John stumbled a little on the stairs, and rubbed his eyes as he walked down to the kitchen.

His face felt pinched, his eyes sticky and his mouth dry. His mind was dulled by the two hours of sleep he had gotten so far, but he was thankful for even that.

The deep voice nearly sent him back up the stairs, "Cup of tea, John?"

"Oh, oh, Jesus, Sherlock, I forgot you were…."

"I know," a strong hand guided him to his usual armchair, and Sherlock strode off to put the kettle on, then came back to sit opposite John.

John clasped his hands together, rested his nose and chin on them, and tried not to stare, "I um…"

Silence fell, then Sherlock said in a soft voice, "Having trouble sleeping?"

"You no- well, yes, you noticed," John lifted his hands apart for a second then clasped them back together. "I'd forgotten."

The silence fell again, then Sherlock's voice came again, "What?"

John shook his head, unable to express himself clearly on so little sleep.

Sherlock prompted, "You had forgotten."

John sighed, "I'm worried that it won't be forgetting, it'll be… imagining, that you're back. And then I'll- " he rubbed his face on his balled hands, around in two small circles.

"You'll what?"

John glanced up and met the sea-green, clear eyes, and declined to answer. He looked away quickly, before Sherlock could deduce what he had meant, "I don't know."

John heard a soft shuffle, and Sherlock was kneeling in front of him, saying quietly, in that sincere voice which John had rarely heard, "John."

He managed to meet Sherlock's eyes, which were soft, concerned. So human… sometimes.

"What?" John managed to ask.

Sherlock looked away, then looked back up at him earnestly, "There's no point in telling you that I'm sorry. I did what I had to, to save you. You know all that."

"I get that."

"Then what is the problem? Why can you not sleep?"

John worried his bottom lip in his teeth, and eventually sighed, "Because we got it all wrong, Sherlock. Both of us. You, with your cleverness, me, with my vast knowledge," (Sherlock smiled at the wry tone in John's voice), "of people and… things. We just… got it wrong."

There was a deep sadness in Sherlock's eyes that surprised John, "I should not have left you behind."

John felt his eyes sting slightly but fought it back, "That's right. That's right. And I…" he closed his eyes and shook his head, "…shouldn't have let you think that it was alright to leave me behind. Not ever."

The kettle whistled, and Sherlock placed a hand gently about John's forearm before he released it, stood up and went to make the tea. He made it quickly, cleanly, without any bustle or fuss, his movements as precise as though he were conducting a laboratory experiment. John watched him, his head tilted.

Sherlock brought the tea back with four biscuits on a small plate, which he placed with the two cups on the small coffee table in front of John's chair. He folded his lanky limbs easily and sank down on the floor in front of John's chair arm, and reached for his tea, as did John.

They sat sipping quietly.

Eventually Sherlock turned his head around and up to look at John, and said, "So, we got it wrong."

"Yes."

"All of it?"

There was a short silence while John considered that, "Most of it."

"Well, that's interesting."

The silence fell again as they sipped their tea.

Sherlock finished his tea and commented softly, "There's always something."

John chuckled, and Sherlock smiled.

John waited, and Sherlock murmured, "You're going to make me figure this out all by myself, aren't you?"

"Probably. I already had a go at putting myself out there, Sherlock. I don't feel like trying that again."

"Well, John, we had only known each other for less than 24 hours, I thought it wise to be cautious. I mean, you might have turned out to be a dangerous man."

John leaned over and planted a gentle kiss on top of Sherlock's head, "Depends on what you mean by dangerous."

Sherlock's eyes widened and he looked at John, his expression segueing rapidly from mock horror to a wry smile, "I see."

The silence fell again as John finished his tea and three of the biscuits.

"I won't eat it, it's for you," Sherlock pointed out, and watched as John ate the last biscuit.

They sat in silence, John's leg gradually sagging until it rested against Sherlock's shoulder, then his eyes drooping slowly shut.

Sherlock disturbed him by standing up and taking the tea cups and plate back to the kitchen. John sat quietly, his eyes slowly closing again, until a voice above him said, "Come on."

"What?" John took the proffered hand nonetheless, and was pulled surprisingly easily to his feet.

"Come and sleep in my room," said Sherlock softly, putting his arm around John's shoulders. He grinned at the panicked look in John's eyes, and said, "No, no, no… I'm not…. never mind. But it's pretty obvious you're not going to sleep easy unless you have incontrovertible evidence of my continued presence."

"People will talk," muttered John with a weak smile.

"Indeed they will, John," smiled Sherlock, ruffling the sandy grey hair, "And this time we may get it right and ignore them."