, yeah?"

"Alright. Careful, though, yeah? Doc's not doing so good, think the weather getting to 'im. Walk 'im slow, yeah?"

"Dunno why he dun't just stay at the 'ouse with us," Mary muttered.

"Maybe's he will, if the weather gets any worse, innit? He looks after us, we should look after 'im too, yeah?"

Sherlock followed silently, keeping Mary and Toby in his sights. He found a well hidden spot just behind the house they were currently residing in, and watched Mary leave a few minutes later. He thought briefly about following her, but knew it was far more sensible to wait; if she was fetching John to take care of Toby, there was far less chance of him being caught if he waited and either way, he'd set eyes on the doctor.

Time ticked by at a snail's pace, the urge to light a cigarette making Sherlock jittery. Finally, finally, the Mary returned with John in tow, his steps uneven as he limped alongside her. His posture was tense, and though Sherlock couldn't see much because of the large coat John was wearing, he could tell from the gauntness of the Doctor's face that John had lost far too much weight.

He waited impatiently for the two to enter the house before he followed, his steps silent as he did. He'd finally found his John, he wasn't going to ever let him out of his sight again.

"All done, Toby. Try and stay off that ankle, alright? At least for a couple of days."

"Cheers, Doc," Toby murmured sleepily. "Stay, yeah? S'cold out there."

"Toby -"

"He's right, Doc. You're wasting away out there, yeah? Can't hurt to hang in here for a few days, get warm, eat somethin'?"

The pleading in Mary's voice broke through to John and he nodded wearily. "Alright, alright. Thanks."

"All you do for us, Doc, this the least we can do for you," Toby said quietly, a small smile on his face.

John shrugged lightly, pulling his cigarettes from his pocket. He offered both Toby and Mary one, before lighting his own.

"I knew you'd come around to my way of thinking."

Spinning round, John found himself face to face with Sherlock Holmes, his cigarette hanging loosely between his lips as Sherlock raised one to his own, holding out a hand to John.

"Got a light?"

John stared, certain that he must have looked stupid but not actually giving a damn. To hear that Sherlock was alive and to see it were two entirely different things. Sherlock had lost weight, his cheekbones even more pronounced than usual. He looked… older. Tired. And yet, his eyes were still alight, sparkling as they took every inch of John in as John stared at him.

Taking the cigarette from his mouth, John chucked the lighter to Sherlock before he turned his back on his old friend. He would not give Sherlock the satisfaction of seeing him fall apart.

"Rain check on the overnighter, eh?" he offered Toby and Mary, the need to escape almost overwhelming. It was this feeling that had driven him to the streets in the first place, and even now, months later, he still had no idea how to combat it.

"Doc -"

"I'll follow you wherever you go now that I've found you, John. You may as well stay here where it's dry and warmer," Sherlock warned, his voice soft. "Just a conversation, John. Please. I owe you… well, I owe you much more than I can give you in one conversation but I owe you an explanation to begin with."

John shook his head. "You don't owe me anything."

Sherlock sighed. "We both know that isn't true."

Crossing to the window, John lifted his cig back to his lips, inhaling deeply. Smoking, while he'd always known it to be an absolutely terrible idea, had been his connection to his dead friend for the longest time. To be smoking in the same room as Sherlock… it just seemed so very wrong. He should be reprimanding the younger man for his relapse, not offering him lighters and partaking in the bad habit himself.

Shaking that thought off, John sighed.

"If I promise to meet you tomorrow, will you leave?"

"Where and when?" Sherlock demanded. "And I hope you know that if you don't show, I will track you down again, John, and then I'll refuse to ever leave your side."

"Wherever, midday?"

"Baker street, then. I'll be waiting at midday, John. Please. All I'm asking is for a chance."

Nodding tiredly, John turned to meet Sherlock's eyes. "Fine. I'll be there. Just… go away."

Sherlock watched the clock impatiently as the seconds ticked closer to twelve o clock. He'd spent the morning shopping, buying John new clothes and a thicker coat. While he hoped he'd be able to convince John to return home, he knew it wasn't likely to happen overnight and he wanted John to be as comfortable as he possibly could. There was also a new mobile, contracted to Sherlock's account, and a backpack filled with food and drinks that could be consumed straight from their packets. While Sherlock wasn't entirely sure why John had taken up smoking, there was also two sleeves of cigarettes hidden at the bottom of the bag.

Toby's words of the night before echoed in Sherlock's head on repeat. John wasn't doing so well out on the streets, and Sherlock felt an almost indescribable amount of guilt. He was the cause of John's troubles. He hated that he'd caused John any pain, and the fact that he'd done it to save his life wasn't really helping at the moment.

A knock on the door downstairs had Sherlock leaping up from the sofa, and in seconds he was downstairs, pulling the door open to find his doctor standing there, looking downtrodden and tired but there.

"Come on up," Sherlock encouraged, standing back to allow John to pass him. He'd asked Mrs Hudson to vacate the premises for the day, sure that John wouldn't handle the gushing old lady very well at the moment.

John was slow on the stairs, and Sherlock could practically feel the apprehension coming off him in waves as the entered flat B. Nothing was different from the last time John had been there, Sherlock knew, but with the lack of data he couldn't deduce if that was good or bad.

"I… tea. I'll make tea," Sherlock muttered after a moment, while John stood in the middle of the living room, his eyes on the chair he'd claimed as his own so very long ago.

Busying himself in the kitchen, Sherlock was fully aware when John followed him in, taking a heavy seat at the kitchen table. The tea made and on the table, Sherlock sat down facing John.

"I… don't even know where to begin," Sherlock admitted quietly. "I am so very sorry that I had to leave you in the dark about the plan, John. Truly. I… Moriarty forced my hand. While I was prepared in advance for the worst case scenario, I never in a million years believed it would actually prove necessary. He threatened you, John. You, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. Snipers. Three bullets. Three people. And then he shot himself taking away the only way to call the snipers off their missions unless they saw me die."

John raised his eyebrow. "Okay."

Sherlock waited for John to say something else, but silence reigned uncomfortably in the kitchen.

"That's it?" he asked, frowning at the Doctor. "Okay?"

"What is it that you want me to say? Congratulations for fooling me by using sentiment against me? Congratulations for making me watch you die simply to make sure that people believed the lie? Congratulations for ruining my… well. Congratulations."

"John, no, no it wasn't like that," Sherlock argued. "It was necessary, John, necessary. I would never willingly choose to hurt you! You must know that I'd do anything for you, John, absolutely anything, you have to believe me."

Rubbing his temple tiredly, John shifted in an approximation of a shrug. "I still don't know what I'm supposed to say here, Sherlock. People don't just… Are we done here? You've explained. Fair enough, you did what you felt you needed to do and for what it's worth, I'm glad you're alright."

"At the moment, John, I'm about as far from alright as I think I could be. You… I want you to come home. I want you to move back in, let me take care of you for a change. Please, John. Please."

"This isn't my home anymore."

"Then let me get you a hotel suite. Something. You deserve more than the streets. So much more."

"I can't."

Sherlock slumped in his seat in defeat. "Then while you're here, at least go and take a shower or a bath. There's new clothes for you and a coat, and a bag with things to help you. At least let me have this, John. Please."

John snorted. "You've said please more in this one conversation than you ever did before… before."

"I've never wanted anything as badly as I want you to come home."

"I can't just… pretend like nothing ever happened. As good as it would be to just be normal again, I can't. I don't know how anymore."

Sherlock sighed but nodded. "I understand. I wish it was different, and I won't stop hoping that you'll change your mind, but I do understand. Will you at least take the bag and have a shower and change while you're here?"

Hesitating, John nodded. "I… guess. Um. Thanks."

Sherlock closed his eyes, listening carefully to every little noise John made. Different plans raced each other through his head, getting more and more ridiculous as he tried to think of ways to convince John to remain at Baker Street. To come home.

Lighting a cigarette, he stood by the window, waiting, the nicotine barely touching the nerves squirming in his stomach uncomfortably. John would be out any moment, and Sherlock had no idea what else he could say to him.

Sure enough, less than a full minute later, John was stepping out of the bathroom. While still thinner and greyer than the John who lived in Sherlock's memories, he looked a lot more similar than he had before. Clean skin, clean clothes, and clean hair. His eyes were brighter, and he even offered Sherlock a small smile.

"Thanks. I, uh. Well. Thanks."

Sherlock nodded. "You're welcome here anytime, John. Day or night. There's… Your keys are in the bag. Side pocket, along with a mobile that has unlimited use. Anytime, anything you need. Just…"

John shuffled closer, a frown etched on his face. Reaching out cautiously, he caught Sherlock's wrist between his thumb and his forefinger. Sherlock watched his eyes widen slightly before he took a deep comforting breath.

The moment passed before Sherlock was ready to lose the contact, but John pulled back, taking two steps backwards at the same time so there was some distance between them once more. Digging in his coat pocket, he pulled out a cigarette and lighter.

"When did that start?" Sherlock asked as John took his first drag.

John shrugged. "Not sure. It… It's better than other things."

Sherlock nodded. "I know. Is there… can I get you anything else?"

John chuckled, though it was without humour. "A time machine?"

"I am sorry, John. Truly, I'm sorry."

Sighing, John nodded. "I… can see that. And for what it's worth, I appreciate it. I'm still struggling to believe that this is even real."

"I know. I can… I will wait, John. For as long as you need. Just, please, don't cut me off completely. Selfish as I know it is, I've lived without you for long enough. I don't want to live without you any longer."

John smiled sadly. "You have the number to the mobile in the bag, I suppose. If you call… I'll answer."

…

A week passed and then two. Sherlock watched John from afar, texting his blogger daily. True to his word, John always replied, even joking a couple of times.

When Mycroft called to tell him that John was sitting in Regents park, Sherlock was out of the door before the end of the call. Sure enough, he found his blogger on the bench the two of them had once sat together.

He was watching a hedgehog rustling about beneath the autumn leaves. Odd, for a hedgehog to even still be out in the open, and when Sherlock sat down beside John on the bench, he decided to forgo speech and joined John in his watch.

"Cute little buggers, aren't they?" John murmured after a few minutes of comfortable silence.

Sherlock's lips tilted a little. "Hmm," he agreed. "Interesting animals as well."

"Tell me about them."

"A hedgehog is any of the spiny mammals of the subfamily, Erinaceinae in the Eulipotyphlan family Erinaceidae," Sherlock murmured. "They have poor eyesight, but their senses of smell and hearing are fantastic." He paused. "Baby Hedgehogs are called hoglets."

John made an 'aww' sound, making Sherlock smile. "They have around five thousand spines on them, when they're full grown."

"I saw here a lot, after you…" John trailed off, before he squared his shoulders. "I wondered for so long if there was something I could have done or said to make a difference to what happened. It was here, right in this spot, that I realised I was in love with you."

Sherlock felt his heart splinter. He'd always been a little bit in love with John, ever since that first case; the case of the pink lady. It was only when he didn't have John there with him, that he realised just how much he did love John. How much he needed him.

"I don't know how much Mycroft told you about what happened after, but being on the streets, it helped me get my shit together in a way. I had to keep my head clear, in case the kids needed me, you know? It was nice to be needed. It was what I needed."

Sherlock reached out cautiously, resting his hand on John's.

John blinked down at it, hesitating for a moment before he flipped his hand so it was palm up, fingers spread invitingly.

"Now you're back and… I don't know what to do with that. Part of me is screaming at me to run, run for the hills and never look back because a life with you is uncertain and… painful. Even if I came back and we were just friends, like we were before, if you ever left again, I don't know what I'd do. But the other part of me is telling me that a leap of faith is all I need. That we could be happy."

Sherlock didn't know what to say. He'd never been good at sentiment, and he was terrified of saying the wrong thing.

"I love you," he whispered. "I don't know what to say to convince you that I won't leave you again. I want to be old and grey with you and living in a cottage in Surrey with bees and a dog. I want to argue with you about stupid things, like what we're having to eat for dinner, and who's turn it is to make tea."

Sherlock smiled to himself. "I want all your hours, John. I want to be the centre of your universe, the way you are for me."

John stared at their joined hands for a moment, before he looked up to meet Sherlock's eyes.

"I'm ready to take the leap. I'm ready to come home, Sherlock."

The smile on Sherlock's face lit him up and he pulled John to his feet.

"Oh, and Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"You've always been the centre of my universe. Since the day I met you."