Everyone turned around to see Sherlock and his mother walking down the hallway and into the visitor's center. Sherlock looked as harrowed and miserable as he had ever been. His mother didn't look too pleased, either. She was rigid and indignant, walking swiftly ahead of Sherlock.

John cleaned his face as quickly as he could, standing a little behind Mycroft for cover. He was mortified. He swallowed hard, tried to calm his labored breathing. Once he felt he had a bit of control back, he peered curiously over Mycroft's shoulders to get his first real look of the matriarch of the Holmes family.

She was slender, angular and tall, just like her sons, and John could see the other similarities immediately. It was apparent, not just from the sharp cheekbones or the flawless alabaster skin, but in her walk, in her solemn, dark ensemble and in the way she acknowledged no one, oozing money and entitlement.

Sherlock was practically chasing after her, but he was losing enthusiasm now as he caught sight of his friends, his strides shrinking.

It was instinctive. To step forward. To want to touch Sherlock, embrace him and...but the motion died almost immediately when John's movement drew Sherlock's attention. Sherlock's eyes found John. And the way that Sherlock very subtly…very subtly…shrank back, eyes wide made John shrink back as well. The two men only briefly looked at each other, both expressions uncertain, but in that instant John knew everything he needed to know: it will never be the same.

Unwilling to come any closer, Sherlock stopped at the entrance to the visitor's center. He looked after his mother with an expression of raw suffering. "Mum!" he called, just once.

He was ignored. Mummy Holmes continued on.

Everyone's shoulder's drooped as they understood.

John's whole spirit sank, down, down to the floor. The back of his neck flashed hot, prickling with sweat, while a chill settled between his shoulder blades.

No. No. Jesus, she reads his blog. He wrote it for her, not for anyone else, not for his "fans" or the vultures at the Yard. His mum. Oh God. She rejected him.

Sherlock's entire universe must be imploding, John thought. It wasn't just his friendship with John that was disintegrating…everything was disintegrating.

His relationships, his home, his work…it was all poisoned now, contaminated by regret, with no refuge, no relief.

Now John really appreciated what he'd done: by betraying Sherlock's trust, he'd deprived Sherlock of his only safe harbor.

Mycroft silently joined Mummy Holmes. They walked side-by-side, their strides in perfect step. He followed her as far as the lobby door, then opened it for her. "Until Christmas, then?"

She didn't stop. She passed through without pausing.

"Should I bother, even then?" Mycroft asked after her sullenly. "Is this good-bye?"

She stopped suddenly on the other side and turned to look at him.

Mycroft waited expectantly. He folded his hands in front of him.

"There are therapies, Mycroft," she said, sounding long-suffering. "Reparative therapies endorsed by Angelican Mainstream and Core Issues that are non-coercive and non-judgmental that have been proven to reduce same-sex attraction. There are doctors who can help struggling young men like…"

"Doctors." Mycroft sneered. "Yes, I haven't forgotten your political allegiances or where you donate your money."

John was horrified. She couldn't really mean…? Did people really still think like that? He felt his stomach churn. Yes, people still thought like that. And he was one of them. He was a bigot, he was among their ranks. He didn't run a hate website and he didn't seek out gays to bully, but it was attitudes like his that made it possible for extreme world views like hers to continue, unchallenged. He was an accessory to hate.

"Mycroft," his mother admonished, "Look at your brother."

Back in the corner, Sherlock had slumped against the wall. Haunted and alone, he held his own thin body, like he might fall apart at any moment. Wordlessly, he turned around and shuffled back down the hallway in the direction he'd come, without saying anything to his friends.

"I don't have to look at him," Mycroft said. "I grew up in the same house with the same parents and the same values. Hire all the witch doctors you want. It's not going to undo the years of hearing about how our bodies are sinful, that sex is dirty and that we are dirty."

"He's confused," the mother spat back, "because he had no father to look up to…"

"We had a lovely father," Mycroft countered. "I was very fond of him, regardless of the state of your marriage."

"I was trying to protect you two from the predators and the child molesters that target vulnerable little boys in crisis…"

"No, no, you were trying to insulate yourself…"

"Little boys!" she hissed over Mycroft, "Little boys in crisis that attract sexual predators…"

Mycroft was hissing right back at her now, too: "… from jokes and rumors that your husband left you, and rather than shrink into the shadows and hide from your friends, you paraded me and Sherlock around during those awful support groups, telling your story while we sat there, these strangers looking at us and shaking their heads and feeling sorry for us, telling us there was no reason we couldn't grow up to be fine young men, that we weren't ruined just because our father was gay, that we would both be fine. As if there was any reason why we wouldn't be fine."

The woman carried on, her emotions flaring. "And there's still hope. There's still hope for Sherlock…"

Mycroft's anger was ratcheting; "There's nothing wrong with Sherlock."

She angrily pointed behind her, in Sherlock's direction. "He's sick! My son is sick. And he's a drug addict on top of it all…!"

Mycroft said, "Addiction doesn't discriminate between gay or straight. And he's recovering remarkably, by the way, he's shown extraordinary discipline." Mycroft straightened up, flustered. "He's a brilliant man with a successful career, he's admired and respected and there's nothing wrong with him. He's a smashing success and a gifted detective! Ask anyone at Scotland Yard."

John listened in rapt attention. He'd never heard Mycroft spare a word of praise for Sherlock, ever. Ever. He looked frantically back at Sherlock, but he'd already rounded the corner and disappeared. John wanted to run after him and drag him back so Sherlock could hear everything that Mycroft had to say, but he was rooted to the spot. He was still humiliated, and Sherlock's mother's proud ignorance shamed him further. He hated her. He hates himself. He hated himself for being like her, even if only a little.

The woman pointed out angrily, "He's in a mental hospital! He tried to kill himself. This isn't normal, Mycroft!"

Mycroft said furiously, "You know, I've been pelted by your nasty conservative views my whole life. I've had to suffer in silence while you and your friends casually infer that gay men who adopt molest their children, or they force their adoptive kids to be gay, as if sexual orientation were something that could be taught or influenced. I never wanted to be held up as an example, like I knew you would, so I've kept the truth to myself. But the fact is I'm gay. I'm gay, just like Sherlock."

The woman was silent, shocked.

John swallowed audibly. Across the room, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and Molly watched the little family drama climax.

"Blame father if you want," Mycroft hissed. "Blame God. Blame pedophiles or the media or pornography or liberals or whoever you want."

The woman said evenly, "The both of you."

"Yes," Mycroft said. "Unfortunately, you'll have to bequeath our inheritance to your beloved hate-charity if you wish to pass on your legacy."

The wounded woman inhaled sharply, jutting out her chin indignantly. Then she turned around sharply and pushed her way through the doors and was gone.

Mycroft remained perfectly still for a moment. Then his shoulders sank and he exhaled a shaking sigh. He turned around slowly and wiped his brow with his sleeve, his hand visibly shaking. Then he straightened his tie and smoothed his hands down the front of his jacket. He cleared his throat. "Please excuse that," he said absently and politely, as if a dog had messed in the middle of a Christmas party and he were beckoning the maid. "I'm sorry you all had to listen to that. Please excuse me." He patted his breast pocket anxiously, looking for his handkerchief he'd handed to John, forgetting he had parted with it. "Excuse me."

Mrs. Hudson was up in a flash. She hurried over to Mycroft and took her own hankie out of her pocket and handed it to him. "Oh yes, thank you," he mummered, "that's exactly…yes." But his hands were shaking so violently that Mrs. Hudson hand to hold his wrist to place the hankie in his grip. He patted his eyes and his damp forehead and gave it back to Mrs. Hudson, then straightened his jacket. "I have to see to my brother."

"No, that's fine," Mrs. Hudson assured him, folding the hankie in her hand. She patted his arm. "You boys take your time."

Mycroft didn't move right away. He stood, staring at nothing, disoriented.

Mrs. Hudson nudged Mycroft. Finding him unresponsive, she hooked her arm around his and literally pulled him out of his stupor. "Sherlock. I have to check on Sherlock," Mycroft said. "He's….well, you saw."

"He went this way, dear," Mrs. Hudson said kindly, and they went together.

Lestrade and Molly were drawn towards them and in a moment, a little silent procession marched down the hall towards Sherlock's room. Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Lestrade and Molly.

John watched them go, unable to follow. No one looked at John or questioned that he didn't go with them. He watched them until they went around the corner.

He didn't belong.

He found a chair and sat down in it and thought for a long time.

Extraordinary. Spectacular. Bravo, Mycroft Holmes. That was perfect. Good for you for getting it so right when I got it so wrong.

John had never believed in destiny. His understanding of God was….vague at best. He didn't believe that there was a Plan for him, or that fate predetermined his future. He didn't think he was meant to be shot in Afganistan or that he was meant to meet Sherlock Holmes, or that any of this was meant to happen.

But he could see his future now. Clearly. All laid out in front of him, and all he needed to do was rise from his seat and meet it. And it was comforting, because it was the right thing to do. Because it was the most sincere and loving thing he was capable of. Because he still loved Sherlock. He loved Sherlock very much and he wanted Sherlock to have a happy life. John's hang-ups were his own and nothing for Sherlock to sort out. Sherlock had his own challenges ahead. This was for the best.

John stood up and walked towards the lobby doors and saw himself out.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

In the time he'd been granted, John finished moving the remainder of his belongings from the flat he'd shared with Sherlock for two years.

Then he cleaned 221b from top to bottom. He straightened everything, dusted and vacuumed and scoured the kitchen and the bathroom and removed any trace of the offensive message scrawled on the mirror. He meticulously gathered every shard of wood from Sherlock's destroyed violin and deposited them and the rest of its mangled wreckage into its case, which he locked and put aside beneath the coffee table. He cleaned all the dishes gathered in the sink and put them away. He emptied the fridge of everything, everything, and put the garbage bags to the curb, human remains and all. He went to the wall that had been shot and spray painted with a smiley face and scrubbed the spray paint away, filled the holes with spackle. He went into Sherlock's bedroom and gathered his laundry into baskets and made his bed, opened up the curtains and the window and let fresh air in. He took most of Sherlock's clothes to the dry cleaner and paid for them. When he came home, he a post-it note on Sherlock's bedroom door explaining his where his clothes had gone. Then he went into the sitting room and worked his key off his keychain and left it on the coffee table. He walked out off 221b, closing the door and locking it behind him.

On his way out of the building, he stopped at Mrs. Hudson's door. He took a envelope marked "RENT" out of his breast pocket. Inside was the remainder of his life savings. He pushed it under her door.

He went out the front door of 221 Baker Street and walked down the steps into the busy London street, never to return.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

John checked Sherlock's website every day. It didn't change. It only said that Sherlock was not available for detective work until further notice.

Six weeks later, there was a subtle change; Sherlock Holmes was no longer available for detective work.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

John lived with Sarah for a while. John loved Sarah very much. And after Sarah gently told John she wanted him to leave, John still loved Sarah, but now he loved her from far away. He forgave her for not loving him anymore, just as he'd promised. He loved her for the rest of his life and never had another girlfriend.

He couldn't afford London on an army pension.

He thought about reaching out to Harry and decided against it. What he really wanted to do was go back to Afghanistan. He was physically well. His limp was gone. He had no future. He wanted to serve a higher purpose again, be part of a cause.

But somehow, in the midst of all those cases and with Sherlock dominating his life for so long, he hadn't been paying much attention to politics. Unbelievably, the war was over.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Six months later, John's therapist Ella helped John find a hostel for homeless veterans.

He put some of his things in storage. His most valuable possessions he gave to Harry for safe keeping, carefully dodging her attempts to forcefully make him live with her. He spent his days searching for work and not finding any, and he spent his nights in the company of other former soldiers. John was at home.

Ella put John on medication and John became more at home. The medicine didn't make John any happier, but it made him feel okay about not being happy. So he stopped searching for a job and didn't mind it that his pants were dirty and that there was a hole in his sleeve. No one judged him and no one had any expectations of him. He didn't disappoint anyone. And that was nice. He didn't write in his blog because he left his computer with Harry, so there weren't people constantly commenting about what he was doing with his life, which was fine because he wasn't doing anything.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

At the peak of summer, John stopped showing up to his appointments with Ella.

When John didn't see Harry to pick up his pension check, Harry called around. No one knew where John was. After her frantic prompting, the police used gps to locate John's phone, which they found in a rubbish bin in Russell Square Gardens. There was no sign of John and none of the local people recognized him from a photograph.

There wasn't officially a missing person's case because John hadn't had a fixed address in over a year. He'd moved out of the hostel weeks ago. No one knew why.

In fact, no one really remembered a John Watson.

It wasn't her jurisdiction. And he didn't have credentials anymore. But they still considered John a friend, even though they hadn't seen him in a long time, when they heard he was missing, they immediately made a plan. Sally Donovan and Greg Lestrade went up and down the street, stopping in every shop and pub, asking if anyone knew John Watson, a homeless vet who might be in the area. No one did.

"There's lots of drifters and bums in the park this time of year," one man said with a shrug. "They all look the same to me."

Lestrade held up a photo. It was an old photo and, according to Ella and Harry, John had lost weight since it was taken. "He's a vet…,"

"They're all vets," the man dismissed, going back to work.

Dejected, Lestrade turned around and walked out of the pub. Donovan was waiting for him, looking anxious. They walked together for a while.

"Like old times," Donovan eventually said, but without affection. You didn't look back on murders and missing persons with affection.

They found nothing, though they stopped every person they met until dusk. When it became too dark to accomplish anything meaningful, they waited on a street corner, trying to flag down a cab.

"How do you like being DI?" Lestrade asked Donovan.

"It's miserable, thank you. And your new job?"

"The pay is crap. The hours are crap. There's no benefits and the accommodations aren't accommodating. I literally have a couch and that's it. And I have to share it." But Lestrade was smiling as he said it. There was life in his eyes. "But it was better than haggling with the ex-wife over who got the house."

Donovan shrugged. "Couldn't you and Molly…negotiate a time-share for the second bedroom?"

"Yeah right. She moved in first."

"And Sherlock's not willing to…?"

"Oh, God, no, I wouldn't even ask. The guy's my friend, my boss, my flat mate…and you want me to share a bedroom with him? I can barely share a refrigerator with him. You won't believe what he keeps in there. I won't tell you."

Donovan rested her head back. "Isn't it a mad house in that tiny little flat? All three of you, bumping into each other?"

"Mornings are crazy. You should see us all trying to muscle in on the coffee."

Donovan made a small hum of desire. "Coffee," she murmured. "Coffee sounds good."

Lestrade said opportunistically, "You should come over sometime. See the mad house for yourself."

"Hmph."

"I'm serious."

She said nothing, scanning the traffic for a taxi.

"He's not going to insult you, Sally," Lestrade said. "I bet he'd like to see you."

She said, "He can pretend to mend burned bridges. But he doesn't want my friendship. He's just a lonely guy with bad manners."

Lestrade spotted a taxi and raised his arm. "Can I confide something in you?"

"No," Donovan said firmly.

"Sherlock…"

"No," she said again, "I don't want to know. I don't want to know any of his secrets. Don't tell me anything."

Lestrade was quiet a moment. The taxi he'd been waving at didn't stop and passed right by. He watched it go. Then he said, "We role-play conversations."

Donovan groaned and stared at Lestrade. "Why did you tell me that?"

"Me and Molly take turns, playing the parts of strangers and clients and acquaintances, and teach him how to hold a conversation without casually insulting people. It's really hard."

Donovan smirked, imagining it. "How long can he go?"

"What you mean? Without insulting someone?"

"Yeah. How many minutes can he last?"

"Um."

"How many seconds, then?"

"We don't…measure it like that."

"So, you want me to come over and be a guinea pig?"

"Sorta, yeah." The taxi Lestrade waved at began to maneuver towards them and slow down. "He's got it in his head that he's going to go over to Harry's one day and see John and talk to him. Give him back some odd knick-knacks he left behind in the flat. A mug. His shaving kit. He wants to be civil and well-behaved and courteous."

The taxi pulled up to the curb, but Donovan was just staring at Lestrade. "Wait. He knows, right?"

Lestrade just gave Donovan a look.

Donovan pressed, "Sherlock knows….that John's…?"

Lestrade opened the taxi door for Donovan. He said, "Sherlock will never work up the nerve to go to Harry's."

Donovan stared at Lestrade, wide-eyed.

"And he's never going to be a detective again, either," Lestrade said, "despite what he says. He talks about it, taking it up again, but then I'll show him a newspaper headline and say, 'Well, what do you think of this? Don't you think this is suspicious?' and he'll just get this look on his face and I put that newspaper right back down. He's never going back out there again. I know it. He's lost his…whatever. Drive. Whatever he had. The spark." He shook his head.

"That's...a shame," Donovan said with begrudging sincerity. "He was…really, something. When he wasn't a total ass, he was something."

"He was," Lestrade agreed. Then he added, "They both were. They were really great together."

Donovan said, "Well, if he ever gets bitten by the bug, don't bring him around any of my crime scenes."

"I've learned my lesson, Sally." Lestrade looked around wistfully. "I still care about my team, even if it's not my team anymore. I'm glad that you're DA. I'm proud of you. You deserve it. I know you'll do right by our people."

Donovan climbed into the taxi. "Maybe I will come over for coffee sometime."

"We'd all like that."

Donovan hesitated, about to close the door. She said, "Tell him I said 'Hi.'"

"I will."

"Take care, Greg."

"Good night, Detective Inspector."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Click. Click-click-click-click. Click.

Lestrade opened his eyes and nudged the blanket from over his face and saw the kitchen partition was drawn shut and the frosted glass in the doors glowed from the light on over the sink. By Sherlock's silhouette, he knew the former consulting detective was at the kitchen table and, by the sounds, typing away on his laptop.

He stood up from the couch, yawning and scratching his hair. Other than the kitchen light, it was black in the flat. There wasn't a clock around, so Lestrade couldn't guess what time it was. He padded across the flat to the kitchen doors and pushed them apart, blinking sleepily into the light. "Hey." He saw Sherlock had a steaming mug. "You make enough for two?"

Sherlock paused in his writing, looking perturbed at being interrupted. "Considering its three am, the only time I can have peace and privacy while I work, I assumed everyone would be asleep, so naturally, no, I didn't…" He stopped.

Lestrade waited patiently.

Sherlock did a self-check. He started again, this time more slowly and more calculated and with a softer tone; "Good morning, Greg."

"Good morning, Sherlock."

"I didn't mean to wake you up. Would you like some coffee?"

"I'd like that, thanks."

Sherlock got up from the table and went to the counter. He started making a fresh pot. His movements were entirely mechanical. It was taking every ounce of strength to wrench himself away from his computer and do something else. After a minute, his muscles un-bunched as his mind disconnected from the interrupted task and focused on the new one.

Lestrade opened the doors more fully and let himself in. He sat down in the seat across from Sherlock's and watched him empty the coffee filter into the trash and then rinse it in the sink. "What are you working on?" Lestrade asked with interest. "Taking up a case?"

"Um. No. Just. Reading up on the old ones."

Reading John's blog, then, Lestrade thought. "What are you writing?"

"Some thoughts."

Lestrade nodded.

As the coffee pot began to percolate, Sherlock returned to his chair. He settled in and stared at the laptop screen, his fingers threaded together, his lips pressed against his hands. He was thinking about where he left off.

Lestrade said sadly, "He's not going to write back to you, Sherlock."

Sherlock said nothing.

"That blog hasn't updated in over a year. Let it go."

"I'm not just going to pretend we were never friends."

Lestrade sighed. "You don't forget, mate. You just…move on."

Sherlock rested his hands on the keyboard, at the ready. He said, "John is a kind and loyal person. I had complete trust in him."

"Which is what made what happened so inexcusable."

Sherlock said pointedly, "Promising him my unconditional friendship, telling him he was my brother, all while taking advantage of his feelings for me, attacking his dignity, and undermining his happiness and mocking his future." Sherlock began to type slowly. "I agree. Inexcusable."

Lestrade was stunned. He said gently, "I don't mean to sound patronizing, Sherlock, but victims always find ways to blame themselves."

Sherlock said without looking up, "I don't even know how to respond to that. I'm not a victim."

Lestrade asked, "How many times did you try and make peace with John? How many times did you offer to talk it out? How many times did he respond with hostility? With violence?"

"Just once," Sherlock responded immediately. "Just one night while John was very, very drunk." He continued typing without pause. "Twice if you count an ignored text."

Lestrade nodded. "And you're going to make excuses for him? He was drunk, so he wasn't responsible for his actions? And what about when he outed you? He wasn't drunk then. He was just being spiteful."

Sherlock said, "I am not some traumatized house wife getting beaten by her husband. I am a human being with my own mind and my own personal sense of justice. I know the difference between the blanketed, blind, fair-for-all way the justice system handles criminals…and how a man should treat another man, one-on-one. I can forgive John if I want, no matter how unpalatable you find it, no matter if it smacks of domestic abuse." Sherlock went on, "I know you still have the mind-set of a police officer. But I don't need protection. I am aware that what John did was wrong. Nonetheless. It's in the past and I'm ready to move forward."

Lestrade said, "So…what? It's all forgiven, then? Just like that."

"Just like that," Sherlock confirmed.

Lestrade implored, "You wanted to kill yourself, mate. He hurt you. He hurt you like…I've never seen you hurt. You can't tell me it doesn't matter to you. You were a different person for months. I didn't know you. You were a stranger."

Finally, Sherlock stopped typing. "He did hurt me." He looked up at Lestrade directly. "He hurt me. He betrayed me, he broke my confidence, and he attacked me when I was at my most vulnerable. He left me so shaken, I thought…." Sherlock's voice trailed off. He resumed typing. "I thought I was on fire."

"On fire?"

"Molly can explain it better," Sherlock said. He typed away.

Lestrade asked, "So why is it okay today? Why are you okay right now but not then?"

"It's not okay," Sherlock said.

Lestrade objected, "But you just said…?"

Sherlock put down his hands in frustration. But before he could shout at Lestrade a million insults, he took a deep breath. "Let me explain a different way," Sherlock offered. "What John did is not okay. But I forgive him. That doesn't make what he did right. It just means I forgive him. I wasn't ready to forgive him before, but now I am. As the wronged party, it's my prerogative to be as angry as I want for as long as I want. Except being angry and miserable and regretful is quite frankly exhausting. I want my life back. All of it. I'm ready to accept John back in my life." Sherlock looked at the screen. "Except he never answers his phone."

Lestrade cleared his throat. He asked, "Have you looked for him?"

Sherlock said, "No. I feel leery about going to Harry's. If John's avoiding me, I may not be welcome. We didn't part under the best of terms, if you remember. I don't want to provoke the wrong reaction if he's still feeling bitter."

Lestrade said carefully, "I don't...think…John is staying at Harry's."

Sherlock looked at Lestrade with interest. "Why? Where do you think he is?"

Lestrade said, "I don't actually know where John is."

Sherlock just looked at Lestrade. His back straightened as the information sank in.

Lestrade added, "I haven't known where John is for a few months." He paused. "Nobody knows where John is, even Mycroft."

Understanding settled over Sherlock. He sat back in his chair. "Oh." He thought for a moment. "Bank account activity?"

"He hasn't cashed a pension check or made a withdrawal for two months."

Sherlock asked, "His phone? The GPS?"

"Found in a rubbish bin in a park."

Sherlock pressed his hands together and rested his fingers on his mouth. "Harry?"

"Hasn't seen him in two months. She was the one who called the police."

"His therapist? Ella?"

"Stopped showing up for appointments," Lestrade said. "And he stopped filling his prescriptions at the same time."

"Prescriptions?" Sherlock asked. "What was he taking?"

"Zoloft for depression and Ambien for insomnia."

Sherlock took in the information and said nothing. Eventually, he put his hands in his lap and bowed his head.

Lestrade's heart was heavy with guilt. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock didn't respond. He turned his attention back to his laptop. He placed his hands on the keys and resumed typing.

Lestrade asked, "Do you want to do something in his honor?"

Sherlock asked, "Like what?"

"I dunno. Something."

"I don't think it would make any difference to him. I don't believe in an afterlife. I don't believe we're punished for our sins or rewarded for our good deeds in the hereafter, or that our loved ones look down at us in scorn or affection and I don't believe we're reunited when we die. If we want to make the most our ourselves, if we want to 'honor' the people we know, we ought to do it when it matters; when we're here, when we're together. Everything else is just empty sentiment." Sherlock paused. "I think the coffee's ready." He got back up. "Sugar? Cream?"

"Yes, please."

Sherlock got a mug from the cabinet and poured Lestrade's coffee and fixed it for him, just as he asked. Then he placed the mug carefully onto the table.

Lestrade took it and sipped. "That's good. Thanks."

Sherlock turned off the coffee pot. He looked out the kitchen window.

Lestrade asked, "You okay?"

Sherlock parted the blinds and looked out at the city. "Yes."

"If you want to talk about it…"

"I'm fine. I'm just thinking." Sherlock turned around. "I'm assuming you're already keeping tabs on the John Does coming into the local morgues. And that Mycroft already has feelers out, looking for John?"

Hesitantly, Lestrade answered, "Yes…"

Sherlock began pacing. "Where and when was the last confirmed sighting?"

Lestrade answered uncomfortably, "Well, the police found his phone in a park rubbish bin in July, but the last time he was spotted on a CCTV was in June."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Well. It didn't sit in a trash bin for two months. The cameras didn't capture a still of John in the park?"

"Well, no."

Sherlock said impatiently, "Well, obviously someone threw it away. If John isn't on the cameras, then someone else threw it away for him."

"What?" Lestrade said. "Why would someone do that?"

"Maybe John gave it away," Sherlock suggested. "It was an expensive phone, so maybe he traded it for something he needed, however it's unlikely, seeing as how he had a pension check coming to him. Maybe someone stole it from him. Maybe someone mugged him or killed him and took whatever they thought was valuable, but I think if he'd been obviously murdered, his body would have been found by now and we'd know." He circled the kitchen as he thought out loud. "Maybe he was planning to commit suicide and he gave the phone for someone else to discard for the specific purpose of making his body difficult to find and recover, leaving us all to wonder." At that, he paused and looked at Lestrade. "See the logic in that?"

"No," Lestrade said.

"Exactly," Sherlock said, smiling. "He's in hiding. He gave the phone to someone else who threw it away and he's hiding somewhere."

Lestrade just looked at Sherlock.

Sherlock's smile drooped. "What? What's that look for?"

Lestrade didn't answer. He took a sip of his coffee.

Sherlock jammed his hands in his pockets, looking put-out. "You think I'm…rationalizing, don't you?" He rocked back on his heels. "That I'm…trying to write a happy ending for John in my mind."

Lestrade sighed. "John isn't a….a case, Sherlock. Don't do this to yourself."

Sherlock turned away. "Yeah." He sounded disappointed again.

Lestrade sat quietly over his coffee. He said, "If you value the friendship that you had, remember if for what it was. Don't let your memory of John deteriorate into a case-of-the-week."

"No, I understand." Slowly, Sherlock went back to his seat and sank down in it. He resumed typing.

Lestrade rose up. "It's too early, even with coffee. I'm sorry I interrupted."

"Your company is always welcome," Sherlock said. He meant it with such earnest sincerity, it came out sounding bitter. His own tone startled him. Sherlock realized he didn't know how to tell another person he loved them. He made a mental note to talk to his therapist about it.

"I'm going to lay back down," Lestrade said.

"Good night," Sherlock bade him.

"You ever going to go to bed?" Lestrade asked.

"I'm almost done here," Sherlock assured him, nodding at his computer. Studying the computer screen, he said quietly to himself, "I'm just a fucking nothing to him, I'm nobody. Just a pathetic cripple he picked up for kicks."

"Hmm?" Lestrade hummed.

"Nothing, just thinking," Sherlock dismissed absently.

"Alright." When Lestrade got up, he went to Sherlock and put a brother hand on Sherlock's shoulder. He gave a gentle squeeze.

The gesture made Sherlock stop briefly.

Lestrade smirked and let himself out of the kitchen.

Sherlock waited for Lestrade to settled back down, then he re-read over all he had written. He typed more. He stopped. He re-read. He typed some more. He erased. Re-wrote. Re-read. Typed.

He carried on until dawn. Just as the sun was peering over his shoulder from the window, he was re-reading the very last paragraph of the very lengthy letter he had written.

He stared at the screen for a while.

After much internal deliberation, Sherlock posted his letter to The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson. Then he waited. He waited for an hour, refreshing the page every few minutes, in the hope that there would be a reply.

It didn't come.

The sun rose higher outside.

Sunlight warmed Sherlock's back. He waited.

He re-read his letter again to kill time:

Dear John,

I sincerely hope that you are well.

I have been released from the hospital and, after a brief stay with Mycroft, I've returned home to 221b Baker St. I see that you have finished moving out. Thank you for generously paying your portion of the rent in advance. It has allowed me to take some much needed time off of work. However, please contact me so I may refund you. Molly and Lestrade have taken up residence with me in your absence, and they contribute enough to satisfy the remainder of the lease.

Forgive me for posting such a personal letter in this public forum, but I don't know how else to contact you. I understand you no longer have a fixed address and you've recently discarded your phone. I want you to know that there are many people worried about you, myself and your sister especially, and if you are able, please let us know that you are okay. If you have reservations in regards to contacting me personally, please reach out to Ella or Harry or Mike Stamford or Lestrade or Molly Hooper or Mrs. Hudson or my brother. Or, if you wish to maintain your privacy, please contact Scotland Yard and whatever message you leave them will be forwarded to us and I assure you that we will all respect your wishes to be left alone.

With that said, I believe I owe you some apologies.

I'm sorry for calling you an idiot. I'm sorry for calling you stupid. You are neither of those things. On the contrary, I think you are brilliant. You deserve nothing short of my absolute admiration. I liked you from the moment I met you. You earned my respect and my trust almost immediately and you continuously surprised me again and again with your loyalty, your courage and your kindness. It was very easy for me to take it for granted that no matter how difficult I made things, you always met my impossible expectations.

I was not a good friend to you. For that, I am deeply regretful. I don't know why I thought it was acceptable to me to hurt you, why I thought it was okay for me to insult you and demean you the way I did. I suppose I considered myself entitled. That years of teasing and harassment at the hands of my peers gave me the right to visit petty cruelties on others, even though I knew from experience that words aren't harmless. But you reminded me how words can hurt. Thank you. I know that must sound odd, but thank you. It gave me much needed perspective. In an effort to modify my behavior, and to sort out some other things, I attend therapy three times a week and Lestrade and Molly actively function as my coaches. I didn't realize how challenging it would be to change a few simple habits, but I'm working hard. If nothing else, I promise that when we meet again you'll encounter a very different man.

There are other things I should probably apologize for. I'm sure we could compile quite a list. If you're willing to meet with me, we could write one together. We can go line by line and discuss how I can be a better friend. And if there was something you'd like to say, something you'd like to get off your chest, I would listen. No judgments, no expectations.

Now, allow me to offer forgiveness.

I don't believe for a moment that there's any real bigotry in your heart, though you may disagree. When I first came out, you were as kind and as brotherly as I've ever seen you. I was moved by your acceptance. You extended all your compassion and understanding to me at my most vulnerable moment. You welcomed me and treated me like a brother. That night remains my fondest memory.

And in return, I continued to treat you with disrespect. I realize now how disappointing that must have been for you. I have come to understand that this was why you were angry. I completely misunderstood why you felt the way you did. You may even have misunderstood why you were angry with me. I mislabeled your resentment as homophobia. I approached you all wrong. I take full responsibility for my part in this mess. As for all that came after…I forgive you. If my forgiveness means anything at all, I forgive you. I'd like to say so in person.

However, should you be unwilling to see me, I understand. I'm not interested in holding grudges. Let there be no ugliness between us. If a clean break is what you desire, let us part ways here, no hang-ups, no anger and, most importantly, no blame.

Please remember one thing though; it took Mycroft and I ten years to reconcile, but now we are trying. I never thought it would happen, and it still surprises us both. If in ten years or twenty years you look back on me with longing or regret, know that I will welcome your e-mail or phone call no matter how far the future it may come. I will always consider you my mate.

I hope I am a better man for having known you. Your friendship has been a limitless resource that I will forever be able to draw from. I can ceaselessly dispense all the love you've given to me to everyone I have ever known or will ever meet, and still have a inexhaustible, life-time supply for myself. Thank you for being my friend.

Again, I hope you're well. I worry about you. Please call. Please write. Please come by the flat. Please.

Your brother for life,

Sherlock

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

The end.