The dust in Pakistan isn't gray. It's tan, chalk fine, and clinging, and more rare in this part of country than most Westerners believe. Pakistan isn't all desert, no, most of the north and west is mountainous, with green rocky slopes and curving rivers, but the monsoon has been light this year, so the dust persists.

Sherlock brushes a dusty smudge from a date and takes a bite, ignoring the sweat trickling down his back as he crouches next a warehouse in the midday heat, watching a convoy of Pakistani Army transports roll by on the Grand Trunk Road. He's 30 miles outside Islamabad, and in the past 36 hours he's managed to melt into the local populace with barely a second glance. His pale skin and light eyes identify him as a foreigner, but a nearby one, likely from the Northwest in the Hindu Kush. But the tan salwar kameez and nondescript, worn army rucksack on his back mean people walk by him with barely a second glance, too intent on their own lives to spare him a thought.

So he sits, watching. Planning. Using paper maps to plot his route from Islamabad, across a watched and hostile border, to a field hospital on the outskirts of a tiny village south of Lashkar Gah, on the border between Helmund and Kandahar provinces.

The fastest route back to John.

It turns out the first part of his journey is easier than he expected. He hops a brightly painted and bedecked public bus and shoves his way into a seat near the window, dropping his bag on the other to deter any companions. Its three hours through Peshawar to the Khyber Pass, so Sherlock figures he should at least try to sleep.

When he folds his left arm under this head, though, the stillness allows images to creep into his mind unbidden. Like what the look on John's face might be when he sees Sherlock for the first time. Whether or not he'll even be welcome, given the silence he's kept - had to keep, this last year. The thought that John may be upset at him makes him nervous, jittery, the last email he received (I hate you some days, you know that right? And could you blame me?) echoing in his head like a condemnation. Surely, though, when Sherlock explains about Mycroft's interference in his mission, he'll understand. Of all people, John's always understood.

Sherlock shifts and tries to get comfortable, but his mind won't quiet enough to truly sleep. Exhaustion is pulling on his mind, dredging up memories of John crouched low at a crime scene, examining a body or a piece of evidence, looking to Sherlock expectantly and waiting for Sherlock to rattle off what he knows about the crime. The smile on John's face when Sherlock obliges lights the room, makes Sherlock warm from the inside out.

And that's the problem, isn't it. Sherlock had grown to crave that flash of admiration on John's face, the exasperated affection with which he badgered Sherlock to pick up his bloody wet towel "for the umpteenth time, Jesus, were you raised by wolves?" The flush of heat whenever their eyes would catch in a quiet moment those last few weeks, before, despite his best attempts to ignore it.

Sherlock's mind stutters a bit over that feeling, the echo of desire ricocheting in his body, the image of firelight lending golden warmth to John's skin lulling him to sleep.

It's four in the afternoon when the bus arrives at the short stop 10 miles from the border checkpoint. Sherlock wakes almost instantly when the bus stops moving, the lack of motion jolting him from uneasy dreams. Sherlock pushes himself out of his seat before anyone else can get themselves more than accustomed to the stillness and shoves to the front, stepping off as soon as the doors open and walking toward the small building that houses a public washroom and a few food stalls. This might be his last chance for while to stock up, and he buys three large oranges, a bag of spiced almonds, and three bottles of water to shove in the top of his rucksack.

Instead of walking back toward the bus, though, Sherlock disappears around the back side of the building, around a corner, and into the traffic and noise of the town that's sprung up at this little way station on the route to the border.

It takes him about two hours to find the perfect ride – a beat up and ancient Ford pickup truck laden with goods and looking like it's ready to head south, along the curving and treacherous roads of the mountains astride the Afghanistan border. He flashes a 1,000 rupee note (the universal language of money, he thinks sourly), says "Alizai?"and gestures to the bed of the truck, the pantomime of "I don't speak Pashmiri" fairly clear. The two men look at him, look at his pack, look at his money, and then at each other for a beat before they shrug and welcome him with expansive arm waving. "Bagh," they reply, but allow Sherlock to scramble up to the top of the pile and fit himself in between the various boxes and parcels. It's hideously uncomfortable, but he's more than happy not to have to walk.

Bagh is a small ancient town halfway to Alizai, where he's decided to cross into Afghanistan. Despite the fact it's barely 15 straight-line miles from where he was, the twisting roads make it much, much longer, and over two hours later Sherlock waves goodbye to his hosts, his back and legs aching, feeling every single rut and stone they bounced over the entire way there.

He holes up in a small hostel in the center of town, using the room's single outlet to charge his phone. The narrow bed looks less than inviting, so Sherlock drops his bag on it and heads out into the main street. He walks along the dusty road tucked between buildings that seem to creep right in on the passing cars until the sun slants down to cast long shadows. The road ends abruptly at a small, twisting rope of a stream and Sherlock drops down on his haunches on the bank to look out across the landscape.

The mountains rise lush and green, terraced fields and small white houses dotting the gentle slopes of the valley. It's not like anything he's seen before, the quiet, peaceful stillness of it seeping into his bones as he flips small stones into the water. He'll need to figure out a way to Alizai soon; Mycroft knew he was in Islamabad, but Sherlock hadn't downloaded his messages from John since then, so he knew he had at least a day or so head start until Mycroft figured out where he'd gone.

It's not like it actually matters at this point, really. His mission is complete; Moriarty has been disposed of and his network demolished beyond repair. But Mycroft still wants him to come home, and Sherlock knows, its absolutely set in his heart like a promise, that he won't step foot in England again until John is with him.

He sighs and tosses one last rock, which skips across the water once, twice, three times before dropping below the surface. If he has to stop here for the night, then he might as well eat. His knees pop a little as he stands and turns back toward the town center, hoping a café will be open and that they have plenty of cigarettes. Behind him, the deep orange crescent of the sun vanishes behind the peaks.

He's only seen one vehicle make the turn to the road south, and he's starting to wonder if he might have to walk.

It's not terrible, he supposes, just inconvenient and a complete waste of time. Alizai is almost 50 road miles from Bagh, even if it's only about 20 straight-line miles. But there are at least three small ridges to cross, and the roads look sparse and sometimes non-existent.

Sherlock ponders the best time to leave unobserved as the stalks the narrow street in the falling dusk. He stops to light another cigarette in a sheltered doorway, and as he shakes out his match, he hears raucous laughter spilling out from the café across the street. He steps across and takes the table nearest the door, accepting tea and a plate piled high with chapati and shreds of spiced chicken. His lips close around a mouthful and he immediately relaxes his shoulders in bliss, the sweet fire of curry warming his stomach, a slight homesickness settling in.

He finishes the entire plate, much to his own surprise, and accepts the offer of a cigarette from the next table, gesturing his gratitude. The air inside is getting thicker, close and warm and humid and peppered with the rise and fall of men's voices. Sherlock doesn't understand a single word, but the atmosphere is convivial, a group of people that know each other intimately in harmonious conversation. He tips his chair back against the wall and amuses himself by determining the relationship of every man in the room for the rest of the evening.

He only wishes John were here to argue whether he was right or not, his blue eyes lighting up at some of Sherlock's more outrageous deductions. Sherlock had never met anyone who so generously rejoiced in someone else's gifts like John does. He could have easily been jealous or petty, but instead he seems happy for Sherlock, proud of his intellect and capabilities and having higher expectations of Sherlock than even Mycroft has, which is saying something.

The cigarette in his hand burns down to the end as the more practical side of his brain jolts to life, listing and crossing off various ways to make progress toward the border. He finally settles his mind that he really is going to walk, that he's willing to spend the five days or more that it will take to get to Alizai on foot. He crushes the cigarette out in the ashtray, tips his chin in acknowledgment to the man he's sure is the elder of one of the three families in the room, and disappears out into the night.

Three things happen simultaneously the next morning as Sherlock leaves the hostel: a woman drops her bag of vegetables in the street, a NATO supply helicopter swoops so low over the city center all faces point upward, and a man just parking his motorcycle takes the opportunity provided by everyone's inattention to slip through the gaping crowd to liberate the cash box from the tea stand on the corner.

It's exactly the excuse Sherlock needs to implement one of his more desperate imaginings from last night. He darts across the street, jumps on the motorcycle, kick-starts it and takes off as the rightful owner reaches the pavement. Sherlock reaches out one long arm and catches the thief by the jacket, hauling him down the street toward the gesticulating tea seller barely slower than the man can run. He releases the man with a hard shove, hits the brakes, tilts to slide out the back wheel and spin the bike 180 degrees, and darts off into the traffic of Bagh's one and only high street. Triumph swells in his chest as he speeds away from the little town.

Less than one day to the border.

It's sheer blind luck that he has enough gas to get to Alizai without stopping.

The thin mountain air is cool and buffeting, and his face starting to feel windburned and raw after only a couple of hours. He's sure when he gets there he'll have a horrible sunburn; he's sure the freckles on his nose that barely, if ever, make an appearance at home are starting to show. Fortunately his hair is still short, at least letting him keep some dignity of appearance.

Sherlock rides until he reaches the single large bridge on the western side of the town that leads over a river made up of multiple ribbons of small streams cascading down the mountain valley. The early spring and lack of rain means the river is low and likely an attractive crossing point for smugglers and others who don't want to be cornered into the single chokepoint of crossing the bridge. He parks the bike down the bank a bit, stretches the kinks out of his back and cracks open a bottle of water from his pack. He feels exhausted, more so than he thinks he should, but the air is thinner here, and exertion costs more.

He settles on the ground and leans back against a rock, closing his eyes and breathing air that smells like earth and fish and green things. The traffic crossing the bridge jolts the air with a constant, soothing hum. He shifts and feels his mobile press against his hip, so he fishes around under his kameez until he can pull it out and stare at it, the screen blank as it rarely had been at home. He flicks it on, watching it boot and start searching for a signal. The wide open valley means he's perfectly capable of getting a satellite signal, but he still won't allow it to connect and download his email, being so close to the border and more than ever close to Mycroft's influence. Instead, he opens up his photo gallery, looking at the one picture of John he'd managed to download from his laptop before he left home almost a year ago. Sherlock smiles when he sees it flicker to life on his tiny screen.

John, stretched out on the floor, taking the pose of a murder victim to determine if the body truly could have fallen the way the victim's aunt had said it did. John had grumbled and complained and finally let Sherlock push him around in different directions until he'd ended up on the floor in an approximation of the victim's pose. He'd lain there for a good 15 minutes while Sherlock explained the entire thing to Gregson, and just after Sherlock had taken a single picture for evidence, John had started to laugh. A little at first, then a full on, shoulder-shaking guffaw that made his face crumple, and he'd looked up at Sherlock with such mirth, such glee, that Sherlock couldn't help but hold his phone up and snap a picture of it, threatening blackmail in retaliation for John's picture of Sherlock sleeping with his face mashed up against the keyboard of his laptop.

Sherlock knew it was an empty threat – it really was a crap picture for blackmail. John looked so alive and so utterly happy, his grin carefree and looking at Sherlock with such affection it made his heart ache.

He'll never forgive me, Sherlock thinks. This is insanity. And rank sentimentality on top of it. I could be arrested and tossed in a Pakistani prison regardless of how good my documents are. I could get hurt here, get sick. And what if I get there and John refuses to see me, to speak to me? Sherlock shudders, trying to put the unsettling thought out of his mind. Self-doubt is an unfamiliar emotion, and the sudden uncertainty over his future with John is making his hands tremble. It would be easy to let fear take hold, give him the excuse he needs to stop now, before it gets harder, before true danger and stress and difficulty set in.

Which is ridiculous, he berates himself sharply. He's never been afraid of anything in his life.

The rational side of his mind knows exhaustion is pushing him down the path of least resistance, so he wraps himself in the coat he'd stuffed in his pack and closes his eyes. He's completely out in minutes.

Sherlock shakes himself awake from a dream–memory, really–from the month before, just as the dawn was painting the eastern sky a brilliant pink-orange.

Moriarty holed up in a clifftop villa in Monte Carlo, the location so very Cary Grant, and how like him. Sherlock clambers up the wall, eluding the two rather shockingly incompetent guards and slipping through the courtyard to the side of the house that he knew contained Moriarty's bedroom. He'd lost track of Sherlock in Switzerland, Sherlock knew, because Moriarty had gone to ground soon after, and it had taken Sherlock a devilishly long time to find him. But Sherlock was here now, standing motionless in the corner of Moriarty's dark bedroom, waiting, his breath coming in short, quick bursts.

The door opens and a narrow line of light cuts across the floor, just touching the tip of Sherlock's black shoes. The door closes, Moriarty flicks on the lamp and looks up, startled at the vision of Sherlock standing before him dressed head to toe in concealing black. Before he can say a word, Sherlock raises John's gun and squeezes off three quick shots, right to the heart.

Jim was right, Sherlock mused as he dove down the cliffs to the sea with John's gun and three brass casings stowed securely in an inner zipped pocket. He really did enjoy the look of surprise on his face.

Sherlock scrubs his hands through his hair and tries to shake himself more awake. He pulls an orange out of his pack and sets about peeling it, the oil scenting his fingers, juice dripping down his wrist by the end. He's filthy, he knows, but he'll have to wait for a true shower when he makes it across. Despite his misgivings the night before, he's come this far and he can't afford to lose momentum now.

He bites a sweet section, pondering. If he crosses the bridge, he should find himself at the confluence of two rivers, the valley of the smaller leading due west. The entire valley is peppered with houses, all the way to Afghanistan, and he'll have to make his way up the mountains a bit toward the end, to avoid the official checkpoint.

Time to find himself some compatriots, then.

There really is nothing new under the sun.

Sherlock spots five men standing idly next to a van behind a house about a mile up the river. They couldn't have been more obvious if they'd tried, although Sherlock knows his definition of "obvious" isn't quite most people's. He'd spotted the runner down the hill, the signs of a covert message changing hands clear as glass. Following him was simple enough, and Sherlock wishes for the third time that day that he had a translator. Convincing the men to allow him to cross into Afghanistan with them on their poppy smuggling run would go so much easier if he could explain to them he'd happily trade the motorcycle for the privilege of a guide.

Someone taps him sharply on the shoulder. Sherlock spins quickly, ready to defend himself against whatever threat he finds, and is confronted with a young man smiling at him and a very dangerous looking Glock pointed right at his gut. Sherlock's stomach drops, hoping he can talk his way out of this before the youth decides to hand him over.

"Hello, English," the youth says lightly, his voice almost completely without accent. "You really shouldn't walk so tall."

Sherlock is flummoxed for a moment until he realizes the young man was speaking to him in English. Tutored, Sherlock thinks. By someone who had been to a UK university. Oxford, most likely. "It's difficult to avoid it," he says carefully. It wouldn't do to spook the kid now; he could prove to be a very helpful ally. "Is there a reason you're pointing a gun at me? I've no weapon, as you can see, and I don't intend to cause any problems."

The young man cocks his head to the side slightly, considering. "You've been watching my father and my uncle for a while now. What is it you want, then, if not to turn us in?"

Sherlock brightens. "You father and uncle, is it? Good. Bring me to them. I have a proposition they might be interested in."

Sherlock looks into the vast expanse of the blue-black sky scattershot with stars as brilliant and cold and remote as he had always believed himself to be. This year spent alone has taught him that some things, some people, are worth the investment of time and consideration. His relationship with John is on tenterhooks, he knows, but he's sure it's worth more than just bedding down on the cold ground in the Pakistani mountains, ready to cross the border at moonset with a group of poppy smugglers he'd never met before today, worth every hardship he'll face, after, as he picks his way across a war-torn country still in upheaval and marginally under control of a weak and corrupt government.

He's starting to understand, too, that it's going to take more than simply showing up, that his friendship with John is worth a paradigm shift, a change in his attitude and lowering of defenses long maintained. The things that kept him sane also kept him apart, and if it's possible to change for one person, he's willing to do it for John. For all of the infinitesimal ways John has worked his way into Sherlock's life, for that gift of amused acceptance, of joyful camaraderie, Sherlock will drop his protective shell and step into the sphere of John's life, unguarded.

He can't wait to see him, to bring him home to Baker Street and see the back of his blonde head bent over the countertop, puttering with kettle and tea and badgering Sherlock about switching off Top Gear.

Sherlock shifts on the hard ground, trying to get comfortable, and realizes more than anything else he really just misses his friend.

He's kicked awake around 2:30 AM, the moon just setting and the sky considerably darker than it was a few hours ago. The father, uncle, his young translator Syed, and two other men are already at the van and getting ready to climb in. Sherlock slips in last, closing the doors behind him and sliding to the floor with his knees tucked up under his chin.

"Ready?" Syed asks in the humid dark.

Sherlock nods. It should only take an hour from here to make it across the border and to the little house that is supposed to be the pickup point for a load of opium poppies, provided, of course, that everything goes well. There are still quite a few Taliban hiding in the mountains, and while they banned poppy-growing during their regime, they're more than happy to intercept an illegal shipment and sell it to fund their own insurgency.

The van starts forward without any lights on. The men driving have taken this route any number of times, and Sherlock has confidence in their ability to navigate the mountain tracks by starlight. They trundle along quietly, most of the men silent, except for Syed, who insists on chatting with him.

"What brings you to Afghanistan?" he asks brightly.

Sherlock sighs but answers. "A friend."

"A friend?" Syed sounds dubious. "Why not just fly into Kabul, hire a car to get down to…exactly where are you going?"

"I didn't say. And it doesn't matter. I'll get there–"

Sherlock is cut off as a sharp retort followed by a pop and hiss sounds inside the van. His first instinct is to drop, and the van speeds up as everyone cries out, startled.

Someone is shooting at them.

Inside a cargo van it's like shooting fish in a barrel. If they stop, it's likely whoever is shooting at them would kill them and take the van, or, in a best-case scenario, take the van and leave them somewhere in the mountains.

The van bounces as it hurtles over the mountain track, more shots echoing in the dark until the marksmen get lucky and hit a tire, causing Syed's uncle to curse as the van swerves sharply left and gets stuck in a rut on the side of the road.

Syed has a quick word with his father before the back doors swing open and they all pile out, taking cover in the scrub trees and the small crevasse at the edge of the valley. Sherlock drops behind a small shrub, but he knows that the shooters are either shooting blindly, which means a shrub isn't going to make any difference, or they've got night-vision goggles and it's only a matter of time before they're picked off one by one.

Sherlock flips over onto his belly and scrabbles around until he can get a clear view across the road. The front right tire had been flattened, causing the van to start to swerve right and then left as the driver over-corrected and hit the large rut that had gotten them stuck. That means the shot was from the right side of the van, probably just a bit up the side of the mountain, if the trajectory of the first shot across the top of the cargo box was anything to go by. Sherlock scans the hillside for a moment, training his eyes about 200 yards back and up the hill where a small ledge juts out from the trees. That's where they are.

Sherlock startles for a second as Syed's uncle (Omar, he thinks) hits him in the shoulder with the butt of a rifle. Sherlock takes it gingerly, the weight and size of it unfamiliar, but as his hand closes around the grip of the AK-47 he finds that at least his experience with John's pistol gives him some level of instinct for how to hold it. Omar shakes his head at Sherlock's obvious lack of training and ducks back down behind a rock, holding up his own weapon and flicking the fire selector to loose a furious burst toward the other side of the road. Startling, certainly, but generally ineffective as most of the rounds hit about 50 yards in front of where Sherlock has located their attackers.

The gun is a comforting weight as Sherlock ducks out from behind the bushes and darts over in a crouch to hide behind the van. He can see Syed waving frantically to come back, even as his father sprays covering fire as soon as he sees Sherlock start to move. Sherlock ignores Syed and slides his head around the edge of the van to try to get a line of sight on the ridge. As he does so, gunfire erupts again and pins them all down.

He wishes John were there. Sherlock wasn't sure of the extent of John's field experience, but he knew just from the fact that he'd been shot in the field while tending patients that he wasn't a hospital surgeon during his first tour. He was a battlefield medic, and his brilliant marksmanship meant he was more than that - a soldier with a medical degree. John would be a rock-steady presence now, someone to rely on to get them out of this mess, instead of sitting there hoping it would resolve itself That's certainly not what John would do; he'd figure out the best way to shoot back.

If he can just make it across the road and into the small copse of trees, he might have a chance to get them all out of there unharmed. Sherlock waits until there is a lull in the fire. The lack of anything actually being hit so far eliminates the possibility of night-vision goggles being in play, so he has a pretty good chance to make it across the road without harm. He scuttles across the road as quickly as he can manage, nestling into the trees and hoping he wasn't seen. He has a good line of sight on the ledge, with most of the profile showing clearly in the starlight. He waits until he sees movement before he shoulders his rifle, exhales a deep breath, and fires.

Once he relents, he can hear voices, two of them, one tight, controlled and pained and one somewhat more panicked. Sherlock fires toward the ridge again, hoping that the closer, better-angled hits are enough to drive them off, if he hasn't actually shot someone already, which sounds likely. There is possibly only the two; there is quite a bit of cash in the van, but there wouldn't be a huge outlay of manpower to grab it on the off chance anyone came through that day. Sherlock takes his finger off the trigger and presses his back against a tree. There have been sporadic pops of return fire but nothing sustained. Sherlock flips over, aims again and empties his clip just as he hears the slam of a car door and the roar of an engine. They're gone.

Sherlock huffs out a relieved breath and turns back toward the van. Syed and his family have already heard the vehicle leave and they're back, trying to set up a jack and change a tire by torchlight and starlight. When Sherlock wanders into view, Omar meets him with both arms open. He smacks Sherlock on both shoulders, pressing the rifle that Sherlock is trying to give back into his hands.

Syed smiles at him. "He says to keep it. You've earned it. Besides, you'll need it for the rest of your journey."

Sherlock doesn't say he'd rather have his motorcycle back, because it's still back in Alizai, where he left it in trade for the ride. But he decides to accept the gun and a few clips anyway, as they could come in useful later.

Sherlock is still coming down off of his adrenaline high an hour and a half later, when the van stops outside of a house in the edges of a small village in the Kadam valley. Sherlock stretches his legs and climbs out, looking around in the pre-dawn light at houses and fields edging the river, the walled compounds squaring off small sections like miniature fortresses. Everything is white here, white buildings and white cloth, green fields and brown rock breaking up the landscape.

Syed jostles him as he walks by. "Enough sightseeing. Help load, and you'll get breakfast. I've told my cousin your plan, and he thinks you've lost your mind, but when I told him how brave you are he decided to help."

Sherlock twitches slightly at the adoration in Syed's voice. It's probably to be expected, given his exploits a few hours earlier, but it was that or allow them all to be killed. He refuses to die out here, not when he's within 4 days at most from the hospital. The charge of escaping the firefight with their lives has energized him, making him feel more determined than he has in almost a week.

"Tell your cousin I appreciate any assistance he can give me," Sherlock says, as they walk back toward the walled back garden. "I'm not entirely sure what will await me in Kohst when I get there."

"The British have control of the airfield in Kohst. You may be able to find a friendly face there."

"Perhaps," Sherlock says, taking up a large bundle. "I may also be arrested, but at least by that point I'd be sent back to the UK."

"The best we can do for you is prepare you enough to get you there. "

"Then I'm sure I'll be fine," Sherlock says, and pushes the last of the poppy bundles into the already-packed van.

The valley is deep and humid in the early spring sunlight as Sherlock shoulders his pack, waves goodbye to Syed and his rather remarkable family, and sets out for Kohst. His pack was loaded with food and water, as the walk would take quite a while over the rocky terrain. Almost overloaded, really, by worried mums and aunties, and as a result the pack is brutally heavy. The added weight of his newly-acquired weapon and ammunition don't help, either.

Six hours later, Sherlock shifts his rucksack on his back, scratches his arm, and then curses internally as a stone in his boot makes itself known. He sits down and yanks on his laces to remove the offending stone, scowling at the hole in his sock that allows his big toe to peek out.

He'd gotten good in the last few years at ignoring his body's more physical needs–food, sleep, comfort. He'll need to bend his mind to that discipline again to make it across this desolate landscape for the next hundred miles or so. Kohst is about twelve miles away. He'll make it by dark if he keeps on a steady pace. The isolation is comforting, reliance on his own wits and the honed strength of his body a familiar experience.

The only sound echoing in the valley is the steady thump thump of his boots on the hard ground and his heart thrumming in his ears.

The next day finds him showered, rested, and standing on the edge of a fairly busy airstrip on the outskirts of town.

He'd made it in later in the evening than he'd planned the night before, but the landlord of the small hotel took Syed's cousin's note without a word and ushered him into a small, clean room and pointed toward the bath at the end of the hall. A hot shower never felt so good in his life, and he'd collapsed in bed without a second thought and slept ten hours.

Now he was here, prowling the edge of the airstrip, trying not to look utterly suspicious by staying near the other people that looked as if they were waiting for someone. All sorts of aircraft are flying in and out, from small Cessna two-seaters to massive American C-130 transport planes. Sherlock scans the crowd until he sees some British infantrymen milling about the edge of the group, loaded down with packs and weapons and obviously getting ready to head out for a week-long assignment in one of the more remote bases.

"Hallo, gents," Sherlock says, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of his cargo trousers and lighting one. He's really going to have a hard time giving these up when he gets home, but John will likely insist.

One of the younger squaddies jumps a bit (first tour, never been away from home before, nervous and excited and twitchy) then nudges his Lieutenant and they all turn to look at Sherlock with open curiosity or suspicion. His accent and the blatantly western clothes he'd put back on this morning put them a bit at ease, as he planned, but they're still edgy, as they should be, given what they're on their way to do. Fortunately, he'd thought to disassemble his gun and stow it in his pack.

"William Gillette," he says, sticking his hand out to shake the young Lieutenant's hand.

"Sam Groves," he says, and shakes Sherlock's hand with his rough, calloused one. "Don't expect to see someone from home out here. Something I can help you with?"

Sherlock smiles and puts as much charm into it as he can. John always told him his smile should be listed as a class A weapon, and he's going to have to unleash his entire arsenal to get what he wants, here. "I'm writing a history, actually, of Britain's involvement in this conflict, and I've been sort of taking it all in, as it were." He pauses to see if any of this is actually passing muster, and the annoyed look on Groves' face seems to indicatethat it is. "I need to get back to Lashkar Gah, and when I saw you lot, thought I could ride out there with you, perhaps do an interview. If you have space, of course."

Groves looks understandably annoyed, but his media training kicks in and he asks if Sherlock has any ID or papers. Sherlock digs around in his pack and hands over his fake passport and his media credentials. He waits, doing his best to appear nonchalant and slightly bored, while Groves examines the papers closely. Groves hands them back to Sherlock, then walks off about 25 meters to speak into his radio. Sherlock can't hear the exchange, but when Groves comes back, he shrugs.

"It's only about two hours by helicopter, but we managed to get a ride on the next C-17 that stops. Which is in about 20 minutes. Command says you're welcome, but I'm sure you know the drill–no details."

"Absolutely." Sherlock grins. "My lips are sealed."

The C-17 is so enormous inside and so loud that Sherlock can barely keep up the pretense of being a writer interested in the daily lives and thoughts of the average British infantryman. He asks a few questions, then settles into silence for the duration of the ride, absently scribbling on his notebook little bits and pieces that look suspiciously like apologies, if the words "don't hate me," scribbled over and over in continuous loops count as apologies.

Is begging better? He still isn't sure, after all this time, that it won't be.

Lashkar Gah is the largest town he's seen since Islamabad, and as he waves goodbye to Lieutenant Groves and his squad and leaves the airport, he is able to find a taxi fairly quickly. He asks to be taken to any café on the farthest southern side in what little Dari he'd managed to learn after pestering John about it. He'd tried to teach Sherlock a few small phrases, "help," "I'm a doctor," and "water, please," before John had given up trying to break it down in the logical way Sherlock had preferred.

"You're hopeless!" John laughed at him. "Besides, I don't know the verb conjugation. You'll never need it anyway, so leave me alone about it."

Sherlock smiles as he fingers the small Dari dictionary in his pocket. He'd bought it on the way to Islamabad, when he realized he really did need it, after all.

The driver waves at a selection of cafes on one of the busy, tree-lined streets, and Sherlock nods, pays, and hits the pavement. It's barely 3 o'clock and he could still make it to Qurya tonight, provided he were fortunate enough to secure a ride.

His rudimentary requests about where one might hire a car in this Godforsaken wilderness are met with smiles of amusement and very little helpful information until one elderly gentleman tells him to head down the road until he reaches the Kumars, and that Sampath is a trustworthy man that will sell him whatever he needs.

It still takes him two hours in the arid desert heat to find the place, and his neck and ears are burning from the constant, pounding sun. His tee shirt and heavy cargo trousers are drenched with sweat and his hair curling in wet ringlets over his ears when he reaches the Kumars. A less prepossessing figure he isn't sure exists, but they listen to his request politely, then show him an array of vehicles available.

When Sampath names his price on a poor, scratched up Volvo, Sherlock blanches but jumps straight to negotiation. Haggling is a time-honoured tradition in the Middle East - pay the first named price and you're thought a fool or a criminal. By the end, Sherlock gives them half of his cash and his weapon. He needs the money more than he needs the AK, so while he feels some pangs at the loss, he's not going to sink his best chance at getting out of here for it.

He pays the price, loads his bag and extra fuel in the trunk, and heads out as the sun begins to sink below the horizon.

The car doesn't have air conditioning, so Sherlock rolls the windows down to let the still-warm breeze dry the sweat from his hair. He coaxes the rattling engine to go as fast as reasonable, given the numerous roadblocks and military convoys that block his way, frustrating every attempt to pass them. The constant sweep of his eyes across the horizon for evidence of roadside bombs or stray police looking for a bribe takes up most of his time, and the miles fall away toward Qurya in a rapid pace of minutes that almost matches the beat of Sherlock's hammering heart.

When he finally reaches open road, he hangs his arm out of the window, catching the feel of the now night-cooled air across his palm, dipping and weaving his hand through the buffeting wind like a child. The smell of humidity from the river mixed with the tang of exhaust fills his nose, and he leans back in the seat and presses the gas harder.

Tonight.

He'll be there tonight.

He has about fifteen miles to go along the dark and winding river road when the car gives up the ghost with a rattle and a cough.

"No!" he shouts at the steering wheel after the car coasts to a stop at the side of the road. "No, damn it!"

Sherlock jumps from the car and lifts the hood, sending a billow of steam toward the stars. He flinches back and curses again, then starts kicking the side of the car, one blow after another, frustration and tension boiling over in an explosion of manic energy, his control in shreds. He's going to fucking die out here in this fucking wasteland and all for a man he'd known for three months. He stops kicking when the pain in his foot brings with it a sharp reminder of where he is and what he's supposed to be doing. Defeated, he sinks down to the ground and leans back against the driver's side door, his chest heaving.

Fifteen miles across the Downs is one thing.

Fifteen miles walking along a highway in the dark, on the most dangerous stretch of road between Kandahar and the southern border is another. And he no longer has a weapon.

It's ridiculous. He should wait, ask for help in the morning from one of the numerous farms that line the river. He's not even sure he can find Qurya in the dark, anyway. Sherlock slams his fist into the ground in frustration. He's just so damn close, almost close enough to see the midnight glow of a small city on the horizon. He's just so tired, the last eight days sapping his energy, the time spent in mindless travel leaving his brain with so much time to think. Why in the hell am I even here? he wonders. This is a complete waste of time, John will probably barely be able to tolerate me by this point, and I'll have risked my life for what, exactly? And what then? Even if he does come back I don't even know how to tell him, to…say what I've been thinking.

He's been without John longer than he'd been with him, he realizes as his frustration burns itself out, an unusual peace settling in its place. But here he is, considering walking for miles on the edge of an Afghani desert, along a road littered with IEDs and god knows what else, all for the warm, enveloping sense of completeness he feels being in John Watson's company. He hesitates to name it because three months of knowing someone doesn't really give him the right to claim much, but he realizes with a twist in his gut that his single-minded devotion and willingness to entwine his life with another sounds suspiciously like he'd fallen in love. Is in love with John, even after all this time apart.

He's amazed at the revelation. He'd already determined that John's friendship was worth emotional exposure, and now he's finding he's willing to throw himself freely into the abyss, trusting John implicitly to catch him before he hits the ground. And even if John never loves him in return, if all Sherlock ever has is his friendship, it would still be more than Sherlock ever expected he'd have. Instead of being frightened by the realization, he's liberated, lightened. Resolved.

He shoulders his pack, lifts his chin, and starts walking.

The sun is staining the sky a rosy pink when Sherlock reaches the sign on the outskirts of Qurya. He's exhausted and footsore, completely filthy and he's pretty sure he smells. He walks along the main street until he runs into a few pedestrians and asks for the nearest hotel or hostel. He is so grateful for their directions, a mere 200 yards down the road, he actually claps one man on the shoulder and gives him a kiss on the cheek. The man recoils, giving Sherlock all the confirmation he needs of the state of his personal hygiene. He's so giddy at actually making it there alive that he doesn't even care, continuing to grin stupidly, half-drunk with exhaustion.

The bath at the hotel is deep and hot and Sherlock revels in it, dipping his head under the water to loosen the sweat and dust from his hair before resting his head against the back of the tub. The hot water soaks the aches from his legs and shoulders, and as he absently scratches his three-day stubble, he realizes he needs to get a shave. And wash his clothes, maybe buy a new shirt. It wouldn't do to have John see him looking a complete mess.

Sherlock laughs a little at himself at the thought of trying to impress John in the middle of a warzone.

He lets his mind wander as he drifts in the steaming water. He'd deliberately pushed aside all thought of John in a more intimate context, unsure if he even wanted to think about something so intoxicating, and something that he might never have. But now, naked and quiet and alone, the shape and feel of his revelation is sparking the passion he had always kept carefully banked but for those last few weeks, before, when it started to filter through despite his best attempts to stop it.

He wants to touch, to run his fingers along the curve of John's shoulder and watch the warm affection in his eyes melt into undisguised desire. Sherlock skims his hands down his thighs, wondering what it would be like to allow John to touch him in return, to have John's broad hands massage the kinks from his chase-cramped muscles or John's gentle fingers sliding along his scalp to card through his barely-there curls.

Sherlock circles his hardening cock in his grip and lets his fantasy take hold, unleashing it full force to take paths he'd only glimpsed when he was alone in the enveloping dark. He imagines John naked across his bed, the heat of summer shining on his skin, dipping his head to taste the skin over John's hip, reveling in the warm, smooth feel of it, the salty tang on his tongue. He wants to make John sigh, make him moan, wrap himself around and over and push inside John's body until he can possess him completely. Until there's nothing in the world but the two of them, locked together in an unbreakable bond.

Sherlock gasps quietly as he strokes himself harder, imagining that its John's hands on his body, until he comes with a shudder and a sharp exhale.

He refills the tub, finishes up, and as he stands toweling his hair, he realizes that while he was ready to walk in and sweep John off, back to restart their lives in Baker Street, it might not be the worst idea to at least determine exactly what John's situation is before he lets him know he's there. It sounded from his emails that he'd settled in here. He at least deserves the consideration of a message.

On February 1, ten months almost to the day since he last saw John, Sherlock carefully wraps the three brass casings that he's kept in his pocket all this time, places them in a small box, and tapes it closed. He uses a felt-tip marker to write John's name and location across the top, hands it to the courier with some cash, and hopes for the best. He couldn't find the words to tell him; he'd just have to trust that evidence of Moriarty's death would get across what he's trying to say.

The hospital in Qurya is easy to find, and Sherlock goes there straight from the courier, stopping across the street from the gates in order to figure out the lay of the land and calm his nerves. He starts to light a cigarette as he waits, until he realizes he doesn't want John to smell (taste?) it on him.

Sherlock pushes away from the wall and walks across the street behind a group of women dressed in the full-covering burqa, a perfect wall of walking blue camouflage for his movement toward the corner of the fence away from the street. As soon as he can, he ducks down the side, along the fence that runs behind the building that looks like barracks.

He can't openly walk the entire perimeter of the compound or he'd risk being hauled in as a potential suicide bomber. So he finds a spot outside the corner of the compound and sits. And watches.

Two hours later he sees John emerge from one building and walk toward the hospital, clipboard in hand. Sherlock stands reflexively, drinking in the sight, noticing John looks leaner, more fit, stronger. And very, very tan and much more blonde than Sherlock's ever seen him.

Most of all, like he belongs there.

His stride is even and confident, and the number of people that acknowledge him, not just with salutes but with friendly waves and smiles is surprising.

Sherlock subsides, realizing his reaction got the attention of the gate guard. He turns on his heel and heads back to the bazaar near the center of town. He's glad he decided to give him some notice–a surprise of the magnitude Sherlock originally contemplated would have been more of a shock than John would have appreciated.

He spends the afternoon hunting around for a decent shirt and can only find a black and buff-colored tee shirt worth buying, although it's not what he'd hoped for. He heads back to the hotel to change and clean up a bit, just in case his message had been received.

It's getting close to evening, and Sherlock is too keyed up to eat, or to sit. Once the courier has dropped the package he wants to give John time to process what he's seeing. Sherlock has no doubt at all he'll understand the message and begin preparing himself to leave, according to their original plan. Sherlock will just have to see how he takes it, and if he's ready tonight, Sherlock will be ready, too.

He goes back to the hospital and finds a secluded spot under a large tree to sit, shivering a little in the quickly cooling dusk. He can see a good part of the hospital grounds from here–the courtyard is open on one side, and Sherlock can monitor almost all of the buildings perfectly.

Twenty minutes or so later and it's almost completely dark, but massive sets of floodlights keep most of the compound lit enough for Sherlock to pick out important details. His package had been delivered , but the small box is still sitting in a hanging wire basket outside of what he's sussed out is John's private quarters.

A door opens, throwing a beam of light across the pavement until a figure cuts it off by stepping through the doorway and out into the chill to start the trek across the courtyard.

John.

Sherlock watches him avidly, too far away to ascertain what he'd been doing, although from the number of people that had gone into that building he's guessing some sort of social gathering. John looks around the compound as he walks, rather too hurriedly, Sherlock thinks, for just going back to his room. He wonders what the rush is until he sees a bald, well-muscled man walk up behind John and push him lightly in the back.

John looks back over his shoulder and smirks, then unlocks his door quickly, grabs the package from the basket and steps inside. The bald man follows close on his heels, looks around once as if to ascertain if anyone had seen him, and follows. The door closes quietly behind him.

No lights come on.

Sherlock stands up quickly and begins to pace. He's not stupid; he knows perfectly well what's going on behind that closed door. Jealousy is clawing at his chest, demanding he storm the gates to get to John's door, pound on it until it opens so Sherlock can fight for John's attention, make his own claim.

It might be the most ridiculous thing he's ever thought in his life. Sherlock breathes in, quieting his heart, slowing his breathing until he feels somewhat more calm. Once he feels like himself again, he realizes he'll just have to go about this the way he'd always planned, and let John decide. He's learned nothing if not patience this last year.

The next morning, resolve firmly in place, Sherlock bathes again, shaves, and dresses in his new tan tee shirt and his worn cargo trousers. He laces his boots and packs his rucksack with everything he still has – coat, a bottle of water, papers, small notebook, and his phone charger, and leaves it checked at the desk. His phone he slips, still turned off, into his pocket.

He catches a glimpse of himself in the decorative mirror in the hotel's front room. His hair is still short, but the familiar curls are starting to run riot over his head. His nose is freckled beyond anything he's seen since he was a boy, the skin across his cheekbones bronzed gold, making his light eyes almost otherworldly in contrast. It's a different face he sees looking at him from the mirror, something more mature than he'd managed in his first 34 years.

He walks toward the hospital, each step a final march to an uncertain future.

When he reaches the gate, he asks politely if he might have a word with Captain Watson. The guard looks at him suspiciously and Sherlock can see the indecision in his face. He's about to start arguing when he spots the bald man that was with John last night walking up to the gate.

"I think I know who you are," the man says slowly, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Matter of fact, I do know who you are, and that means I know who you're here for."

Sherlock's a bit stunned. "Really?" he drawls, lifting his chin to give him every inch of height on his rival. "How do you know that?"

"John," the man says, squaring his shoulders and giving Sherlock a good looking over. "He has a picture. I've seen it a few times. I should warn you, you probably aren't going to get the warmest reception."

"Not getting it now." Sherlock looks at the name stitched to the front of his camouflage jacket. "Do you have a first name, Lt. Shepard?"

"Not really your business, is it?"

Sherlock looks at him and raises an eyebrow. "I suppose whatever happened between the two of you last night really isn't my business, either."

Shepard shrugs eloquently.

Sherlock expected the confirmation, but it still stings. John has the right to do as he pleases, and Sherlock knows he didn't give him any reason to wait. Something must show on his face, because Shepard gives him a pitying look.

"Look, John's my friend. Don't muck this up."

Sherlock frowns. "I wasn't –"

"No, but you were thinking it." Shepard sighs, a deep huff of resignation. "C'mon, it's inventory day. He'll be in the tent, at the back. I know he'll want to see you, although God knows why; from what I can see, you're an absolute shit."

Sherlock laughs, then sobers quickly. "Yes," he agrees. "Sometimes I really am."

Shepard shakes his head, allows Sherlock to step through the gate, and walks the 200 yards across the courtyard and behind the main building to a row of tents stretched across the back fence line. He can almost hear John shuffling around in the largest one, working away diligently.

The sun is starting to set, lighting the sky a brilliant flame-orange, but Sherlock can't move. He stands frozen in front of the door, trying to summon the courage to take this last, longest step.

The last year had been nothing but the build up, a culmination of events that have led Sherlock to this one moment when he's managed to gain maturity and acceptance of his own shortcomings, finally fulfilling the potential he always could feel but never could reach. He understands that caring for someone, sharing his fears and his happiness with another, isn't a weakness to be avoided any longer. He reaches out to take hold of the tent's door flap and raise it gently.

John's blonde head turns toward the door with an indulgent smile on his tanned and beautiful face, until it's taken over by the shock of recognition. He staggers a bit and leans on a pile of boxes.

Sherlock takes a deep breath. Every hardship, every frustration and fear for the last ten days–the last year-fades away as he says, "It isn't Angelo's, but I thought it might do."