Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Sherlock.

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Transition

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John isn't at all good with coping. Never has been, never, in fact, claimed to be. Which is why he went to therapy after returning from Afghanistan, hoping it might bring an end to those gut-wrenching nightmares. How naive he's been, back then. He'd actually called them gut-wrenching because they'd felt that way, and his therapist Ella had approved of the term, had encouraged him to say it. Her way of staying calm no matter what was infuriating at times, though of course, that was part of her professionalism: for her, it never became personal. She only had to hear it, didn't take it home with her. Didn't see the things John saw after he fell asleep.

And yet, that was nothing in retrospect, no match for what was to come. Sherlock's fall off the roof of Barts was so much worse than anything John could have anticipated, and he ended up reliving it again and again, each time hoping he'd be fast enough to do something, catch Sherlock maybe.

Waking up to a Sherlock-less reality was a shock every time, and it took John months to process it; he didn't exactly get better, but the dream eventually lost a little of its intensity, even though it didn't stop entirely. Therapy didn't seem to help at all that time, and speaking to Ella seemed wrong somehow, just as talking in general did. He should have been talking to Sherlock, should have been able to prevent it, to see what his friend was going to do, but if there had been any signs, he didn't see them. He had failed Sherlock, and there was no sense in engaging with other people when it didn't bring his best friend back.

John did however get the miracle he asked for on a cold and dreadful day at the detective's grave, and now Sherlock is here, living and breathing and being his sometimes entirely too annoying and sometimes surprisingly endearing self. It wasn't easy for John to allow him back into his life, as much as the doctor had wished for it, because there was a significant difference between theory and practice, after all, and Sherlock had taken his time to show something akin to remorse. It had in fact taken a remarkable lot of time for him to realize just how strongly John had grieved, how strongly Sherlock's alleged death had affected his friend. Just because Sherlock was good at subdueing his own emotions, he tended to forget that most other people didn't do the same.

Sometimes it's difficult to even watch Sherlock sleep, because in his sleep he looks so young and vulnerable it's enough to break John's heart. He looks like someone who can easily be hurt, and somehow, that seems to be true. The Mind Palace is an indicator of that, as John is suspecting, since it seems so much more than just a filing system to Sherlock- it's a hiding place. John doesn't know how old Sherlock was when he started constructing it, but the apparent depth and complexity is rather telling: Sherlock literally loses himself in there for hours if need be, completely blanking out his surroundings.

In contrast, he's a rather light sleeper, and John has to be careful not to stare him awake at times. Ever since he and Sherlock have become more than just friends, John found he enjoys watching Sherlock on the rare occasions that he gets the chance, even when it does in fact gives him the goosebumps, induced by a mixture of love and protectiveness and the fear of losing his partner again.

Once his anger about Sherlock's forgery had died down enough for John to be able to sit down calmly and listen to whichever explanation Sherlock had to offer, he realized that those two years hadn't been easy for the detective either. Sherlock didn't lose too many words about it and tried to keep his face blank, but he couldn't conceal the expression in his eyes which was speaking of loneliness, pain, fear, shame, revulsion and other things John doesn't want to remember. He has since seen the scars on Sherlock's body, and of course, one of the first things he'd noticed was that some of them looked as though they'd healed without having been properly sutured or even tended to at all.

That evidence of self-neglect is still hurting John in a way that makes him want to turn back time, to gather Sherlock in his arms and hide him much more effectively than the Mind Palace. Sherlock acts unfazed about the blemishes which are marring his skin; to him, it's just transport anyway. To John, whose own battle scars seem trivial in comparison, it's a constant reminder that he will not ever let anything happen to Sherlock again.

At one point, after Sherlock had explained and actually expressed his regret about how badly it had affected John, after they had talked some more and John had yelled at Sherlock for a bit, they had just sat opposite each other, two weary men in two worn-down chairs. For a moment, two universes seemed to collide: one in which nothing had changed and they were two flatmates who'd simply had a long day, and one in which they had just weathered a storm and didn't quite know if they were still friends.

The moment passed, and Sherlock's expression softened; he seemed exhausted, unsure what would happen next. John knew that if he got up and left, there'd be something awkward between them for all eternity, something unsaid; he could still feel the aftermath of his anger, but it was interspersed with other emotions now, emotions which drowned out the lingering remnants of feeling betrayed somehow, and his heart was beating wildly.

If he left now, he'd regret it. He didn't know what'd happen next either, but the months of missing Sherlock, of wishing he'd see him again, seemed to surface anew, accumulating in his mind with fresh pain and the demand to be close to the man who was in fact only the blink of an eye away but who might vanish again if he did blink. Unthinkingly, John got up and reached out for Sherlock, who seemed surprised but allowed himself to be pulled to his feet and closer than expected. So close, in fact, that he could feel John's warmth.

"I missed you," John said in a low voice, dazed by Sherlock's immediate proximity and his scent which came with it, a blend of warm skin and subtle aftershave which spelled home and also made his heart beat faster.

It had been the beginning of something which actually had long since begun.

John isn't at all good with coping, but he is good at healing both other people's ailments as well as his own. His soul , the same one that can plunge him into pits of despair dark enough to make him feel blind, is able to soak things up like a sponge, things which are doing a great deal to make him happy, such as the first time he woke up next to Sherlock and knew it wasn't just a figment of his imagination but was really happening. He doesn't have a Mind Palace, but he's a got a place in his heart which contains all matters Sherlock, and even though it's full to bursting already, there'll always be room for more, he's certain of it.

It still feels rather novel that the days are not only not filled with constant dread anymore but that getting up in the morning seems possible again. The world which had lost most of its colour has turned back into being full of things to look forward to.

Sherlock seems to sense that John needs to have this, even when this consists of in his eyes rather pointless endeavours. He complies, though, accompanying his doctor to the cinema once in a while, or taking day-trips to the coast on warm summer days. It's not actually so bad when John is with him, because John understands that Sherlock perceives the world around him differently from other people. He is not offended when Sherlock doesn't share his own enthusiasm for something; he appreciates the effort that Sherlock is coming along at all.

Spending time with John has gained a different quality these days, because Sherlock has learned the hard way not to take something so seemingly ordinary for granted. He's learned that twice, actually: both during his time away and afterwards, when John simply couldn't face him for a while. Therefore, he complies, and it's not all bad, of course; a lot of things Sherlock would have scoffed about two and a half years ago are not as boring and predictable as he'd have thought (though films remain the exception, in his opinion). Even the mundane loses its obnoxiousness if it's something you can't have, Sherlock muses, involuntarily thinking back to a damp, ill-lit room somewhere in Serbia; back then, he'd have given his right arm for something as trivial as a walk in the park.

John sometimes suggests outings which seem rather strange and oddly touristy at first, such as partaking in a guided Jack the Ripper walking tour through Whitechapel, or a ride on the London Eye.

Sherlock draws the line at Buckingham Palace. "I've had tea there, I don't need a tour," he tells John. Whose grin betrays what exactly he's associating with that rather unforgettable visit at the palace, and it's not tea.

Sherlock knows what John's doing though; he wants to re-acquaint them with London, make up for the lost time and at the same time getting to know the city in their newly found incarnation as a couple. And of course, there are cases; neither of them can imagine a life without them, they are equally addicted that way.

In the end, it's not only John who's enjoying the entirety of these things, and it's not only John either who's soul is beginning to mend.

He knows this when both his own and Sherlock's rather frequent nightmares begin to recede; when they are standing in front of the elephants at the London Zoo, Sherlock with a frown, John with a smile, and neither of them needs to say word because they know exactly what the other one's thinking of; when Mrs Hudson brings a plate of freshly-bought biscuits and the latest gossip about their neighbours, causing Sherlock to roll his eyes impatiently.

It tells John that the imbalance which had gripped their lives for such a long and gruesome time is slowly tipping back to normal; they're finally losing their sea legs.

He can definitely cope with that.

The End

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