Who? Sherlock Holmes (possibly John if he's home) Where? All over the island, starting at the prison and ending up at the beach via no one knows where. What? Sherlock tries to get home. When? After The Man goes wandering around through to Sunday night. Rating? Low Status? Complete? Or not? /vague
By the time Sherlock reaches the beach he is about ready to give up. He's known for days that this is the right direction, but making his way here has been hard. So, so hard. He was never sure how far he was, just that from the air and the fauna that he was heading towards the salty coastline, and if he can find that then he knows that he'll be close enough to finding their honeymoon shack.
His fingers have been constantly toying with the pick that Q gave him, stowed in his trouser pocket. He'd not been able to pick up a phone or anything else before he had left, there was no possible way of getting hold of John and letting him know that he was on his way home. So he has just walked. Walked and walked. He hasn't eaten since he left the prison, and even then his diet was questionable, his stomach churning as it had been, making him vomit nearly once a day. It's a surprise that he's had the energy to make it as far as he has. A majority of his energy reserves had gone into fighting his way out, the frantic harnessing of his martial arts skills and the act of surprise working in his favour until it came to running.
Healthy, the walk would have taken Sherlock no more than a day, probably. In the state he's in it's taken days. Plural. And, seeing their honeymoon hut on the beach, Sherlock is about ready to weep. There is a light on, but that doesn't mean that John is home. John has always left a light on for him, no matter where in the universe they have been. And he simply wants to be inside again. He wants to be inside, he wants to stop throwing up everything that passes his lips and, more importantly, he wants to see his husband.
Still, Sherlock's fingers remain around the pick, as though if he lets it go he's going to find himself back in the prison, back in the tiny cell, back being cold and sick. His front door opens, his attention not on the new houses that have been sprung up beside theirs. Too many other things to think about. He can't bring himself to muster the energy to crawl up the stairs to their bed, so the sofa-- Sherlock falls onto the sofa, trembling, pressing his face into the pillows, breathing in home. He's home. This is home.