Of all the thousands of little things Sherlock loved about his husband, the one he cherished most every day was that John was there. He was there when Sherlock woke up in the morning and went to bed at night. He was there when they had cases and when they didn't. Best of all, he was there when Sherlock came home, a fact that gave Sherlock a little spring in his step as he walked home from Bart's.

When John had proposed a year ago, Sherlock had been iffy about getting married, partly because he'd hated the thought of taking part in something so ordinary and partly because the last wedding had been so painful. Now, he wouldn't have it any other way. He loved that he and John were bound to each other in every way possible, including legally. He loved letting everyone who saw their rings know they were together. He loved having someone to come home to. Sherlock tried to keep the idiotic grin off his face as he walked up the steps of Baker Street, wondering what John had got up to while he was away.

He knew the minute he got inside the flat that it wasn't something good.

John was sitting with his laptop, completely focused and curling his left fingers. He's apprehensive about something.

"What's wrong?"

"What? Nothing." John looked up for the briefest of seconds.

"John."

"Nothing, really." John stood up. "It just turns out that—"

"Yes?" Sherlock asked, his heart starting to pound.

"Well, I'm going away for a few days."

Sherlock frowned. "Away?"

"Yeah," John said glumly. "I just had a phone call. Some conference on medicine in the military; they've asked me to speak at a panel. I started to say no, but they begged me, and Mike texted me, said it's a really good cause. Apparently they're short on army doctors."

"Where is it?" Sherlock asked, thinking maybe he could check his inbox for a case near the conference.

"Geneva," John said. He didn't look at Sherlock as he spoke. "They gave me a plane ticket and a hotel reservation where the conference is being held."

Sherlock had a feeling he knew why John wasn't making eye contact. "When?"

"Monday. It goes until Friday."

"Monday?" Sherlock stared. "Well, that's a good bit of notice for you."

"Yeah I know, but we weren't planning on doing anything next week, were we?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary." Sherlock had half a mind to insist that there was probably going to be an urgent case next week—he could make up a deduction for it and John would probably believe him—but he had a feeling the doctor had already made up his mind to go.

"And one last check…" John glanced up and down his computer screen. "There we go." He clicked and a receipt popped up. "Just booked it. I leave the day after tomorrow."

Sherlock decided to test it. "Well, I suppose I can be ready by then."

The uncomfortable silence confirmed his suspicions.

"Uh, sorry, they only gave me one ticket," John said, biting his lip. "And the conference is only open to people in the medical field."

You don't want me to go with you. Sherlock expected it, but he still felt his shoulders slump and his head drop.

"I'd love for you to come. Really, I would," John said uneasily. His teeth were protruding just slightly over his lips like they did when he was saying something half-true. "It's just that…well, I think you'd be bored. I'll be at the conference nearly the whole time, and the hotel room only has a single bed." He must have noticed Sherlock's eyes because he said, "Well, I guess you could either squeeze in or one of us take the floor—"

"It's fine, John," Sherlock said, and he forced himself to smile. "Really."

"You sure?" John's hands were palms-down in midair and his mouth was in an O-shape. Sherlock knew that look.

"Yes, it's only a week." A whole week. He and John hadn't been apart for more than a few hours since they were married. Every once in a while John might go shopping by himself or Sherlock may spend a day at Bart's or at home on his own if John was working (which wasn't nearly as often anymore since he'd transitioned to part-time), but most days they did everything together. Sherlock had long since forgotten what life without John was like.

"You'll be fine on your own?"

"Of course I'll be fine, why wouldn't I be?" he snapped. So they'd be in different places for a week, big deal. They had been away for two years once, and they had—well, they hadn't exactly been okay, but they had survived. Sherlock had managed without John before and vice versa. He'd just have to find ways of occupying himself.

"All right," John said. "I'll start packing."

Far too soon, John's alarm went off and his place in bed was empty. Sherlock tried not to think about the fact that it would stay empty for a whole week. Hoping to cram in as much time with John as he could, Sherlock got up, showered with him, and made tea while John dressed and packed last minute toiletries.

An hour later, the two of them were downstairs with John's cab waiting at the curb. The moment Sherlock had dreaded had arrived.

"You sure you'll be all right?"

"For God's sake, John, I'm a grown man. Stop worrying." But he lingered on their goodbye kiss, feeling a sharp pang when he realized it would be the last kiss he'd get for a whole week. "You sure you don't want me to see you off?"

"No sense in both of us having to pay for a cab," John said, patting his arm. "Besides, I know how much the airport bores you." Sherlock tried to smile at that and pulled John in for another hug. It hurt to let go.

"Have a lovely time, text me when you get there," Sherlock said, and John nodded and waved as he got into the cab. Sherlock stood and watched until it was completely out of sight.

Sherlock hadn't planned to go back to sleep, but when he had walked back up the stairs of 221B, the sofa had looked incredibly inviting. He slept for two more hours, and when he woke up, he stretched and checked the time on his phone. Eleven-thirty. John would be getting hungry for lunch soon; he ate on an average between noon and one-thirty every day, especially on weekdays. Sherlock mentally took stock of what they had in the kitchen. John hadn't done the shopping for a while, but there was still some pasta that Sherlock could have ready when he came home from work. John would like that.

He rose from the sofa with a yawn, set the water on to boil, and looked around for the parmesan cheese. John always took his pasta with four point two milligrams of parmesan cheese, sometimes four point six if he was really hungry. Where is it? They hadn't used it up; there was still half of it left the last time Sherlock had seen it. He checked the pantry, the fridge, and the cabinets. "Where did you move it?" he murmured. He gave up and fetched his phone. He would text John and ask him where it was. And while he was at it, he could ask if John would be home by one today like he usually was. He unlocked his phone and saw there was already a text from John waiting for him.

Arrived in Geneva!

Oh.

That's right.

John wasn't here anymore.

Sherlock quietly set the phone down and turned off the stove. They wouldn't be having lunch or any meal together today. Or tomorrow or the next day.

Sherlock shook his head. "So he's gone for a week. Who cares?" John had a right to do things without Sherlock and vice versa; it would be selfish to insist they spend every waking moment together. Sherlock wouldn't dwell on something that couldn't be fixed, especially when he had an inbox full of cases…only he couldn't fathom solving a case without John. It no longer felt right. They were a team, a partnership. Crime solving wasn't meant to be solo anymore.

Whatever. He had plenty to do on his own even if he restrained from solving cases. Of course it'll be fine. I'll be fine.

And for the first two days, Sherlock was fine. He spent several hours on experiments and became so engrossed in them that he forgot the emptiness of the flat. He went to Bart's and examined a few interesting specimens Molly had saved for him. He went for a walk around the city to have a few chats with members of his homeless network. He exchanged a few emails with John about how the conference was going and had a very short phone call with him (they couldn't afford to spend too much on international charges) when John arrived at the hotel. He read books and did some research on his laptop. He even solved a few cases (if you could call them that) over the phone when Lestrade called him with what seemed impossible puzzles to the police but were really so painfully simple that he solved them without even doing any "legwork," as Mycroft put it.

But the nights were different.

Nighttime was when he missed John the most. Missed eating dinner with him on the couch with the telly. Missed resting his head in John's lap and John's fingers playing with his curls. He especially missed John's warmth in the bed. They had been apart in the day many times and Sherlock could get used to that, he really could, but they had never been apart at night. When he lay alone in bed that first night, his whole body ached so badly for John that he resolved to go to bed much later until John returned home. He took to reading or watching telly until he was so exhausted he couldn't keep his eyes open and would fall asleep as soon as he turned the light out and put head to pillow.

By the third day, Sherlock was desperate for a cigarette. Something Mycroft must have known, as he sent two of his minions to Baker Street under the pretense of having a case for him. Sherlock not so subtly sent them away. I'm fine. Bored, but fine.

Mrs. Hudson was no help. Even when she offered to cook dinner or play Cluedo with him, the woman had a knack for making a bad situation worse.

"It just doesn't feel right in here with John away," she said, shaking her head. "I hope he gets home all right."

"Course he will; he'll be home Saturday night." He wished John were getting there earlier, but unfortunately the only flight available had been a later one with a two-hour layover in Zurich.

"Well you never know with those planes," Mrs. Hudson said, wrinkling her nose. Sherlock had deduced long ago that she hated flying. "I had a flight once to Germany, and you wouldn't believe the delays! Oh, the waits and the weather problems. I ended up being stuck for three days."

"Mm. Fascinating, I'm sure. Your move."

"And I was always so worried about crashing. Seems like you hear about them every other week on the news. Just the other day a Swiss Air crashed into a mountain and killed everyone on—"

"Your move," Sherlock almost shouted. Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips a bit, which was about as much anger as he could ever get out of her. He smiled a bit. He didn't know how she managed to put up with him so well.

Her and John. John tolerated him better than anyone. John was the only person who didn't mind all of Sherlock's quirks and faults.

Sherlock swallowed and barely spoke for the rest of the game.

The average number of plane crashes a year is 86, there have been 20 crashes this past year, two of them between Switzerland and London... For God's sake, why had he done this to himself? After Mrs. Hudson had left, Sherlock had foolishly researched airline fatalities, knowing full well it would only make him feel worse. He was slightly comforted when he saw that the chances of dying in a crash was roughly one in eleven million, but since getting together with John that number felt higher than it should.

Because John was Sherlock's one in eleven million. John was the exception to every logical and rational rule. And the two of them hadn't exactly been lucky. The chances of being targeted by the world's foremost criminal masterminds were low as well, and yet they had.

Shut up, he said to himself. It's fine. John will be fine, and so will I.

Sherlock hadn't been this bored or lonely in a long time. Nothing interested him. He moved from the couch to his chair to his bed and back again, unable to get comfortable. He wanted so badly to text John, call John, email John, reread John's blog and leave comments. But he made himself resist. He tried to think who else he could contact.

Mycroft was out of the question, which meant Lestrade was too since he and Mycroft talked. After yesterday he wasn't sure Mrs. Hudson was a great choice either, so he texted Molly out of desperation. A minute later he learned she was visiting with family. Mike Stamford was out of town, and Sherlock didn't know anyone else.

I wish I had—no. He wouldn't go there again. Just a little? Absolutely not, he promised John. John's not here. But he would find out. Probably through Mycroft. Sherlock's blood boiled briefly at that. His brother could be such a snitch.

Finally Sherlock settled for researching and cataloging various types of cat hair (he'd already done dogs once but had never gotten around to cats) and managed to distract himself this way until it got dark. He fell into his bed, hoping to fall asleep right away since he was so tired. He didn't. His bed felt too empty without John.

He got up and moved to the sofa, only to be reminded of endless nights cuddling with John in that very spot. Finally he took his pillow and an afghan and lay down on the floor of his closet, pulling the door closed. Retreating into his mind palace, Sherlock tried to imagine he was in a sleeping bag, like he would be as a child when relatives came over.

In here it was harder to be reminded that he was alone.

John wasn't answering his phone or his email.

Sherlock hadn't been surprised when his texts had gone unanswered; roaming was going to add to their phone bill and John could be a bit uptight when it came to their expenses. But he had been surprised when his email and comments on John's blog hadn't been answered, especially since John checked it on an average of every two hours at least. Sherlock had even kept it short so it wouldn't take him too long to read and respond. Hoping maybe he was just tied up at the conference and couldn't get to his phone, Sherlock left a message on the hotel phone asking John to contact him as soon as possible. That was at five o'clock; the conference ended at four-thirty. It was seven now.

Sherlock lay on the couch in his pajamas, which he hadn't bothered to change out of except to shower in almost two days. He stared at the wall clock Mrs. Hudson had given them for Christmas one year, watching the hands tick and tick and tick. He clutched his phone, willing it to ping with a new email, a blog notification, a text, something.

Why won't he talk to me? They had exchanged at least a few words every day since John had left, mostly asking how the other was doing and reassuring that all was good, all was well. Even if John was busy, couldn't he have at least taken a few seconds to let Sherlock know that he couldn't talk?

Sherlock's mind scrambled for possibilities. Maybe John couldn't get Wi-Fi. Maybe his phone wasn't working. Maybe the battery had died and he had lost his charger somehow. Or maybe he lost his phone. There could be any number of reasons why John hadn't contacted him, and they didn't all have to be life and death.

Still, Sherlock thought as he began to tremble. There was also the possibility of one of their enemies finding out that they were going to be apart and taking advantage of that. It would be the logical thing to do: get to John while Sherlock was powerless to defend him, and then use him against Sherlock just as Moriarty and Magnussen had done. John could be tied up and tortured somewhere, scared and hurt and…

"Shut up," Sherlock growled at himself. But the scenarios kept coming. John in an accident. John in a terrorist attack. John getting stuck in a hotel elevator or falling down a flight of stairs and breaking his neck.

Sherlock rolled over away from the clock and covered his ears, but he could still hear the tick-tick-tick. It was driving him mad. He wondered how angry John and Mrs. Hudson would be if he took a gun to it.

Ping. Sherlock shot up like a rocket, fingers slipping all over the place as he unlocked his phone. He had a new email, and it wasn't for his work account. He touched the email app and fidgeted like crazy waiting for it to load. When he saw John's email address he let out a long, slow breath.

Sherlock,

I am fine, don't worry. Sorry I didn't answer; some of the blokes here invited me for a drink after today's panels and I ended up not going back to the hotel until late. Just having a bit of fun before I leave here.

- John

Sherlock sent a quick reply saying he received it, and then lay back again with a bigger lump in his chest than before. He was relieved to know that John was okay, but that last line bothered him. If John said that he was having fun "before he left," did that mean he didn't think he was going to have fun after? And what kind of fun was he talking about? There were sure to be women at the bar, and if John had a few drinks…Stop it. This is John we're talking about.

Ping. This time it was a blog notification. John had added new photos and a new post. Sherlock scrolled through the photos first, wanting to save the post for last. All of them were John with other doctors and a few soldiers, looking happy. Sherlock tried not to feel jealous when he saw that some of the men had their arms around his shoulders and John had his shoulders around them. Finally he read the post.

Wow, I never expected a medical conference to be this much fun! Everyone here is great. I've forgotten how nice it is to talk to other doctors, especially ones who know what the army and Afghanistan are like. We told funny stories about patients, had a few drinks, just fun stuff. I usually can't do this kind of thing with Sherlock, and I don't think I realized just how much I've missed it. Anyway, I'm happy. I'll be sorry to leave.

He couldn't have fun with Sherlock? He was sorry to leave? Was John sacrificing happiness by staying with him? Shut up, he told himself. So he's having fun with other people. Nothing wrong with that. Would you prefer that he be miserable instead?

But try as he could to rationalize John's words, Sherlock couldn't stop his mind from racing a million miles a minute, dissecting and analyzing them in ways that made his stomach hurt. Sherlock blinked hard and immediately got up to retrieve one of his experiments.

As horrible as it was to think of John not coming back because of circumstance, it was even worse to think he might stay away of his own free will.

Sherlock was sore everywhere from sleeping on the floor for three nights, but felt relief in every bone in his body when he remembered that John was coming home that night. He opened his closet door and stretched, wincing as his back cricked, and got to his feet when he heard a knock at the door.

"Yoo-hoo," Mrs. Hudson said before coming in. "Morning, Sherlock."

"Mm, morning," he said. "Thank you," he added, noticing she had tea. He still couldn't quite wrap his head around the fact that she brought it to him every morning.

"So, today's your last day on your own," she said, winking. "Any plans?"

"No," Sherlock shrugged, flopping onto the bed. "Suppose I could always jump out of a cake when John comes home."

Mrs. Hudson laughed, pouring the tea into a cup. "It'll be so nice having him back here. The flat's gotten a bit messier since he left."

"Mm." Sherlock drank the tea she handed him. He made small talk with Mrs. Hudson a little longer, than let her take the teacup back. As she walked out the door, Sherlock's eyes widened as his brain formulated an idea.

The flat has gotten messier since John left. But what if John were to come home to a clean flat? Would that make him happier with Sherlock than he was at the conference? Would that make him not as sad to come home? Sherlock glanced around, taking stock of the dust that had settled over everything and the surfaces he'd cluttered with his science equipment. He supposed it was worth a try.

Sherlock rolled up the sleeves of his dressing gown and got to work. For the next six hours, he cleaned, swept, scrubbed, mopped, vacuumed, did laundry and folded clothes, put away his experiments and science equipment, and even made the bed, which he had never done before. By the time he finished, there were still three hours left until John was due home. Sherlock tried to think what else he could do and immediately it hit him: John would be hungry when he got home. Sherlock could make sure there was a hot meal waiting for him. He borrowed a few ingredients from Mrs. Hudson and began cooking one of John's favorites: grilled chicken with mashed potatoes. When that was finished, he packed it up and set it by the microwave so it would be ready to warm up, then helped Mrs. Hudson bake a chocolate cake—John's favorite—with the words "Welcome Home" written in icing across the top.

By the time he was finished, Sherlock was exhausted and sweaty, his hands still smelling of bleach and cleaner and his pajamas and dressing gown sticking to him. He took a shower so he would look presentable, threw his nightclothes in the hamper and changed into clean clothes, and then proceeded to spend quite a bit of time on his hair, using extra product for the side part. While he was doing this, he kept checking the clock, trying to calculate the time John would walk in the door. He should have been home twenty minutes ago.

Though he knew it would do more harm than good, Sherlock checked online for traffic and accident reports. Thankfully, he saw none. He texted John. No answer. He called John. Still nothing.

The hour grew later and later. Please come back, John. Sherlock stood at the window and parted the curtains, sure his cab would pull up any minute. Every time one drove by, Sherlock's pulse quickened, but it always either kept going or let out someone who wasn't John. Please come home.

He moved away from the window and tried calling John again. This time it went straight to voicemail. Sherlock felt sick. What if John really wasn't coming back? What if he never came back? What if Sherlock never saw him again?

He paced back and forth, ready to text Mycroft and ask for a search team when he heard the front door open and close and familiar footsteps on the stairs.

He's here! Sherlock's legs nearly gave out. John was really here; he'd come back.

Of course, he chided himself. Of course he came back. He loves going out on cases, after all. And besides, all of his things are here. He crouched behind a chair and waited, grinning stupidly as he heard John's footsteps get louder.

"Sherlock? You home?" Sherlock ducked lower. "Right. Must have gone out then." Sherlock grinned wider. John lugged his suitcase into their room and Sherlock heard it hit the ground. He slowly got to his feet and approached the room as he heard the rustle of John taking off his jacket. Just as he had gotten it off and turned around, Sherlock took a running leap into the bedroom and tackled John to the bed, earning a yelp from his doctor that was half shock and half delight.

John. Sherlock breathed him in, kissing his neck, cheek, hair, everything. He tightened his arms around John's waist and buried his face into John's shoulder, nuzzling him and wrapping his legs around John's. He took inventory of everything he had missed so much, appreciating and refreshing his memory.

"Welcome home," he whispered, and kept kissing him. He moved his hands to John's face and cupped it, wanting him to feel the affection Sherlock had been itching to give him all week.

"Jesus," John said, but Sherlock could hear the affection in it and feel John smiling against his skin as he kissed Sherlock back. "Maybe I should go away more often."

"No," Sherlock moaned as he nuzzled John's neck. John giggled and rubbed Sherlock's back.

"It is great to be home," John said. "I missed you too, Sherlock. And the flat looks bloody sparkling." He started to inch toward the edge of the bed and Sherlock clutched him. Not yet. Don't make me let go just yet.

John got the hint and relaxed a little, running his hands over Sherlock's hair and face. He started running his tongue over Sherlock's sensitive spots, making him squirm and moan a bit as he did the same for John. Sherlock had forgotten how soft and warm John's hands were. How he could feel the love in them and how it lifted him up.

"Oh yeah," John breathed, eyes widening as Sherlock made him feel better than he had in a week. "Yeah, I'm definitely going to go away more often." He wrapped his arms around Sherlock and settled under him happily, but his smile vanished when he felt his shoulders shaking and a bit of wetness on Sherlock's face just before he shifted it away.

"Sherlock, what—my god, Sherlock, I was joking! Sherlock," he said, trying to get a look at his face. "I'm not really going to leave more. It was a joke, I swear."

"It's not that," Sherlock said, his voice already cracking. He was burying his face in John's shoulder, but John could tell it was red as he choked back tears. "I'm sorry."

"It's all right. Hey, Sherlock," he murmured, stroking his hair. "You're all right, just let it out." Sherlock did, and John had to blink hard to keep from shedding a few tears of his own. Sherlock crying always broke his heart.

"There you go, just let it all out. Can you let me sit up a moment?" Sherlock moved back just a little and John pushed himself up so Sherlock could crawl into his lap. Now John could rock him gently.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said again. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm sorry."

"Shh, it's okay. You don't have to apologize." John hugged him tightly. "Next time just tell me if you need me. I would have found a way to come home early if I had to."

"No," Sherlock said. "That's not fair." He rubbed his eyes hard. "I'm a grown man and you shouldn't have to take care of me. You going away for a week shouldn't be a big deal." He sniffed.

"Well I don't plan to be going to another conference anytime soon," John said. "You won't have to be bored for a while."

Sherlock was quiet and John had a feeling there was something the man wasn't telling him. "Was there anything else? No one hurt or threatened you while I was gone, did they?"

"No."

John sucked in his cheeks and Sherlock could tell he was doing some deducing of his own. Sherlock kept his face pressed to John's shirt.

"You were afraid I wouldn't come back."

Sherlock scrunched his eyes closed as more tears escaped. "The statistics for accidents involving public transport—"

"No," John said, shaking his head. "It's not that. I could get into an accident right here in London with you."

"You were an hour late getting home."

"I know, I'm so sorry. I had trouble getting a cab, and then when I finally got one, the cabbie and I had a disagreement on routes and fare. My phone died on the way so I couldn't contact you."

"You," Sherlock took a deep breath. "You s-seemed so h-happy there."

John turned Sherlock's face to his so they could see each other. "Sherlock Holmes, listen to me. For as long as we live, I will always come back to you. Do you understand?"

Sherlock searched his face. He had written an article on how a person's face could tell you if they were lying, and he couldn't see any of the signs in John's. "What if you found out you were happier someplace else? With someone else?"

John stroked his curls. "That would be impossible. And we know what you say about the importance of eliminating the impossible." Sherlock gave a tiny smile at that. John continued, "I was happy there, I'll admit. I had a good time. But when I went back to the hotel, I missed you. And I missed you on the plane, in the cab. In the shower." They both grinned a bit at that.

John kissed the top of his head. "Sherlock, anyone can be entertaining at a bar and old friends have their place, but not everyone can brighten up a dull taxi ride or play the violin to help you get to sleep. It was always you I wanted with me during those times, not them."

Sherlock hugged him again and John gently brushed away his tears. "Thank you." He smiled sheepishly. "I promise not to be such a big baby next time."

"That's all right. It's nice to be missed," John said.

"I've never missed anyone so much." Sherlock pulled away to look at John. "In fact, I missed you so much I even cooked for you."

John grinned. "Dinner?"

"Starving."