Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, though I really wish I did.

Sherlock blinked hard…once…twice. Everything was groggy, not moving quickly enough. The sounds muffling through the stifled, musty air were too loud, making his head ring as he struggled to place their origins.

His brain wasn't moving quick enough…and his head hurt. It really hurt, on the side, by his temple. It had hurt before…but he remembered that, so he can't have been unconscious then. That must have happened after.

An uncomfortable, invasive chill was creeping under the fabric of his coat, making his skin crawl. Apart from the warm weight at his left arm…it was nice…it smelt nice, like home…everything was cold. Not icy winter's day cold…hard, painful cold. Like the harsh pressure on his wrists, pulling them fast behind his back, turning them numb under the weight of his body. Probably handcuffs.

There was a moment, and moment of sheer panic, which Sherlock swallowed back, when he realised that everything was still a dark, blurry mess.…God, his head hurt- ringing…wringing out the nerves in his brain…It smelt old in there…

Sherlock reigned in his worry after a second, once his mind had caught up. He wasn't blind, and it wasn't dark, or night. In the dreariness of his waking, he had been trying to peer through his eyelashes, getting only garbled images. When he opened his eyes, the sting that the effort brought made him wish that he'd continued.

He tried to remember what he had been doing. Over the last few months, he had woken up in a variety of strange and unnerving locations, hot and cold, sweet smelling with wafting fragrances and smoky thick air that parched the tongue when it entered his lungs. This was different. He knew, just as he knew that he was breathing in dust that hadn't been disturbed in about two years, that this was different.

He wasn't alone…the weight leaning into his side was shifting…fussing beside him, jostling his arm, letting out small huffs every few minutes. He must not have known he was awake yet.

That was it! John…he was back in London. After all that time, he was back in London. He had told John he was alive…they had waited for Moran in the flat opposite Baker Street…Sherlock had been half asleep when the shouting had started. It was all a bit blurred after that.

And now they were both cuffed to the rusted radiator…pinned in one place, on the ever-more freezing wooden floor. Sherlock decided against alerting John to his wakeful status straight away; the tension between them had been…uncomfortable the last day. John…he hadn't been quite how Sherlock remembered when he revealed himself for the first time since his death.

Oh, he was the same as always in all ways that mattered, he was still Sherlock's Dr Watson…but…John had been holding back. His face when he first saw Sherlock, standing proudly in his office, thrilled to see his doctor, his best friend, after so long, had quivered between shock, horror, disbelief, and joy. A smile had ripped across his face for a fraction of a second, then his cheeks had contorted in anger, and then he had darted forward…and Sherlock had detachedly hoped, or thought, that John was going to throw his arms around him. But instead he had been pushed backwards by a force in his gut, as John simultaneously thrust the detective away from him, and then pull him into an embrace, settling on patting and clasping at his arm, his eyes filling with restrained tears.

That was hours ago, early morning. The light from the sky, the little that was filtering in through the moulding shades in the windows, was growing thinner as night rolled in. That meant that it must have been at least two hours since Moran left them there, after the botched fight, where John and Sherlock had miscommunicated, taken different routes of attack and ended up…well, Sherlock assumed that he'd been smashed around the head.

Yes…he remembered being hit around the head with the back of a sniper rifle…and then….yes, he had slurred something about Mycroft…Sherlock had ensured that if Moran became privy to his trap before he had a chance to pounce that he could signal his brother and Mycroft would 'pick up' the assassin. That must be why they had been left alive…Moran was clever, and their absence would distract Mycroft for a while.

His train of thought was cut off by the sudden need to cough, or more accurately, vent his lungs of the choking dust, which was more like ashes, that seemed to cling to every piece of furniture in the abandoned flat.

"Sherlock?" John's voice cut through the air, made the silence seem to settle and the harsh vibrancy of the setting come crashing down. Any hope of drifting back into the dreamlike state of muted deductions was dashed.

Sherlock turned his head a little, feeling the rough brush of his coat against the skin of his chin as his eyes ran up the dust coated jacket and jumpered torso, and then stubble lined face of his friend. John's expression was guarded; he was worried, but he was obviously holding back from showing it too much. Sherlock wondered if it was like before…when Sherlock would fondly scold him for fussing over him after dangerous cases; before though, John would do it anyway. There was none of this wary tip-toeing around each other.

Of course they couldn't go straight back to how things were before.

"Sherlock?" John repeated, his forehead crinkling with concern, "You alright?"

Sherlock nodded stiltedly, attempting an encouraging smile; he was out of practice, and it felt stiff…he only dreaded what it looked like.

"I'm, uh, just…" he worked his jaw; words…he could do those, "I'm fine. Head injuries are the least of my worries."

"No, I noticed." John snapped, turning away. Sherlock watched, his mind clouding over with confusion at the effort of following his friend's facial expressions; John's face had become stormy, but it was held stiffly.

Of course…he's still upset. The doctor's hands were shuffling awkwardly behind them in an attempt to loosen the hold of the handcuffs, prodding about near the base of Sherlock's spine. If anything was going to keep him from falling asleep again, it would be that.

"What is it you think you've noticed John?" Sherlock inquired tensely. John must have taken it the wrong way, as his head snapped back around to glare at him, his blue eyes burning.

"How about the fact that you could only have passed out so quickly if you were dehydrated and underfed, or that you're visibly paler than before, if that's possible…or maybe that I can see the bruises under your shirt from this angle!"

Sherlock made a movement as if to pull the lapels of his coat tighter around himself, but was restricted by the cuffs. He winced at the sting of the steel biting into his wrists. He slouched even further into the ground and glared up at John's disappointed face. What did he have to be disappointed about? Moriarty's entire empire had been dismantled, every single one of them, and now Sherlock was back home, alive, with a perfectly alive doctor…even Moran would be picked up by Mycroft by the end of the day. Maybe he'd wanted to get the man himself, but either way, come nightfall, it was over, and he could breathe for the first time in a year and a half.

"Oh, don't let that bother you doctor." Sherlock hissed irritably, "Every ailment is easily fixed. I'll be fine."

"You shouldn't have let it happen in the first place!" John muttered in return. Sherlock continued to observe, bewildered, as John's lips pursed and he stared into the mess of the flat around him.

"That's what's bothering you?" Sherlock retorted; John was being completely ridiculous, more so than normal, and it wasn't computing at all, "Not the fact that we're currently trapped in this flat? Not the fact that we've been here hours and I've lost the feeling in my hands? Or that Moran has escaped?"

John shrugged dismissively, but scowled down at the detective when the elbow connected with his side.

"Why would I worry about that? I bet Mycroft's sorted all of that as well!" he huffed; his hands stopped moving and he slumped, defeated, back into the radiator, wincing as the protruding metal frame jammed into the flesh of his back.

Sherlock sighed exasperatedly as his mind leapt back to the indecipherable look that John's face had taken on, just for a split second, when the covering up of Sherlock's death had been explained.

"Don't tell me you're jealous of Mycroft!" Sherlock scoffed; he took back what he had thought, this was exactly like before. John was still a stubborn bastard when the occasion least called for it.

Sherlock's shoulder was jostled as John shook his head sharply, chuckling bitterly under his breath.

"No…of course I'm not jealous of Mycroft. Why would I be?" John remarked sardonically, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, still watching John's furious movements; he had obviously been bottling these feelings up for a while, and the detective wasn't sure that he had a choice when it came to hearing them, "He's perfectly capable, I mean, after knowing that you're alive for eighteen months, actually helping you stay 'dead'…this'll be a doddle!"

Sherlock dropped his head back in irritation, and immediately regretted it as the wound made contact with the steel behind him.

"I told you John, there was no way I could have protected anyone from Moriarty's mess without Mycroft's help; the very fact that I went to him should be testament to how serious this was!" Sherlock insisted; John scoffed, adamantly refusing to look at his friend, so the detective ploughed on, "I never wanted you to think I was dead- especially once I saw the state of you after the funeral-"

"You were there…" John muttered in disbelief; he made a movement as if he wanted to run his hand over his face, but Sherlock kept talking. If they were going to have it out, then he was going to get the upper hand before John tried to emotionally blackmail him.

"Mycroft isn't in the public eye at all, he could know the truth and it wouldn't matter," he insisted; John might have been looking the other way, but Sherlock didn't take his eyes from the doctor's face, "You were being watched, if anyone thought for a moment that you weren't mourning my death, you would have been in danger, and it would have jeopardised what I was trying to do!"

"You could have taken me with you!" John's shouted, and his voice echoed hollowly off the vacant walls in the silence that followed the exclamation; his eyes flickered back down to Sherlock, but he looked away quickly when their gazes met, "I would have gone with you. If this is how you look after yourself when you're alone," he made a motion with his head at Sherlock's chest, "then I should have been there as well. Moriarty pissed me off as well."

Sherlock shook his head; he had to resist the temptation to lean his head against the warmth of John's shoulder beside him. His head was already fuzzy, too much pain and cold, too little sleep, but that didn't quite account to the unwelcome feeling in his chest. It was like a hollow cavern was carving itself part-way between his chest and his throat, but that same cavern was being pulled unsuccessfully towards the surface of his flesh in response to John's words. He had missed is doctor too, he had wanted him there…but that was exactly why he hadn't been there…and actual conversations about this kind of thing had never been normal between them.

"It…it would have been dangerous John." Sherlock said softly, almost against his will; if they were talking, it would be the bare minimum, on his terms. He wished that Mycroft would hurry up; the sky outside had gone dark, the light had ceased filtering through the mottled glass and shades, and the chill had stopped creeping, and now just sort of…rested on his flesh.

Minutes passed before John spoke again. He turned as well as he could, given the restraints, and looked Sherlock in the eye. If Sherlock was familiar with such things, he would have said that there was unimaginable pain in the doctor's eyes.

"You don't think I'd have taken the danger over thinking you were dead?" he asked quietly, and Sherlock dragged his bottom lip through his teeth rather than respond, "Come on, Sherlock."

Sherlock shrugged half-heartedly, dropping his gaze from John's and clearing his throat awkwardly.

"I thought that you would get over it given time."

"Get over it?" John's voice rose, but he quickly reigned in his temper; it was the same technique that he used to use when he caught the detective doing something socially 'strange', when he would criticise, then reverse once he realised that it was just Sherlock being Sherlock, and was therefore fine, "Out of interest," he began, and then coughed uncomfortably, getting his thoughts in order, "What made you think I'd just…'get over' you dying?"

Sherlock knew exactly what the emotion was that swept over him; guilt. There had been a lot of that in the past few months. His eyes desperately traced the scrambled patterns that their feet had made in the dust during the earlier fray; he straightened out his legs, which only kicked up more dust to scratch at his nose.

"I knew that you would be…affected…"

"Yes Sherlock, yes I was affected." John interjected; despite the edge to his tone, there was a small smile tugging rebelliously at the corner of his lips. Sherlock glared irritably at his friend, both glad for the distraction, and angered by the interruption.

"Yes! But…I assumed that you would move on." Sherlock stated, trying not to shift uncomfortably lest the cuffs cut any more into his flesh, "You were always, persistently angry with something that I had done. I assumed that the peace would eventually overshadow any lingering sense of mourning."

When he looked back up at John, the doctor was gaping at him.

"Sherlock…" John closed his eyes as he trailed off, and sighed heavily, "Just because you infuriate me doesn't mean I'd appreciate my best friend being gone… I mean," he let out a sort of stifled cough that could have been a laugh, and Sherlock just listened, perplexed, "I would take in danger with you over waking up every day and being in our flat, looking at all the pieces of our home and seeing the places that you should be, any day…"

Sherlock didn't know how to respond. He was dully aware that he might have looked silly, gaping at his friend with wide eyes, his face either blanched or flushed, he couldn't be sure.

"John…" was all he could manage, a low, long syllable that barely broke the frigid air of the flat.

John just shrugged uncomfortably, his eyes boring into Sherlock's. It was one of those rare moments in their relationship when the detective felt wrong-footed by him, unsure of himself, pinned to the examination board. John swallowed again, and seemed to doubt his own words as he said them.

"Just…just as a, point of discussion…" he mulled his words over, making out as if he were talking about something insignificant, like the food in the fridge, but Sherlock could hear the importance in them, "If you'd just stayed away, and not come back…would you have just 'got over' me?"

There was that pang again, that one in the pit of Sherlock's chest. He knew he should probably be worried about how the rest of the room went blurry, apart from John, and the pain in his limbs dulled, but his mind stuttered to a halt, overwhelmed by the surge of sadness, or it might have been affection, he wasn't sure. All he knew was that he didn't want John to ever, ever, think anything like that.

"The thought is inconceivable…" he almost whispered; John was still watching him, as if waiting for something, and though Sherlock wasn't sure what, he wanted desperately for it to make itself apparent, "I could never forget you, John."

John's face lit up; he didn't grin, or beam, but his lips tilted imperceptibly, and his cheeks tinged pink as he continued to stare into the detective's eyes, the familiar warmth of before there, but…stronger.

As much as Sherlock would have liked to gaze back, and…he wasn't sure, his vision blurred and softened the longer he kept his eyes open. His eyelids drooped, and with it a wave of nausea that sent him pitching forward as far as it was possible with the handcuffs. Along with the soothing darkness, Sherlock felt the soft fabric of John's coat brush across his forehead. John's shoulder shifted so that it was nearer Sherlock's chest, and it pushed upwards and away, so that the detective lolled upright.

"Come on you," John's voice drifted smoothly, fondly over him, "You know you can't sleep with concussion."

"I don't think I'm concussed." Sherlock mumbled, cursing the effort that it took to lift his head and look John in the eye. The doctor smiled, but his eyes kept flickering towards the door at the other side of the room, so he was anxious.

"Wouldn't you know for certain if you were?" he asked pleasantly. There it was, Sherlock thought, there's the mocking of my deductive reasoning. That was more like the old days.

"Probably." Sherlock remarked, and this time he was able to force a grin. Hopefully it didn't look too terrifying…John had once said that his 'normal-people-smile' looked terrifying. Now that he thought about it, he probably was concussed.

He let out a small chuckle that made his chest sting from the stiffness that the cold had caused. John didn't notice though, as there was a bang from downstairs, and the sound of voices conspiring in loud, garbled tones. Whoever it was, they were all wearing standard boots, and carrying similar weights…ah…Mycroft had caught on.

John turned back to exchange a full on beam with Sherlock, which swiftly devolved into concern. Sherlock didn't care though. He was fairly certain, almost 98.6% sure, that things were going to get back on track. Everything was going to be like it was before…maybe better after this painful heart to heart.

Just as soon as the hospital let him go. Even as it was happening, Sherlock cursed himself for passing out from the concussion.

So...I know I've got other things I could be doing, but I needed to write a Sherlock fic. It was a MIGHTY NEED, and it happened.

I realise that there are hundreds of Empty House fics, so I went for a different slant

Hopefully in character...hope you like it?