I know I've been out of the loop for a while, been struggling on some new medication. I've got some plots brewing though; This little baby, and another one-shot that's half written.

I also have a four parter fic called "The Rules of Torture" I've done 3/4, but since I haven't a clue when Real Life will unlock my Muse from her cupboard, I won't post it until I have it completed so I don't leave you all hanging.

I hope you're all still with me for now ;)

Love & Hugs, Ari.

Disclaimer: If I owned Sherlock, and by default Benedict Cumberbatch, I would not be in my bedroom writing fan fiction. I would be in my bedroom doing other, more interesting, things.

Home

He ached as he stared at the front door of 221 Baker Street. Sherlock hurt. The case had been long, hard and dangerous. Far too dangerous for him to let John get himself involved.

As the rain thundered down around him and dragged his drenched black locks into his eyes he shivered. The heavy rain had soaked him to the skin and he was fighting off constant tremors but Sherlock was honestly scared to step inside of the building before him. He was honestly terrified of what he might find on the other side of his front door.

Angry John? Indifferent John? A John that had moved on in six months, built a new, stable life? John gone... Moved out, leaving no forwarding address...

Shaking himself from his thoughts, Sherlock steeled his nerves and unlocked the front door, closing it softly and shutting out the storm. The consulting detective stepped softly, slowly across the hallway, hanging his dripping coat on the banister at the bottom of the stairs.

It was silent. Has he gone? Moved out?

It was 11.30pm... in bed with a partner? Early night for a regular, boring, job? Out on a date?

He forced his thoughts to stop swirling round his head and Sherlock slowly made his way up the seventeen stairs to his flat. Their flat. His and Johns.

Sherlock's heart was pounding so hard that he was surprised it hadn't broken through his chest and by the time he'd climbed the stairs up to 221B, He was beginning to feel sick with fear that he might find John gone. His John. Gone. Moved out. Moved on. Leaving just the flat... cold and stark and empt-

The front door to their flat creaked open under his hand and the sight that greeted the consulting detective had him choking back a sob even as relief flooded his system. It took a moment for Sherlock to process what his eyes were telling him. The flat looked like he'd been gone 6 hours rather than 6 months. His laptop was open, a few lamps lit the room, the T.V was on low, but the Doctor sitting in his armchair, Union Jack cushion behind his shoulder was what dragged words from Sherlock's suddenly tight throat.

"John..."

Time seemed to slow as Sherlock's strangled voice stretched across the room to John's ears and Sherlock watched the Doctors eyes widen and turn to face him as he stood from his chair. It seemed as though each action took a millennium, so Sherlock did what consulting detectives do best; He saw.

John was thinner, but he hadn't replaced his clothes... so he was earning less, eating less to compensate but couldn't afford to adjust his wardrobe to his new size. The limp had stayed gone, as Sherlock had hoped, but the tremor in his left hand had come back and his shoulder was hurting from the cold and the rain, reminding Sherlock that he was still soaked to the bone and dripping on the floor. John had been home, relaxing for the evening; no shoes, just socks, loose jeans and that utterly ridiculous oatmeal cable knit jumper. The one that was too big before he lost weight. The one that was unflattering and lumpy and made John look foolish.

John was standing next to his armchair doing a lot of his own staring and he saw more than the facts. Doctor Watson could see the emotions floating in Sherlock's grey eyes. He could see the fear and uncertainty and pain in his detective and his anger at being left behind melted, waiting for a better time to be addressed. For now, John just sighed softly.

"Oh Sherlock... Come here..."

He stretched out a hand to Sherlock and it was all the lanky man had been waiting for. Sherlock whimpered and let his long limbs move him to John's side in under a heartbeat. Despite the taller mans saturated clothes, John's arms clung to him like a vice, supporting the consulting detective as he shattered in every sense of the word; His body curling around Johns, one leg tucking between Johns, long arm slipping round the Doctor's waist and spider-like fingers tangling themselves in handfuls of oatmeal cable knit.

Sherlock pressed his face into the crook of John's shoulder and felt the smaller man jump as Sherlock's icy nose brushed along his neck, and then Sherlock breathed in, the lump in his throat easing, and he froze.

There was the warm musky smell John always gave off, but there was something else, something he'd never noticed before his long absence; the scent of warmth and wool and soft comfort. Sherlock moaned and pressed himself tighter against his partners' strong frame, soaking up the warmth and softness that radiated from the Doctor.

Sherlock had never seen a point to this particular article of clothing before. The colour was wrong, the design ugly and unflattering, it was generally old and tatty, and of all John's clothing it was the most unfortunate piece Sherlock had ever had the misfortune of laying eyes on... but now he soaked in it and the effect it had on Johns scent.

Everything was finally as it should be and Sherlock sighed, relaxing against his Doctor with a whispered;

"Home".