He checked his watch again. Time seemed to be moving so slowly, a second seemed more like an hour. Normally Sherlock, when waiting, would spend his time analysing his surroundings and the people walking by, but this time he couldn't. He just sat there, unable to take his eyes of off the double doors. Waiting.

There was a woman he noticed out of the corner of his eye who kept looking back at him, nervous. She doesn't like the way I am staring no doubt, he thought to himself. The woman got up and took her daughter who was with her out of Sherlock's line of sight. He didn't care. It didn't matter to him what people thought of him. He could look crazy in an airport to whomever, it didn't matter to him, he would never see them again.

John had only been away a month. A friend of john's was killed in Afghanistan and John felt it was his duty to go out there and pay homage and see his friends still in combat. Sherlock didn't stop him from going, though he wanted to, but the emptiness, the darkness without him had consumed Sherlock. His skin was no longer angel-like pale, but grey, and his eyes showed dark shadows where insomnia had set in. He had used John's pillow but that had stopped working long ago. Normally he didn't need to sleep, but now it was all he wanted, and he knew that tonight he might just get his wish.

He pulled his coat around him. It was so cold! It was always cold without John. He would be wearing his navy blue scarf but he couldn't find it. He had spent ages searching for it but it was nowhere to be seen. It was unlike Sherlock to lose things too.

23 minutes, the plane had landed 23 minutes ago, where was he? His hands were pressed tightly against his lips; he was like a statue unable to move. People had started to come through the doors. His brain couldn't help but separate the holiday makers from the businessmen. On holiday, on holiday, back from holiday, business trip, affair, seeing family, business trip... but even this became dull faster than usual. Sherlock had not had any cases since john left. Not that he hadn't wanted to, he had tried but his mind would always wander back to John, what would John say? He just couldn't think straight without him. He had told Lestrade that the case was not worth his time and to sort it out himself.

John, John, John where are you? His index finger twitched, he was getting impatient. 27 minutes. Surely there must have been a problem. His gun? No John didn't take it with him; the living room wall was proof of that. John, John, John come on! Why are you torturing me like this?

And then he saw him. The doors had opened again to let through a lady with far too many bags for just herself, and a man helping her, pulling a plain brown suitcase and a flowery cream one. John. Always a gentleman. Sherlock watched as John gave the lady back her suitcase as she thanked him for his help. John, always so good to people, too good for anyone. Sarah certainly didn't deserve him. He was thankful that it had ended before it got too serious. Sherlock didn't like sharing John. He was his John, and no one would take him away from him.

Sherlock got up, and walked quickly to John with the energy that had been missing this past month. John saw him coming and smiled. Sherlock resisted the urge to hug John, to embrace his John and feel that soft wool of his jumper against his face. Instead he just smiled back and said, "Welcome home."
"Thank you. Did you miss me?" Yes, yes, YES! His mind was screaming but he stayed composed and merely shrugged.

"Sherlock, you look awful." John was inspecting Sherlock's face in the back of the taxi as they made their way home.
"A case," was all Sherlock could bring himself to say. John merely nodded, he could tell when Sherlock didn't want to, and so wasn't going to, tell him something. He could also tell when he was lying.

The flat was a mess. Flasks, test tubes and microscopes were everywhere. There was no food and John was sure Sherlock had done no washing what so ever. He sighed as he took of his coat and jumper and placed them on his armchair.
"Oh Sherlock you shouldn't have. The washing, the shopping, the cleaning, all for me!" There was no anger or surprise in his voice but Sherlock still felt guilty. He could have at least made an effort for John. But he couldn't. All he could do was sit in John's armchair and count the seconds until it was time to go to the airport and see his beloved John.

Sherlock sat on the sofa and rested his chin on his knees. All he had wanted was for John to come home and now that he was... he couldn't put his finger on it. John looked at him.
"Sherlock, what's wrong? I know there wasn't a case but you look like you haven't slept a wink. Have you been eating properly?" John, always the doctor, always caring, Sherlock smiled to himself. John walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge – empty. "Have you even been shopping since I left?"
"Got lost in the supermarket," was the reply from the living room. John laughed. Already Sherlock was feeling better. The void in his chest was beginning to close and the flat didn't seem so cold and bleak anymore.

John rooted around in the cupboard and found a tin of beans which he got out of the cupboard and placed in a saucepan. He walked back into the living room. "Beans on toast?" But Sherlock didn't answer. He was curled up on the sofa fast asleep; holding on tightly to the jumper John had been wearing. He looked so peaceful; John smiled as he covered him with a blanket like he had done so many times before. He then walked over to his suitcase and pulled out a navy blue scarf. Even after a month it still smelt like Sherlock. John placed it on the edge of the sofa. No doubt Sherlock had noticed it had gone missing but he thought it unlikely he would think he had taken it. Sherlock wouldn't be able to understand that he needed something to remind him of Sherlock whilst he was away. He had worn it every day. The soldiers had thought him crazy as it was so hot but John would have rather died of hyperthermia than taken it off. Every night as he slept he had used it as a reminder of home.

Home, where he belonged, with Sherlock.