Sherlock didn't fidget. Fidgeting was for weak and undisciplined minds; for those who had no control over their bodies. But, standing outside a restaurant on a foggy night in London, Sherlock shifted from foot to foot and readjusted his lapel. He was fidgeting and he resented it.

John was inside, sitting alone at a table for two. Sherlock saw him go in and talk to the hostess fifteen minutes ago, which made Sherlock twenty minutes late. John hated it when Sherlock was late. But he couldn't walk through the door.

It had been two years since Sherlock stepped off that rooftop. Two years and sometimes, in Sherlock's less guarded moments, he still felt the cold air biting through his greatcoat as gravity pulled him down. Two years and Sherlock still missed John.

It was embarrassing, really. Unforgivably sentimental.

Sherlock moved closer to the window. John. God. What was on his face?

No matter. He'd be clean shaven soon. Sherlock could picture it very clearly: his triumphant return. John rushing to him and enfolding him in a hug. Maybe more than a hug, if John's carnal passions so desired. Inhibition had never allowed them to give in to lust before (Sherlock too analytical and John stubbornly, superficially convinced of his own heterosexuality), but perhaps now, in the throws of their reunion... The thought made Sherlock warm inside.

He squared his shoulders and turned up his coat collar in the way he knew John liked. Two hosts opened the restaurant's front doors for Sherlock as he approached. The hostess sputtered at him. He ignored her.

Sherlock neared the table. John looked up. His hair was grayer, his suit ill-fitted. He'd lost weight; approximately nine pounds. The mustache was almost completely gray. Sherlock couldn't wait to shave it.

John's face went white. He gripped the table like he was afraid he'd faint.

A manic grin curved Sherlock's mouth. They were reunited. Any minute his John would stand from the table – ah yes, he was doing it now – Sherlock did his best to look inviting – they would hug, and then, perhaps – Sherlock dared let himself think it – perhaps even share a kiss.

John stepped toward him. Sherlock absorbed his proximity like warmth from the sun. John's chest rose as he drew in a deep breath.

And then he punched Sherlock in the face.

The trip to the hospital was long and awkward. They didn't speak in the waiting room, or as the doctor stitched the cut on Sherlock's cheek.

Sherlock couldn't have made a bigger miscalculation. John was not happy to see him. John hated him. Could hardly even look at him. Gone was their easy familiarity, their sometimes-prolonged glances. In its place was a suffocating formality.

John had apologized, businesslike, and asked him if he wanted a lift to hospital. Like Sherlock was a stranger John had accidently punched in a bar fight. Of course Sherlock had said yes to the lift, he was petrified to let John out of his sight. How could he have gotten this so wrong?

Better question: how could he fix it?

Even with the mustache, John was lovely. It wasn't the type of loveliness that struck the moment you looked at him and soured over time. It grew with time and, Sherlock suspected, distance. He imagined John old and frail and instead of being repulsed, as Sherlock should be, he softened. He imagined that one day, when they were both old and decrepit, John would knit them hideous jumpers while Sherlock tended bees.

Sherlock would wear a hideous jumper if John knitted him one.

Perhaps he would knit bees on it.

The doctor re-entered the room with a prescription in hand.

"Alright, Mr. Holmes, this should set you right up. Try not to go getting into bar brawls, yeah?" The doctor chuckled tiredly at his own joke before he left them alone again.

Sherlock noticed John staring intently at the prescription.

Two years ago, John would have gone to the chemist for an errand like this. He would've monitored the pill bottle to make sure Sherlock didn't take too much or cultivate an inconvenient addiction. Sherlock used to hear him at night, quietly opening the medicine cabinet and counting out the pills.

Sherlock folded the prescription and tucked it into his pocket.

"Right," John said, standing. "Ready, then?"

Sherlock nodded and wrapped his scarf around his neck. He knew John liked that.

John's eyes lingered on Sherlock's throat. The relief of that small thing nearly stopped his heart.

They got back into John's car.

"Where to?" John asked.

Sherlock swallowed. "Home."

John rubbed a hand over his forehead and took a breath as if he was about to say something, but decided against it. Sherlock was hardly aware of London outside his window. His world shrunk to the two of them in John's old Volkswagen.

But as they approached Baker Street, Sherlock's pulse accelerated. What would happen? Would John just drop him at the doorstep? No handshake? No hug?

John parked. Sherlock held his breath.

Two years. 746 days, to be exact, and each one weighed on Sherlock like the gravity of a sizeable Earth. John got out of the car and Sherlock let out his breath. Together they climbed the steps to 221B.

Mrs. Hudson had preserved 221B Baker Street as if it was a museum. Every stack of papers was in the same order; the microscopes on the kitchen table had been dusted but not moved. Walking into their flat was like walking into one of the dreams that Sherlock would never admit he had.

He closed the door behind them. John's sigh took all the air out of the room.

"You were dead," said John.

Sherlock licked his lips. "No," he said. "I wasn't."

John turned to face him. "You were dead to me."

They stared at each other. Ten feet of living room floor separated them, but it could've been a continent. Pangea resurrected to cut him off from John.

"Why, Sherlock?"

"For your safety."

"For two years?"

Sherlock closed his eyes. This was the type of thing he was not good at, no matter how hard he tried. He would say the wrong thing and alienate John even more. It was inevitable.

"Why?" John repeated.

"Because—" Sherlock started. He clenched his fists. "I was afraid."

"Of what?"

Everything.

Sherlock took a step forward. "John, please. I've tried coming back, but the timing never seemed right, and sometimes it's hard to keep track of. Time. It slips. But then I heard about Mary—"

His eyes flashed up to John's. His face had closed down. It was the wrong thing to say.

"Ah," John said. "So that's why you're back. Doing some new experiment on marriage? The psychology of the newly engaged?"

"John, please."

"Come to offer your congratulations?" John continued, his voice sarcastically cutting. Sherlock had never heard him like this. Things had changed in two years, it seemed. "Thanks, Sherlock. How about you be my best man? Wouldn't that be a sight."

Sherlock wondered if John realized he'd been closing the space between them. Sherlock could see the yellow in John's eyes and count his mustache hairs.

"I think it's customary to wait for the wedding to say this," Sherlock said, tearing his eyes from the mustache. "But it seemed quite urgent."

John's eyebrows flew up, lining his forehead. "Say what?"

Sherlock drew himself up to his full height and resquared his shoulders. The evening had not gone as planned, but he had rehearsed this speech for days, triple checked the logic, and it was sound. Not even John could refute it.

"I object. To the wedding, that is. I've been observing this Mary Morstan woman ever since you began your courtship with her nine months ago. Quite the sordid past, your Mary. Crippling debt, not just student loans, but gambling loans inherited from her father. Already divorced once, papers cited infidelity on both sides of the coin, and a history of serial dating before that. Arrested twice in the past for protesting at militant animal rights rallies – really, John, I didn't think that was your area – and once for driving under the influence. I don't think you could've picked a woman less suitable, and I object. It's quite simple."

John stared at him. Sherlock desperately wanted to take a razor to that damned mustache.

Slowly, John began to smile. "You think I don't already know all these things."

Sherlock opened his mouth but no sound came out.

"I know all of those things, Sherlock, because people who love each other don't keep secrets. They don't—" John waved his hand at Sherlock, even though they were standing so close it hardly seemed necessary. "They don't lie. They don't fake their own deaths and let their loved ones mourn for them." John squeezed his eyes shut. "They don't leave."

But Sherlock hadn't left, not really. He was always here. He tried to say that, but his vocal cord still weren't working.

"I can't do this right now," John said, starting to walk past him. "Mary's waiting on me."

"Don't go," Sherlock said, resting a hand on John's shoulder. It was so warm. "Why would you go?"

"Because my fiancé is waiting at home, Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyebrows pulled together. "But you don't love her."

"You can't know that."

"Don't be an idiot. Of course I can."

John dropped his chin against his chest. "I have to go." He moved away and Sherlock's hand fell to his side.

"But," Sherlock said. "Wait."

John paused. "What is it, Sherlock?"

"I love you."

John pressed his forehead against the door. Sherlock waited. He was certain this was the part where John would say I love you, too. That was the ritual and Sherlock knew that John loved him. It was obvious.

Why wouldn't he just say it?

John turned around. Sherlock did his best to look alive, non-sociopathic, and appealing, but that was difficult because he wasn't sure his internal organs were all still in one piece. It felt very much like they were ripping themselves apart.

"Sherlock," John said. He was staring intently at Sherlock's shoes. "The past two years have been utter hell. And when I finally rearrange my universe so it can rotate without you at its center – you come back. What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to stay," Sherlock said, like it was obvious.

"Here?" John asked.

"Of course."

John looked up. "With you?"

"Yes."

"And not get married."

"And not get married," Sherlock firmly repeated. Something close to hope began to piece his organs back together. Three little words completely changed the dynamic of this conversation. Fascinating. He thought he'd try a different three.

"I've missed you," Sherlock said.

John smiled. It almost disguised the mustache. "I missed you too."

"When can you shave?"

John threw back his head and laughed. "I wondered when you'd say something…"