A week had passed, and Sherlock hadn't contacted John. Rather, John hadn't replied to Sherlock's texts. He couldn't be that terribly busy, he only had class four days a week. Sherlock stood, hands folded behind his back, staring out the window. Thin raindrops slid down the cold glass, Sherlock's breath gently fogging the surface. He knew John wasn't avoiding him or secretly hated him, he showed no physical signs of that. Sherlock heaved a sigh as Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs.

"Sherlock, what's the matter? Where's John, he hasn't been here all week?" She put the loaf of bread he asked for just ten minutes ago on the kitchen counter.

"He's not here."

"I figured he wasn't here, but is there something wrong? You should check on him."

"I've no idea where he lives."

Mrs. Hudson squinted at him. "You two are best friends and you've never been to his home??"

Sherlock gave her a grave look. Mrs. Hudson's expression softened. "I suppose some things aren't meant to be talked about, hmm?" And with that, Mrs. Hudson left Sherlock's flat, shutting the door quietly behind her.

--------------------

Sherlock Holmes had never known true boredom until he knew what fun was like. He never felt loneliness until he found out what "lonely" felt like. He always told himself that "alone protected him". This was no longer true. He was eating himself alive with questions about John's safety. He was rethinking his whole life. "I could have been normal," he whispered, staring at the blank red ceiling in a daze. All these years, he could have known friendship, maybe even love. He shook his head and closed his eyes. "Nevermind. I don't want to be like them. This feeling wouldn't be special otherwise."

--------------------

In John's absence, Sherlock read "The Rain" even more than he used to. He started to notice the symbolism in everything Karen Brown wrote. She was a genius, a proper artist slashing the brush across her canvas, spewing bright red paint all over the fragile pages and Sherlock's precious brain. He absorbed everything like a sea sponge, suckling and savoring every single word she had poured out of her being. He loved everything about her book, from the cover art to how the pages felt across his fingertips.

No matter how hard he searched, he couldn't find anything online about this mysterious Karen Brown. No blog posts, no information, no fans of hers except Sherlock.

She had a post office box written in the back of her book. Sherlock contemplated sending her something, but had nothing she would want. He wasn't too great with words.

--------------------

Let's hang out at my place today. -SH

I found this great restaurant while out walking the other day, let's go there sometime. -SH

It's called Venezzia's Pizza, heard of it? -SH

Do you not like the food there? -SH

Not today, then... -SH

John, are you okay? -SH

I'm worried, John, you aren't answering my calls or texts. -SH

Did something happen? -SH

Let's go to the usual spot at Rainy Days. -SH

Are you sick? -SH

Did you lose your phone? -SH

Your charger? -SH

I miss you. -SH

Sherlock hadn't texted him after that. For weeks that continued, and Sherlock just kept scrolling and scrolling. He reread each and every message at least a hundred times over. He sighed.

Two days after sending the last message, his phone vibrated. Sherlock's eyes blew wide, and he stared at his phone laying on the table in front of him. It couldn't be anyone else but him.

I miss you, too.

John! -SH

What happened? Is everything okay?? -SH

No.

Do you want to talk about it? -SH

I'm coming over. With my bags.

Your bags? -SH

I hope it's okay that I stay at your place for a week.

Of course. The door's unlocked. -SH

I'm already turning onto Baker Street. See you in a few.

Sherlock didn't reply. He tried tidying up a bit, but saw it was no use an instead tried to clear a space for John to sleep when the time came. There was a knock on the door almost instantly. Sherlock rushed down the stairs and unlocked the door for John.

He didn't know it was raining that hard. John was soaked to the core, shivering violently. Had he really walked the whole way here? Granted Sherlock didn't know how far "the whole way" was from John's home, he figured it was far enough to make him winded and sore. John lifted his blank brown eyes up to Sherlock's, his lip slightly quivering for a moment. He just stared, conveying all of his pain to the taller man in ways he knew he couldn't describe with his human vocabulary. Sherlock looked back, waiting for John to come inside.

Instead, John lunged forward and threw his arms around Sherlock's neck, sobbing and heaving uncontrollably into his broad chest. Sherlock had no idea how to respond. John never openly shows emotion around him. He wrapped his own long arms awkwardly around John's back, his long thin sleeves starting to soak up the rainwater in the other's clothes.

"I can't take this! I can't do it anymore!"

John's voice was muddled, but Sherlock could hear his broken voice as if he were speaking normally.

"I can't take that man anymore! He has no right to slap her around like that! And then what if I get in the way? I get my fucking arm twisted around! I'm almost twenty years old, I can press charges, and he doesn't seem to get that through his thick, intoxicated fucking head!"

John beat on Sherlock's chest with his fist.

"IT'S NOT FAIR!"

Sherlock buried his face in John's wet hair, hugging him tighter. "Yes. It's hard, I know."

"I needed out of that hell, that...that mother fucking gas chamber. I literally ran away from home. What the fuck am I going to do now??"

"Move in."

John lifted his tearstained face to look at Sherlock.

"What?"

"Move in. You won't have to pay rent. No rules, endless television rights, constant fun, the two of us against the rest of the world. Most of all, your scumbag father isn't here to beat you or your mother up." And Sherlock was dead serious about every word. John searched Sherlock's face for the punch line. It was too good to be true. An escape was never that easy.

"All you have to do is step inside, John. That's all you have to do."

The rain had now soaked Sherlock, and was making John shudder and shiver. But that's not why he walked inside. He didn't do it because he needed sleep, or because he was overwhelmed. He did it because he believed that Sherlock Holmes could offer him peace and kindness. He stepped inside because Sherlock Holmes was his best friend, and Sherlock needed John just as much as John needed him.