A/N I'm sorry for the author's note, but I would just like to explain this! This story is going to be a series of one-shots I write with someone else on Omegle, and I will reference where possible (but it often isn't), so the parts in bold are the other person. I'll also accept any prompts you give (any ship) so just PM me and I'll do my best to get round to them. Anyway, enjoy...

(04:50 AM.) I'm in trouble. -SH

Please, can you come and get me? -SH

I'm close to begging. I'll do anything. -SH

Now is /not/ the time to be acting high and mighty. -SH

Are you still angry with me? -SH

Who is this? Wait, actually I don't want to know. This is the third time this week I've been texted by "Sherlock". Just leave me alone! - JW

Ah. You replied. I didn't think you would, you are a doll. -SH

He is dead. I am trying to let go. Just stop. Please.

Please, John, I really need you. Do I need to prove it to you? Your middle name is Hamish. You told me that you hate being called 'Bachelor' John Watson in the newspaper. The death Frisbee. How many things do I need to do? -SH

That information could be very easily found in newspapers. I am not falling for it again. Stop before I turn off my phone. - JW

What do I have to do to prove it to you? I shouted at you when you first doubted that Moriarty wasn't real. You left your stick behind at Angelo's. We had a laugh after the first time we went to Angelo's, because you invaded Afghanistan. -SH

How-? Who did you bribe to know that? Or did you just source it from security cameras? - JW

I took the security cameras out of the flat because you found three of them. One in the skull, the other in the lower left cupboard and another in the fridge. -SH

This is getting weird. I know you aren't Sherlock -he's not *backspace* you're not- *backspace* Prove to me you're real, then. - JW

God, John, that's immature. Shall I send a car for you and you can come and get me? -SH

So I can be kidnapped by whoever you are? No, thanks. If you knock on the door - yourself, mind - I'll believe you. Whatever mess you're in now, just sort it like you always do. If you're... who you say you are, you can simply get your brother to sort it. - JW

Mycroft doesn't seem to want to talk to me at said moment. Wait a sec. I'll do three long knocks and one short one. Ready? -SH

As ever. - JW

(Delay) Did you hear it? -SH

Wait - Sherlock? - JW

Is that you? - JW

It can't be... - JW

Of course it is, you pillock. Can you let me in now? I'm not in the best of gear. -SH

John pulled himself out of the bed, using considerably more energy than he had been using in the past few months. Setting down his phone gingerly, as if it were a bomb, he made his way around a familiarly empty black chair and up to the window. The frame irritatingly obscured most of the figure on the doorstep, but there was clearly the remnants of his friends coat, collar turned up, and a blue scarf wound around his hand and pressed against his head. The lights of London glinted in the streets, puddles of rain gathering on the side of the pavement. Indulging in an altogether too fragile hope, John admired the figure for the moment, then gathered himself and sternly marched down the stairs to the door.

Sherlock wished he had never done this, especially with what had happened to John and how frail and unhappy the other man had gotten. He really felt terrible about the whole ordeal with faking his death. No, not ordeal. Torture for the most amazing man in the world, John. Sherlock glanced down at his attire under the black coat. A male stripper's costume, for a place he had been working for the past few months, earning money for when he could come back. Sherlock bit his lower lip as he felt for the small velvet box in his pocket, tilting his head up as he heard a noise. The door opened and, before John could even talk, Sherlock had tugged the shorter man close and hugged him tight.

John found himself numb, unable to understand what had happened. He was tempted to fight back, yet some part of his subconscious recognised the smell of his friend, so he relaxed momentarily to give himself the moment of comfort he had been craving for the best part of a year, now. The moment on Bart's came back to him in perfect clarity, however, and he pulled back, shaking, needing to know for sure that it was Sherlock. Meeting each other's eyes was all that was needed for them both to relax, and Sherlock promptly collapsed to the floor from exhaustion.

Sherlock hadn't know why he had felt so tired and unhappy and wanting to collapse straight away, but he needed to cling onto John and hold him and feel him and feel good and feel happy. He let out a small mewl as John seemed not to pull away, before Sherlock's legs gave way and he thumped to the floor. He was tired. Sherlock woke up a few hours later on the sofa, probably the only place John could carry him to. He frowned and looked around, finding he was in his t-shirt and sweatpants. "J-John?" Sherlock mumbled, grabbing his coat and wincing as he sat up.

"Hey, I'm here." John muttered, reaching Sherlock with a bowl of warm tomato soup. He looked quizzically at Sherlock's possessiveness of his coat, but decided not to ask, and the question joined the pile of things John wanted to know yet was ignoring, for the moment. "What hurts?" Sherlock simply groaned as an answer, so John relied on his estimations from sight: a hit to the head, several to the torso and legs, which had potentially broken one of Sherlock's ribs, and mysterious incisions on the bottom of Sherlock's feet. Even without Sherlock's ability to deduce, John knew that Sherlock had been the victim of a group doing cruel and unspeakable acts.

"N-No, no, no... John..." Sherlock mumbled, his eyes widening as he watched the other man touch different parts of his body as he tried to gain his bearings. Finally, he dug his hand into the deep black pocket and brought out the small red velvet box, holding it tightly in his hands. "W-Wait, please." Sherlock whimpered, wanting John to actually listen to him instead of running ahead and things like that. "I-I... I am so sorry... F-For everything... I did to you..." He panted, his breath coming in short pants as he took John's hands and pressed the box into his hands gently. "Open it, please."

John paused his examination of the wounds, offering Sherlock a gentle, confused look. "I- I don't understand, Sherlock." noticing the box, his eyebrows furrowed. "What-" Sherlock cut him off silently, pressing the box into John's hands. "O-Open." he shuddered out. John held the box cautiously, and lifted the lid.

"I told you to o-open... Now, open it." Sherlock mumbled very softly as he watched John look even more confused at the sight of the box. He grinned faintly as it was opened and showed the gold band with the inscription 'My light. -SH' on the inside of the ring. "T-There you go." Sherlock hoped John would realise that he meant a proposal. "C-Can't... Speak much. Hurting." He mumbled, wondering if John would understand.

John's jaw involuntarily dropped open. It was too much, he couldn't cope with the shock, and as a result, he started to sob. Grief, overwhelming grief, had disappeared in an instant, and John hadn't even figured out if what was replacing the emptiness was anger or feeling ecstatic or confusion - probably a mixture of all of it.

Sherlock's eyes flew wide in fear as he watched John burst into tears, panic flooding through his body as he realised that this had been a bad idea. He shouldn't have done this. Suddenly, Sherlock was gathering up his coat and putting it on, heading it for the stairs, deciding that he was bad for John and that he always had been.

"No! Stop! Sherlock, please! Not again- Not- Not again- Don't leave me-" John was astounded by the neediness in his voice, but in that moment realised where it came from: it was in his veins, this dependence on the one man who could satisfy his addiction. Yet Sherlock wasn't just an enabler, he was the dealer, and the victim, and every other aspect of the life John had loved. Sherlock turned around, fear in his eyes, the adrenaline of seeing John- his John, the John he had thought of in every moment of hurt - overshadowing any of the other pinpricks of pain from his wounds.

John. It had always been John and the way he looked and spoke and talked. Without another thought, Sherlock strode over, cupped the other man's cheeks and kissed him soundly, soon melting into the gentle movement as he pressed John to the wall, pulling away to pant softly into his mouth. "You're perfect." He mumbled softly, his chest rising and falling with every breath as he tried his hardest not to burst into tears at the thought of being with John again. "A-And... A-And I... Um... I-I love you." Sherlock pressed their lips back together, clinging onto John with every ounce of strength he had left.

John kissed back, aching to press as hard as he could against the other man, but weary of causing him pain. He settled for gently pulling him down by his shirt, making sure not to cause any harm as he did so. Sherlock simply pushed himself further onto John, further and further forward towards him, wanting to be closer, until John's back hit the wall and they broke apart, panting.

"John, my darling, John..." Sherlock panted out, the pain seeming to have gone away as their lips remained so close and yet seemingly so far. He slammed their mouths back together and thrust his tongue into John's mouth, tugging him towards the bedroom, not even beginning to consider his injuries. Sherlock's hands dug into John's short blonde hair, tugging on it as they kissed messily.

"Sherlock..." breathed John, then as reality hit him for the second time that night, he said more sternly "Sherlock." Sherlock, thinking he had done something wrong, again, pulled away, but found himself caught in John's arms. Confused, he stared at John expectantly, waiting for an explanation.

"Sherlock, I... We have to sort out ourselves before we can... y'know. You've still got to explain why I thought you were dead for so long!" John felt his anger rising, and felt his voice grow louder with each memory of grief. "You were dead, for god's sakes, and now you're back, snog- doing things that could scar me for life!"

"Don't be stupid, John. You remember the decapitated woman with-" Sherlock had stepped out of the embrace now, worried about John but knowing that he wasn't going to be kicked out. Thankfully, John had retained his doctor's morals.

"That's not what I meant! Christ, Sherlock..." John lost his voice from the frustration. He paused, trying to put the entire night into perspective, pushing his hands into his eyes in a futile attempt to concentrate. Sherlock had laid back down on the sofa, and John felt a stab of regret for letting the night go so unbelievably wrong, and ignoring the obvious pain his friend was in. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to focus, prioritising Sherlock's wounds above everything, and ignoring the anger he knew he would have to face. However, he also recognised the warmth he felt when he started to tend to his patient, and knew that above all, they would fight it through together. John only moved from the sofa that night three times; once to get Sherlock a drink, once to go to the bathroom, and once to pick up the small red velvet box on the floor, open it, and slip the gold band onto his finger.

His eyes wandered over to the sleeping Sherlock, and John smiled at the mass of black curls partially hiding his face. Pushing them back, he gently pressed a kiss to Sherlock's forehead, felt himself be pulled onto the sofa, and fell asleep with his detective as the city started to wake.