DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN BBC SHERLOCK NOR DO I OWN THE CHARACTERS, THE CHARACTERS BELONG TO SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE AND FOR THIS FIC, BBC

It had been three years, three years since the consulting detective had set foot in 221b Bakerstreet, three years since he had been able to talk to his blogger, his companion, his John. Sherlock Holmes had finally done it though, he had finally taken down Moriarty's web, he had finally taken everyone who was a threat out and could now return home, home to his John.

He had thought about how to tell John what he had been doing for three years and why it was necessary, he had taken into consideration the large chances of John punching him due to shock, fainting due to shock, or thinking that he was hallucinating. Sherlock had devised plans for each scenario; he wanted to make sure that John understood by the end of the night as to why he had to leave, why he had to die. Three snipers, three bullets, one for each of his friends, Moriarty's second in command and rumoured lover, Sebastian Moran, was the one aiming at John, and the last one to die. Sherlock had almost enjoyed that death, taking revenge against him for threatening to kill John, but he didn't because he thought of what John would have to say to that.

Well, he wasn't a very nice man. Even still Sherlock could hear John's voice, his guide to right and wrong, in his head. Obviously many times John's voice didn't help as he went about taking down the web, but it was there to keep him from going over the edge and torturing the criminals, his voice was there to keep Sherlock sane, to keep him looking forward to his goal, to seeing John.

Sherlock had had quite a lot of time to think about him and John, about feelings, and though he still mainly despised them he had realized up there on that roof that he had feelings for John. John, his guiding light, the one who taught him right and wrong, his friend, he diagnosed his feelings towards John as love, not sexual, just platonic, possibly romantic, but he knew that John would not be interested in romantic love with him, John was heterosexual.

Sherlock walked up the sidewalk on Bakerstreet, he entered 221b, he went up the fourteen steps to the shared flat. Not seeing John anywhere in the flat, or hearing him for that matter, he took a seat in his old chair, waiting for John to return home, so that he and Sherlock could talk.

Sherlock had been sitting in that chair for quite a few hours wondering where Mrs. Hudson was when his phone rang, it was Mycroft. He huffed and answered.

"What is it now, dearest brother?" He said with heavy sarcasm.

"You are at 221b, correct?" Mycroft responded, not answering his question.

"That is correct, now, it would be ever so kind of you to tell me where John has gone, because going by the information about his daily schedule he should have been home three hours and sixteen minutes ago," the younger Holmes brother huffed.

"It appears he has had some difficulty with that, he got into a cab, which then led him not back to Bakerstreet but out of London."

"Well then get me the address of where he was taken, Mycroft," Sherlock spat out the name. "You told me that you had him under constant surveillance and protection, now it seems that has failed."

"He was taken to a place you are rather familiar with, the abandoned warehouse, now you know what this mean Sh-" He was cut off before finishing his sentence.

"Yes I do." He hung up and was out the door before Mycroft could advise him not to go in pursuit.