Twas a screenshot from Tumblr which inspired this. I don't own Sherlock (it would be way too sappy if I did). No, this is not meant to fit with continuity, it's just this. Also I'm eliminating the element of Mary for the sake of this story. M' kay? Btw get the tissues.

The small apartment of 221B, Baker Street sat where it always was, being mundane as ever. It was overcast, but that was England for you. People carried on about their day, ignorant as ever. Cars honked and people conversed and birds flew. Yes this was the perfect picture of normalcy. Unless you were actually inside the walls of 221B baker Street.

The interior of the mundane little domicile held a pregnant silence within its walls. Its two occupants sat in the living room, staring one another down. John glared at a certain detective with fierce brown eyes. His inner fury and grief raged as he looked at the face he thought he would never see again. However the rest of him remained as still as humanly possible, silently tensing itself out of reflex. His hands remained unclenched on the sides of his brown chair and his face seemed to be set in stone. John did not stop glaring.

Sherlock stared back, nearly unblinking, and relaxed as ever. Or that's what it would seem to an observer, at least. Inside his mind was racing. He saw John's tense posture and the fire in his eyes. I knew he be rather miffed, but driven to silence...I hadn't counted on that. Sherlock noticed other things too. Tense. Scared no, furious. Rigid even. Rings under eyes, bloodshot. Hasn't slept for day, possibly longer. Nightmares. War? Not likely. Winter sweater even though it's rather mild out. Comfort. Smaller than I expected. Weight loss, 14 kilos...grief... Sherlock's mental eyes widened and his head bowed. Good heavens, was the effect of my absence that horrible? Guilt began to worm its way into Sherlock's conscience, taking the form of horrid black mold in his mind palace. Yet on the outside, Sherlock had shown no emotion or indication of his thoughts and he continued staring. Calm and emotionless, as always.

John broke first. His eyes squeezed shut and he passed both hands over his face to try and get at least some of the stress out of them. He set them back on the arms of the chair, clenching tight enough to kill. His head was bent, hiding his still burning eyes. Then he spoke.

"How dare you." The veteran whispered, a quiet fury in his voice.

"I'm sorry what?" Came the confused reply.

"How. Dare. You." John punctuated each word as if to sting, still mumbling. "Do have any idea how long I waited for you to come back? How long I had hope?"

Sherlock said nothing, still trying not to move.

"Months. Five to be exact. I was told I was crazy so many times. 'Oh he's dead all the papers said so.' 'John you need to move on, he's gone.' 'We saw the body fly off the roof.' So many times, over and over. Family tried to get me committed to a mental hospital," John chuckled out a bitter sound. Sherlock twitched in what was almost a wince.

"thought I'd gone loony. Don't worry though, I did as you asked. I told the public you were dead and gone. That you'd offed yourself. Soon, I started believing it." Another bitter chuckle, and John raised his head. His face was contorted half way between agony and rage. Now Sherlock actually did recoil some.

"That made it so much worse. I went back being mundane and it was torture, Sherlock." John's voice rose to speaking level. "Every day was all the same. Wake up, eat, go to work, come home, eat, sleep. Over and over. I missed you, quirks and all. It kept me on my toes, living not just surviving. Everyone told me it gets better, you'll be fine. That he's not really gone. Lies. They were all lies!" John began yelling.

"And the grief just kept coming, day after day! It doesn't stop, it never did! Every time I heard the police, every time there was a crime, hell, even when Lastrade came to visit ONCE, everything came crashing down all over again! And I don't know about you, but there's only so much a person can take before they break! It's AGONY Sherlock!" John had begun pacing the room.

"So what hurt less then, what was my escape?! Hm, let's see! Being alone?! Tch, that didn't remotely help! Not sleeping?! No, but you know what I didn't need it anyway so WHO CARES! Not eating NEARLY enough to be good for me?! I couldn't be damned to even try! So you know what happened then?!"

John ripped at his sleeve, pulling it to his elbow. Then he did the same with the other. Scars adorned his arms, haphazardly crossing each other. Some were faded and old, while others looked so fresh that they could have been made an hour ago. The ones near his wrists were shallow, but as they traveled up his arm the cuts seemed to get deeper and deeper. One even had stitches. John's eyes were bright with anger and unshed tears. His eyebrows were knit low below where they were supposed to be, and his lips curled into a snarl. His voice rose further than what Sherlock would have thought the man was capable of (metaphorically speaking).

"This is what happened Sherlock! Every day for a YEAR AND A HALF! And where were you eh?! Off pulling some...STUNT! Then you think you can just waltz back in, and everything is fine! Like it's a JOKE?!" Sherlock began to look away in shame but John would have none of it. "LOOK! AT! ME! SHERLOCK! Do you see it now?! Do you get it!? I DID THIS BECAUSE OF YOU!" John said with absolute finality. He collapsed onto the couch across the room. He put his elbows on his knees, and his face in his hands. Tears began to stain his palms.

Each word hit Sherlock like a battering ram. His external mask cracked and shattered, and he bore the same snarl John had moments earlier, his voice remaining firm and calm.

"Where was I?" Sherlock said quietly, a heavy burden behind his words. "I was running from the dictatorial law of a country so very far from here. I was starving constantly, running constantly, hurting constantly. So yes John I know. It. Hurts. You really thought I would be off dead and/or doing nothing? Have you not seen me when I'm bored?" His words began clip, sharpening them with pain, anger, and now guilt.

"I did the same thing over and over. Wake up, run, steal, eat, run, find somewhere safe, sleep. Day after day. I missed you, John! Emotions and all." Sherlock mimicked John's own speech pattern back to him, agony and anger beneath each hissed syllable. "Then one day, they caught me. For weeks I endured session after session of torture. I was chained to a wall, beaten, and screamed at. They were trying to break me both mentally and physically. They succeeded in only one aspect."

John was riveted to Sherlock. He watched the consulting detective get up and stride around the room the way he usually did, sans the violin. Tears streaked themselves down the shorter man's face as guilt slowly took the place of anger.

"They never succeeded in breaking me mentally. And do you know why John?" Sherlock's speech began to waver. "Because I thought I was doing the right thing, the intelligent thing, the safe thing.. We were too famous John. I was being targeted. You were going to get hurt because of me. In fact, don't you remember Moriarty captured you once already? So, I removed myself from the situation. Simple as that. You needed to believe I was really gone. People would listen to you -they do listen to you- when you mean it. You were too close to me, John. And the blog wasn't helping the situation much."

John's eyes widened and his eyebrows bent inward to a depressed and worried curve. He forcefully blinked away guilty tears. Sherlock continued in a tired and softened voice, guilt wrapping itself around him as well. He stopped pacing.

"I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry for failing. I was attempting to keep you from being harmed, and yet I drove you to harming yourself. No, I'm not always as saturated with wisdom as I'd like to be when it comes to the subject of emotions. But yes John, it hurts and I'm so very, very sorry. I am now aware that this was not the correct action to take but..." Sherlock paused to subtlety wipe away an unshed tear. He took off his shirt, but John's confused stare lasted very few moments after.

Scars raked across Sherlock's body, standing out against pale skin. Some were pink and faded and rather shallow, but more were a deeper and angrier red. John identified them as blade cuts. Dull blade cuts considering how the flesh seemed to painfully rip in one direction. How the taller man had not bled to death he did not know. Purple and blue littered the space between and sometimes even on the scars. The skin was discolored where ribs had been broken. Sherlock turned his back and John let out a strained sound of hurt at the sight. His back was more of the same, except now there were burns. Upon inspection, they weren't just burns. They were brands.

Sherlock turned to John and put his shirt back on.

"I did this FOR you, John!" Sherlock said, accenting each pained word. Not nearly as loud as John, but loud enough. He strode over and dropped himself on the couch beside John. His elbows on his knees, and his hands gripping his hair. John watched as the, normally emotionally controlled, detective stained the carpet with sparse tears. John squeezed his eyes shut with fatigue and guilt. Small, breathless, voiceless sobs could be seen more than heard from both.

A few moments passed. John looked at the now just plain tired consulting detective. Sherlock was just about to get up and leave when he felt John wrap his arms lightly around his middle, almost as if he were made of glass. The brunette man inhaled in slight shock.

"John?" He asked in a hoarse voice.

"I know you're not much one for hugs, but I need a way to say... I'm sorry. I didn't think...well that's just it. I wasn't thinking. And thank you. For trying to... protect me, I mean. God Sherlock...I'm so, so sorry."

"John?"

"Yes Sherlock?"

"You're welcome. And I'm not made of glass thank you very much." Said Sherlock, his usual tone more or less back. He draped his arms around John as well, giving him a tight (if not a little awkward) hug. They sat like that for a while as Sherlock began to unconsciously rub John's shoulders. The blond began to doze off, as did the taller man holding him. Both were exhausted from the day and ended up just leaning back and dozing. They were warm and relatively comfortable so it was unsurprising. As John's eyes closed he swore he could hear Sherlock's light breathing, almost as if he were finally able to rest.

Bad ending is bad. :P I hope you guys enjoyed it since this was my first official fic for this particular fandom. R and R please because I need ideas other than sad, sappy, and bittersweet. Pleeeease! I'm glad for the support I've gotten so far though! Check out my other stuff if you want.