Hello! Trying for a multi-chaptered fic this time, here's the first chapter.

I don't own anything except the way the words are mashed together blah, blah, blah. You know the drill.

Johnlock.

Fifteen months later, John finally brought himself to re-enter the flat. It was just as he'd left it – not a thing out of place. Mrs Hudson had packed up a few bits and bobs but in the end she'd just left it. Said it wouldn't be the same having another lodger so she'd leave it. John agreed with her, nothing would ever be the same. The man had tainted his every waking thought when he was alive, it was only natural John couldn't shake him from his life in death.

It felt strange standing there, the papers stabbed to various surfaces, the jars and frames of random body parts or animals dotted about and the hundreds of books and case files stacked up in every spare corner looked wrong with so much dust building on them.

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his tired eyes. He'd never been allowed to see the body. Mycroft had Sherlock in a coffin faster than he could say goodbye. It didn't really matter though; all it did was fuel that last slither of hope – that all he'd seen was fake, that there was no body of Sherlock Holmes. Drawing in a quick breath he turned and left. There was no point in living in the past.

X

It was as if a thousand bees were trapped inside his head. He knew it was an irrational thought but there was no other way to describe it. Everything hurt. His mind was going at high speeds, the cocaine that was coursing through his veins making all his senses seven times more responsive. He couldn't decide what to do, there was so much danger for everyone else if he came out of hiding but if he stayed he might overdose out of pure boredom.

He could call Mycroft. No, don't be stupid. Mycroft wouldn't understand.

Lestrade? No, if Donavon or Anderson caught him they'd throw Lestrade to the dogs and then arrest him. Prison was even duller.

Molly? Doubtful. She'd helped him enough as it is.

Mrs Hudson? She'd either faint or call John.

Which left the only rational person to call. John. But Moriarty's little gang would be watching. Listening to any calls he'd make. Would they expect him to try and creep back into the flat? Unlikely. He could go back. John could help him; find him some cases while his network tracked down the remains of the web. He'd be angry though. John would be angry. Although, not as angry as Mycroft would be. He'd rather John be there on the come down anyway. Mycroft trying to sooth him through the tremors was really not an experience he'd like to re-live.

He dragged himself up off the floor, darting across the room to grab his coat. The little flat was a mess, covered in grime and various syringes strewn about the floor. He didn't look much better. His shirt was ripped and bloodied, one sleeve torn off. His hair looked like he'd been dragged through a hedge backwards and his eyes looked tiredly alert. He was forcing his body to stay awake by stimulating his brain way too much.

He moved quickly, he had about another 20 minutes before the craving would be back and he'd take another shot. He needed to get to 221B before that. Yanking the door open, he left the syringe filled room and headed for home.

X

He got the text just after 1AM.

221B Baker Street. Please come.

At first he just froze. He stood there in the kitchen with his phone in one hand and the glass of water in the other. It was a miracle he hadn't dropped the water.

It was probably just Mycroft, asking about some old possession of Sherlocks. But that wouldn't explain the time it was sent nor the fact it was sent at all. Mycroft prefers to kidnap him and he certainly doesn't say Please come when he does.

The other reasonable option was Lestrade. He might want some old case files of Sherlocks to wrap up a similar case. That would explain the time it was sent. But the number was withheld. Why would Lestrade withhold his number? With Mycroft it was easy to understand, what with him being a 'minor' part of the Government but Lestrade? That didn't make sense.

He wanted to believe it was Sherlock.

Even if it was a fleeting meeting just to tell him that he was okay. Even if it was a last message or a final goodbye it would be better than believing he was dead.

He'd been staying with Harry, she was driving him mad of course but it was the closest he could be to Baker Street without being reminded of him at every street corner. Only now, he wished he'd stayed closer.

He let himself hope. Just until he got there and saw Lestrade or Mycroft. He'd let himself hope for just a little while because if he was honest with himself – he hadn't felt this close to happy in a long time.

It took him half an hour to get there; the front door had been left on the latch, something Mrs Hudson never did. His heart went to his throat. Sherlock used to leave the door on the latch for John when he went rushing ahead to solve a case. He pushed it open, quietly shutting it behind him. Padding up the stairs, he tried to be as quiet as possible but that soon went out the window.

As he stepped up the final flight, he saw him lying in the front room.

Sherlock Holmes looked a mess, the syringe lying just out of his reach. He could see the disgusting liquid inside and knew it was cocaine.

"What have you done?" He breathed,