Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Takes place after series two of Sherlock.

John dealt with a lot of crap from Sherlock. He let the man put body parts in the fridge. He let him do tests on him while he slept (even if usually he didn't know about them until morning, but hey, John didn't kill Sherlock after he figured out about it, which was quite a large amount of grace in his book). He let Sherlock drag him all over creation and treat him like an idiot.

He let Sherlock get so thoroughly under his skin that John had barely a moment where he thought about anything other than Sherlock, and he was positive that the feelings weren't just friendly anymore.

And, then, worst of all, he let Sherlock back into his life after Sherlock tore his heart into seven-thousand pieces by jumping off the St Barts roof while he was watching. Sherlock explained the situation to John, and John to a point understood—and, really, John had been missing Sherlock so dearly that no matter what explanation Sherlock would have had, even if it had been less logical than trying to save his life, would have been good enough, because John realised one fundamental fact during the two years Sherlock was gone: John could not function without Sherlock anymore.

So John, to say the least, was very tolerant of Sherlock's shenanigans. It had been another year since Sherlock came back from the dead—John never even asked how he did it, because he didn't want to know. John tried to think as little as possible about the whole event. Pretended things were normal.

And for the most part, they were. It took several months to make Lestrade understand what had happened too, and for everyone to see that what Sherlock did was actually rather heroic. Even Donovan almost admitted it—though Anderson didn't think so. Sergeant Donovan was a little less rotten to Sherlock now, whereas Anderson was even worse than before. But hell if that mattered. Sherlock was back.

So, because of Lestrade eventually trusting him again, Sherlock and John went back to solving cases like before. John restarted his blog. There were still body parts in the fridge and experiments while John was sleeping.

But, remember, things were the same 'for the most part'. See, things weren't all the same.

First off, Sherlock had gone from having sibling rivalry with Mycroft to actually despising him. Sherlock wouldn't even look at him the many times he came and tried to apologise—because Mycroft honestly felt horrible and was practically begging for Sherlock's forgiveness. Two years thinking he was almost single-handedly the reason for his younger brother's suicide had worked to greatly humble the man.

Also, John didn't date anymore. Part of him didn't get why, since he felt as good now as he did before the whole event… but deep inside, he knew.

Because the biggest thing that was different was between Sherlock and John. They were somehow made closer by the whole ordeal, and Sherlock was just the slightest bit more open than before, depending on the day. And John knew, really knew, that he had feelings for Sherlock by now. He got over trying to deny it. But Sherlock was married to his work, so it made little difference. John mostly ignored his feelings, but couldn't bring himself to date anyone else either.

But John finally had experienced the last straw. Finally, Sherlock did something insane, like he often does, but it had crossed the line for John.

John came home from the market and saw Sherlock on the sofa, sleeping. Part of John was glad he was getting some rest, but the other part wasn't feeling so sentimental. He kicked the back of the settee.

"Sherlock, a little help unloading the shopping?"

Sherlock didn't move, as John expected. Even if Sherlock had woken up from the kick, he wouldn't feel the need to help John out, so he'd probably pretend to be asleep still or something to get out of it.

John went about putting everything away and Sherlock didn't bother to get up the whole time. John grumbled all throughout the chore, and then went over to Sherlock.

But then his eyebrows pulled together. Sherlock looked… well, wrong. His skin and lips were pale and his body was hanging off the settee in a way that it almost looked like he fell over that way, not that he lay down and tried to take a nap. John reached down and tentatively put a hand on Sherlock's hand, and automatically John fell to his knees next to the sofa, feeling the hand with both of his in alarm.

It was ice cold. Far, far too cold.

"Sherlock?" John asked sternly, loudly, putting his hand on Sherlock's face. Also too cold. His hands moved to his shoulders to shake him. "Sherlock," he said again insistently.

He felt panic start to overwhelm him, and he told himself to breathe. He was a doctor, for Christ's sake. He couldn't lose his head. Usually, he could stay quite calm in a situation like this, but the pale person in front of him was Sherlock, his Sherlock. It made the occasion a little different.

So John lifted a shaking hand to Sherlock's wrist in order to check for a pulse. He gulped when he felt nothing. He tried the throat too, even though he knew deep inside that wouldn't make a difference. There was nothing there either.

It had been only ten seconds since John had realised something might be wrong with Sherlock, but it felt like it had been hours.

John felt everything in his body stop functioning slowly. His arms first, which fell limply to his sides. His hearing next, which had turned to just buzzing. His vision started going after that, because it had gone blurry and he tried to blink in order to see correctly. His legs now, which couldn't even hold him in a kneeling position anymore and he fell on his arse, but apparently his nerves had stopped working too, because he didn't feel the collision with the floor. He was nauseous, like he was starving and ready to throw up simultaneously. Everything hurt but felt numb at the same time. His brain was both completely empty and full to the bursting.

With John's impaired hearing and cognitive function, it took him a moment to hear something, and another moment to realise it was his own voice.

"No," he was saying. "No, this—he can't—no…"

He couldn't be this unlucky. He couldn't be. Was this what his life was going to be? Just pain and pain and pain and then eventually he would die sad and alone? If so, he'd rather just die right now, because he couldn't lose Sherlock again.

"No, Sherlock, you can't be dead!" he finally bellowed. He hoped Mrs Hudson wasn't home, because she would hear. John jumped up, lunging over at Sherlock's body and shaking him again. "Sherlock, wake up, you git! You aren't dead! You can't be dead!"

Sherlock's head limply lolled from side to side, but otherwise, there was no reaction.

"No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, NO, NO, NO!" John was muttering as he began to hyperventilate.

This was bad enough the first time. But now, god, this was pain like John had never experienced before. He was almost surprised he didn't just fall over dead at the intensity of it.

It took him a moment to realise he was harshly sobbing, in a foetal position. He could hear himself still muttering things, but he couldn't hear what they were, and even if he could the words probably wouldn't even be intelligible.

Hours he must have sat there. Weeks. Months. Years. He didn't know. What did it matter? He hadn't called the police. After years of sitting here, the body'd be almost gone anyway, so what did that matter either?

"It must have worked then," he heard in that miraculous baritone.

What, was John hallucinating now?

But he looked up at the voice anyway, and there was Sherlock, standing in front of John. Still pale, but very much alive.

"Sherlock?" John murmured, his voice sounding far away.

"Of course, John. And I thought you could keep yourself under control in a crisis. Really, it's only been two minutes since you got back from the market."

John was looking up at Sherlock, not knowing what to do. He was figuring he needed to calm down, but he was only starting to breathe harder and faster.

He felt Sherlock kneel in front of him. "John, you need to calm down. I'm fine. I was fine the whole time. See, I was trying to invent a serum that could be taken to perfectly mimic death. I needed someone to find me that wouldn't be hindered by knowing it was an experiment. So you left for the market, which I knew would take you forty-three minutes with the amount of shopping you were getting, and I took the serum forty-five minutes ago so I would only appear dead for two minutes, enough time for you to diagnose me, but not enough for you to think about calling Scotland Yard. It must have worked, judging by your reaction."

John calmed himself during Sherlock's monologue, feeling the sorrow that had been leaking into his soul quickly morph into hot fury. After all that had happened, after The Fall, Sherlock actually thought it was okay to pretend to be dead again?

John didn't even have words for exactly how he felt about Sherlock Holmes in that moment. He only gaped up at Sherlock, shocked and hurt and extremely furious.

Sherlock got up from his kneeling position and looked down at John impatiently. "I know you'll want to hit me now," Sherlock said. "Get on with it, I have to write down my conclusions."

John forced himself off of the ground, feeling like his skin might melt off from how angry he was. His stomach was clenching so hard he thought it might fall right out his arse soon. He was gritting his teeth until his jaw started to ache.

"You stupid, infuriating, heartless sod!" John roared. "What in the hell makes you think that was okay?"

"It was just an experiment, John," Sherlock said, as if talking to an irrational child. "You only thought I was dead for, what, a minute and a half? Maybe not even that."

"It's funny, Sherlock," John said, his voice dangerously calm, "how time slows down a bit when you think your best friend is dead. Again!" he added sharply. "I already went through you dying once and it nearly killed me! That almost killed me, what you just did!"

"But I'm fine," Sherlock said, truly not understanding what was bothering John. "You're a doctor, you can see that I'm fine."

John shoved past Sherlock to go to his room. He had things to prepare.

But then Sherlock said, "Not even one punch? That's unexpected."

So John turned around and socked Sherlock in the face. Since he wanted it so bad.

"There we go," Sherlock said, wiping the blood from the corner of his mouth. John got him in the mouth that time. He must really have been angry. "Are you done being cross now? Because I'm hungry."

John was so furious that he was seeing red. Before he realised he was doing it, he started throwing more punches at Sherlock. Several more to the face, a few to the stomach. John somehow ended up straddling Sherlock, hitting him everywhere he could reach.

"Is this unexpected?" John hollered down at him.

Sherlock was past being able to say anything, so John got up. Sherlock didn't get up from the ground, just looked up at John with his eyes wide. John, unfortunately, had avoided the nose, mouth, and eyes on all the other hits but the first somehow. John wouldn't mind giving Sherlock a black eye, a broken nose, or a missing tooth at the moment, but apparently his sub-conscious didn't feel the same.

"You are the single most horrible, miserable excuse for a human being that I've ever known," John hissed.

Then he went up to his room and started to pack his things. He wasn't doing this anymore. Sherlock couldn't do this to him! He needed to get out, go live a normal, dull life. Who cared if his limp came back, if he needed to see Ella again? Sherlock had absolutely no respect for him, didn't care how he felt. There wasn't any point in staying.

John came back downstairs with a bag and looked for everything that was his in the front room. He didn't want to have to come back after he was done packing.

"John?" Sherlock asked hastily, off the ground now. He looked pretty horrible, which made John smile evilly. "What are you doing?"

"Leaving," John huffed. "Getting you out of my life for good."

"What?" Sherlock said sharply. "You can't leave!"

"Oh yes I can, and I am. I'm done."

"John!" Sherlock insisted, running over to the door and blocking it.

"I'm leaving, Sherlock. Now get out of my way."

"All this over one little experiment?"

"Over an experiment!" John yelled in exasperation. "That was not an experiment. That was you trying to torture me! You already made me watch you die once, and I didn't know how to live anymore after that! My life was hell and I honestly wanted to kill myself!" John hadn't really talked about how he felt when Sherlock was gone before, and now that John was so furious, the horrified look on Sherlock's face at John's words was gratifying. He plowed on, letting everything in his head flood out his mouth without bothering to decide if some of it was better left unsaid. "I wouldn't have minded if someone walked into the flat and blew my brains out because I'd have been happier! Then you came back and you fixed me again, but I knew that if I lost you again, I wouldn't be able to handle it, because I care about you more than I've ever cared about anyone! Sherlock, if you had taken that serum any later, so I saw you dead three minutes instead of two, you would have woken up to me with a bullet in my mouth!"

Sherlock was actually speechless. Looking down at John in utter shock.

"Oh, do you get it now?" John snapped harshly. "What you just did was cruel and broke my heart all over again and you don't even understand why I'm upset! Now do you understand why I need you out of my life?"

Sherlock's chest was heaving with emotion, his eyes starting to shine. Were those tears coming? Had John been too harsh with—

NO. John was not going to start feeling bad for Sherlock, not now.

"John," Sherlock said, "I sincerely apologise for what I did. Both times."

John was definitely surprised at the apology. They didn't come from Sherlock often, and this was a two-in-one. But he just said, "You think that's going to cut it?"

Sherlock took a deep, shaking breath. "No, you're right. But John, I do get it. That was really stupid of me. I'm admitting I did something stupid. Not a little stupid either, completely idiotic."

"Good for you. Maybe you'll learn some humility without me around," he fumed, trying to get past Sherlock again.

"You can't leave, John," Sherlock pleaded, holding John in place. "I can't—" His voice broke off, as if he didn't trust it to keep steady anymore. He took another deep breath. "I don't know what to say to make you stay, but I need you to stay."

John wanted to say that there was nothing Sherlock could say, that John was leaving and never looking back. But he was looking up into Sherlock's pale eyes, at the tears that were welling up in them, at the absolutely genuine emotions on his face, that were for once out for John to see clearly (fear, frustration [at himself], desperation, and one other… love. That was love).

"Why would you need me to stay?" John asked weakly.

"Why would you want to kill yourself just because you saw me dead?" Sherlock retorted. "I thought it was obvious."

"Don't play the 'we both know what this really is' game with me right now, Sherlock, I'm not even a little bit in the mood for it."

"Because I can't live without you, John."

John rolled his eyes. "Right. You did, remember? You were fine when you got back, same as before."

"No," Sherlock said. "I wasn't okay. I watched you, John. I spent half my time watching you. I didn't see how badly you were doing because I could only watch when you were away from 221B, and that's the only time you showed it, when you were at the flat. But I followed you everywhere. I missed you every moment of every day."

Hearing Sherlock say these things was a little bit like a dream. Maybe, if it were someone else, it would be creepy that he followed John around, but that's kind of just Sherlock for you.

"If you honestly get what that felt like, why would you make me watch you die twice?" John said feebly.

"Because I'm an idiot," he said. "I already told you that."

"I like this. You calling yourself stupid. Do it again."

"I'm a moron, alright?" Sherlock hissed. "You're making jokes again, so does that mean you forgive me?"

"No," John snapped. "But I won't leave."

"Good," Sherlock said.

"But things are going to change, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked uncomfortable. "How?"

"You're going to respect me. No telling me to do things for you that you're too lazy to do yourself. No middle of the night experiments, no scaring me like that ever again or I'm leaving, no question."

Sherlock nodded in agreement.

"And, you could do the shopping every once in a while," he added. Sherlock grimaced, but nodded again. "And maybe even open up to me."

"What does opening up to you have to do with anything?" Sherlock asked quickly. Out of all those things, showing his emotions scared him the most. Figured.

"Because," John said, setting down his bag, which made Sherlock visibly relax, "I want to know if you're feeling that way. I wish I had known you actually missed me."

"Why does that matter?"

"You're really stupid for a genius," John said. "Isn't it obvious?" he added in a mocking voice.

Sherlock opened his mouth, and then shut it again in thought. Then he jumped back, like he sometimes did when he had huge realisations, like they hit him physically as well as mentally.

He looked back down at John sharply, his eyes both showing alarm and… something else. John couldn't tell what.

"You…" Then the alarm started melting away, leaving only the unknown emotion. Sherlock's expression was soft, a tiny smile ghosting one corner of his lips. He stepped closer so John had to really look up to meet his eyes—but he wasn't meeting his eyes, because he was so embarrassed.

"Figured it out, have you?" John asked quietly, pretending not to feel self-conscious. "Took you a while."

Then Sherlock's thumb and forefinger gently gripped John's chin, forcing him to look up into Sherlock's eyes, which had definitely softened into an emotion that rarely found that hard angled face.

"Well you're not so clever either, because you never realised that I feel the same."

"Wait, what?" John said, feeling like he had gone into shock. "You feel…"

Sherlock smiled, really smiled. "Yes, John. Always."

"I didn't know you were capable of feeling like that," was all John could think to say.

"I held feelings like that back most of my life," Sherlock agreed. "But when I met you… I just couldn't anymore. Not with you. I lo—" He stopped abruptly, like he hadn't meant to say it.

John softened all the way, the remnants of his anger vanishing with the words Sherlock almost said. He suddenly felt bad for bashing Sherlock's face so bad and was glad he hadn't actually severely hurt him. Even in his rage, he knew he'd regret it if he actually hurt him.

John didn't know what to say, so instead he just grinned up at Sherlock, and Sherlock tentatively smiled too, like he couldn't help it. John giggled a little and Sherlock gave one of his infrequent, baritone chuckles.

"So Sherlock," John said casually, still smiling uncontrollably. "Now that we've both taken our heads out of our arses and are on the same page…"

"Yes?" Sherlock prompted.

"Well, I intend to kiss you in just a moment here."

Amusement found Sherlock's eyes. "Do you?" he asked with a smirk.

"Yes. Actually, more like snog you, if you want the truth."

"I could tell that well enough on my own, actually. See, your pupils—"

"Shut up," John interrupted, planting his lips firmly on Sherlock's lips and effectively shutting him up temporarily.

They pulled apart and Sherlock was flushed. "That was actually quite pleasant," Sherlock said.

John forgot. Sherlock had never kissed anyone before. "Yes, kissing usually is," he said, feeling amused himself now.

"You can do it again now," Sherlock added.

John grinned and obliged.

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