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Based on a request by a guest. The request will give away the ending, so I won't say it. Hope you see this, random guest, and I hope you like it!

Sherlock expected a lot of things when he went back to 221B, because he didn't know exactly what to expect in the first place. John might hit him, or might yell at him. On the other hand, he might start crying. Sherlock hoped that wouldn't be the case, but he speculated that even if he originally was cross, he'd probably end up crying later, and Sherlock was just going to have to deal with that. He even considered for a moment that John might kiss him or something. He tried not to consider that option too much, however, because each time it did it made him secretly long for that to be the reaction he got upon his return.

But what actually happened was something Sherlock never could have guessed, not even with his considerable gift for educated suppositions.

Sherlock was unsure whether he would get a better reaction from knocking or from going right inside, so he decided it was annoying to wait for someone to answer a door, so he went right up. Plus, maybe John would appreciate not having to have his emotional reaction in the streets.

Sherlock knew John was home. As opposed to a deduction, it was more just intuition. It reminded him of Irene Adler and her camera phone. John was important enough to him that he knew if he was near or not without any hint or clue to tell him so.

He took a deep breath at the interior door, surprised that he was nervous. Why should he be?

But he knew full well why he need be nervous. Whether this was going to involve a yelling fight, some kind of intense display of sorrow… or a declaration of love or something, it was going to be hard for Sherlock. And he had no idea how he'd react.

He finally turned the knob and saw John at the stove, putting a kettle on. Sherlock smiled. Just like always.

John didn't turn. Sherlock thought at first that John hadn't heard him come in. But he kept fiddling with the kettle, like he was looking for excuses to stay over there.

Sherlock cleared his throat. John muttered something incomprehensible under his breath, but otherwise didn't react.

Sherlock let him stand there for a bit longer before he finally said, "I see you're using your cane again. I thought I told you that limp was psychosomatic."

He said nothing.

"John?" Sherlock asked.

No response.

"John," Sherlock said more insistently.

The kettle started to screech, and John poured himself a cuppa.

Finally, with mug in hand, he turned and met Sherlock's eyes. Looked him up and down for a moment.

Then he walked past him and went towards his room.

Sherlock blinked. What on earth had that been? John saw him and… didn't do a thing. If there was any emotion other than indifference on his face, it was irritation, but even that was mild.

Sherlock's first reaction was to be relieved. He didn't want to have to deal with all the 'Look, I'm back' drama anyway.

But this was John. He was tough, and was literally crippled by a lack of adventure, and was a soldier… but he also had a tendency to get emotional too, and his sensibilities took over completely during these types of occasions. Which made Sherlock wonder what was wrong.

Even though his mind told him not to do it, because the idea of it was so unappealing, Sherlock resolutely went up the steps to talk to John.

He opened the door before he remembered the social convention of knocking, but as it were John didn't yell at him about it like he might usually.

Instead he snapped, "Oh, you're coming in my room now?"

Sherlock stared. He honestly didn't understand what John meant by that. That Sherlock had never gone to John's room before The Fall? But what did that have to do with here and now?

"I figured you might want to talk or something," Sherlock said, annoyed at the uncertainty in his own voice.

"About what? I've nothing to say."

"Oh… erm, alright then, good. I suppose that's… that's good then."

John looked back down to his book without another word, and Sherlock, not sure what else to do, retreated from the room.

Sherlock didn't know what to think of John. He really had no idea. And he was Sherlock fucking Holmes. But still, John had become a complete mystery to him.

Because John wouldn't talk to him. Hardly looked at him, unless Sherlock said something surprising enough to get his attention, or he just involuntarily turned at the sound of his own name.

It didn't matter what Sherlock said.

"Are you sure you don't need to talk?"

"I could make you some tea."

"There's another type of tobacco ash I'm going to add to my website."

"Do you think I should tell Lestrade I'm not dead?"

"I'm starting to think we need to discuss what's happened, because obviously you're cross with me."

"John, if you're trying to irritate me to the edge of psychosis, you're doing a splendid job."

"You know I did miss you, right? And maybe you'd like you know why I had to leave at all. It was to save your life, you know. I didn't want to be away, but I had to make sure you and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade were safe before I returned. And now I'm back. So will you please speak to me now?"

"John, I'll do a horrid experiment on you in your sleep tonight if you don't speak to me."

"How could you possibly be this angry with me? It's rather childish, you know."

"JOHN! JUST SAY SOMETHING!"

It didn't matter what he did. It didn't matter if his voice started to brim with emotion, if he yelled, if he sat and talked to John for an hour. None of it made a difference.

John was just silent.

It'd been like this for two weeks now. Sherlock was going mad. Sure, he used to be quiet for days on end too, and John had hated that, but he'd never been on the other end of it and it was really quite unpleasant.

In fact, one of the many things he tried to say was, "If you start speaking again, I promise I'll never give you the silence treatment again."

Mrs Hudson had much closer to the reaction that Sherlock expected. He'd gone down to her to inform her he was alive, and she'd fainted. Then she'd cried when she woke up, and he had to explain why he stayed away so long. Then, since it had been four days since his return, he spoke to her about John ignoring him.

"Probably he's just upset. He was really quite distraught while you were gone. In fact, I was concerned he was going funny in the head," she added.

"How?" asked Sherlock in interest.

"Well he'd just get cross randomly, for no reason at all. Then I'd ask him what was wrong, and he'd just act like nothing happened and I'd imagined it or something. It was really strange."

Sherlock stored that information away for later use, but it didn't help him to understand John's behaviour thus far. Mrs Hudson was the one who suggested Sherlock say why he'd been gone so long, that maybe that would make John stop being so angry about it. But that wasn't working.

Nothing was working. Sherlock was at a loss.

And Sherlock Holmes was never at a loss.

Things reached new levels of strange when it had been three weeks since Sherlock's return.

Sherlock was just prattling on, saying thing after thing just to try to get a reaction out of John.

Then he finally got the reaction. John said, quite crossly, "You used to have enough decency to at least stay quiet as you hung around all the time. When did you become so chatty?"

So John only spoke to get Sherlock to shut up. Well Sherlock was far past the point of actually taking that advice.

"Because you won't speak to me and it's driving me mad," said Sherlock.

But apparently that one thing was all John could muster, because he shook his head and went back to his book.

"Do you not want me here?" Sherlock finally asked.

John looked up. "What on earth gave you that idea?" he snapped sardonically.

Sherlock continued to stare. John didn't want anything to do with him. He wasn't talking in the hopes Sherlock would get the hint and leave. But for once, Sherlock hadn't been observing fully. He'd let his emotions get in the way of the truth.

He stood up.

"It will take me time to find other accommodations," he said mechanically, "but I'll be out of the apartment in a few days."

John chuckled darkly. "Right. You'll never actually leave me in peace. Not a day in my life. You'll just have to keep reminding me…" He trailed off and shook his head angrily again, looking at his book once more.

Sherlock walked out of the flat and knocked on the door to Mrs Hudson's to inform her he'd be moving out, but there was no answer, so he just left a note that read, "John wants me to move out, so I'll be leaving in the next few days. Take care."

He went back up to his room in order to look for new lodgings.

It was the next day, and Sherlock was sitting in the front room. It didn't completely matter that John didn't want him around. Sherlock still liked to look at him. And Sherlock was still in the process of mourning the fact that their companionship was truly over. He never thought John would be out of his life. He thought it was just going to be the two of them against the world…

But John apparently didn't feel the same.

Then Mrs Hudson barreled into the room. She wasn't capable of looking very menacing, but she was indeed quite cross. She stamped over to John.

"John Watson, you stop being a child right this instant!"

John blinked up to her in confusion. "What?"

"You know well what I mean! I was just away to my sister's for the weekend, and then I come back and there's a note from Sherlock saying you're making him leave!"

"Mrs Hudson, please, this isn't necessa—"

"Quiet, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson scolded before turning back to John, who was looking utterly dumbfounded. It was almost a relief to Sherlock, because he thought John was incapable of having any emotion other than annoyed anymore. "Sherlock is your best friend, and he's explained to you why he had to leave. Isn't that enough for you? Ending your whole friendship over this is just silly!"

John was gaping up at her. His face had gone utterly white, and he looked scared. Petrified.

"John, don't you have anything to say for yourself?"

"He doesn't have to say anything," said Sherlock. "What I did has made him not want to associate with me any longer. I understand. I've found other accommodations."

"John, tell him to stay," said Mrs Hudson. "He's your best mate."

Then John was looking at Sherlock. With a face that didn't have any anger at all. There was confusion, and shock—and grief. More grief than Sherlock could measure.

"You…" John finally began. "You can see him too?"

If John's silence recently had been unnerving, this silence was as loud as a scream.

Mrs Hudson transitioned right back into coddling. "John… of course I can see him. Dear, are you quite alright?"

John was gaping at Sherlock. Sherlock could see the very beginning of tears in John's eyes.

Then Sherlock realised exactly what was happening. John had been ignoring him. Been irritated by his presence. Wished he would stop talking.

And while Sherlock was gone, John would get cross at nobody.

"You've been having hallucinations," said Sherlock. "When I returned, you thought I was just a continuation of your visions of me."

John was being quiet still, but this silence was far more welcome to Sherlock, because finally he understood.

Then John shakily said, "How long have you been here?"

Mrs Hudson had backed up towards the door, having gone silent at the exchange that was happening. Sherlock turned to her then and nodded, and she disappeared down the stairs, closing the door behind her.

"Three weeks," said Sherlock once she was gone.

John kept on staring, and kept on, and kept on some more, and Sherlock wondered if John was going to go catatonic. Or if he already had.

And then, without another word, John stood up and ran across the room to Sherlock, throwing his arms around him.

Usually, the hug might irritate Sherlock, but with the few weeks he'd had, he welcomed it, squeezing John to his chest and putting his nose into the other man's hair, breathing it in like a man who'd just been drowning and finally found the surface again.

John's body started wracking in Sherlock's arms, and he held him tighter, like that might make the sobs stop.

He began to speak, and though he was still crying, Sherlock understood the gist of it. "You—you were everywhere from the moment you died. You just sat around the house, and you sometimes spoke, but usually you were just there to drive me mad. For so long. But you only ever stayed in the front room, and you never really touched anything, so I did notice when things started to change, but I just had no idea it was…"

He broke off and put his face back in Sherlock's chest.

"I'm sorry I was gone so long, John."

Then John backed up. There was that rage Sherlock had been expecting three weeks ago. "Why'd you have to pretend to be dead, eh?" he asked crossly. "Why couldn't you have kept us safe with us knowing you were alive somewhere?"

"Because the moment you didn't seem upset, you'd have a bullet in your brain. I couldn't risk it."

"But—" John took a deep breath. He put a hand on Sherlock's face for half a moment, but then he pulled it away. "Sorry. I know you don't… you know, like physical contact much. I just—"

Right about then was when Sherlock's lips crashed into John's.

He backed away, and John stared at him, wide eyed.

"The thought of kissing you frightened me a month ago. But now I was so scared that you hated me that there's no fear that could outweigh it. Fear is still rather uncomfortable for me, but—"

"Oi, Sherlock," said John.

Sherlock looked to him. "Yes?"

"Shut up and kiss me again."

"I thought we were discussing why I was gone so long."

"No, right now we're bloody snogging. So get your mouth back here."

Sherlock smirked and decided that didn't sound like a bad idea.

"Wait," John added. "Did you mean that promise about never giving me the silence treatment again?"

"We'll see."

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