It's raining. It's always raining. Has it always been this grey? You'd think I'd notice the bloody weather.

John Watson didn't notice much nowadays. You see but you do not observe. The incessant tap of plastic against wood echoed through the clinic, grating, piercing, the others were noticing, exchanging glances, and looking at Sarah with pleading eyes.

"John." Tap. Tap. Tap. "John." Tap. Tap.

Wood scraped against tile and suddenly she was beside John who had been bent over a stack of papers he'd been staring at for hours.

"John," her voice was sweeter now as she placed a hand between his shoulder blades. His body gave a startled jerk, silence. The pen dropped from his twitching fingers.

"Sorry..was I-" he saw in that concerned gaze that he had been indeed. "I didn't realise."

"Why don't you clock out early?" Sarah was standing there upright, smiling, the perfect vision of loving uneasiness as she witnessed the unravelling of the weary ex-army doctor she had hired a second time in an effort to keep him sane.

"Right." John sifted through his papers with the tiring realisation that he had accomplished nothing in the last two hours of his shift; at first he thought time was just slipping by faster but now he often found himself with several hours of his life missing and no excuse for how he had passed the time.

The walk will be good. Nothing like a little air to clear the head.

The rain let up, but only just as John Watson splashed his way outside. Chilled drops struck his skin. It should have made him wince, maybe walk a bit faster like the rest of London, but he didn't. He shoved his hands deep in his pockets and began his trek. Engines rumbled past him throwing up water in their wake, it splashed on the calves of his trousers; shoes clicked by, doors were ferociously slammed shut by the wind, there was a delicious hiss seeping out of restaurants as they prepared for dinner. John barely heard any of it. The Sound of Life.

Worn shoes pattered up the achingly familiar steps of 221B. Each one creaked under his weight sending some haunting memory flooding through his grey matter; his body froze in the doorway.

"I said, 'could you pass me a pen?'"

"What? When?"

"About an hour ago."

"Didn't Notice I'd gone out then?"

John's eyes shot open to focus on the chair, the same chair. Clearing his throat, he shrugged off his coat and hung it behind the door. It had been a big decision to keep living in Baker Street, he had made a few adjustments to it, mostly when it came to space. The room upstairs was packed with boxes of his flatmate's old things, books, lab equipment, and the like. Some things he couldn't live without though. John kicked off his shoes and took a roundabout way into the kitchen, arching between the two chairs that still faced each other, passing the mantle, touching the top of the dusty skull that still sat there, dagger beside it. At least the kitchen was clean now, comparatively. The first year nothing moved. The second year John had left. His absence bled into half of the third year. Now here he was and the kitchen was finally clean, the boxes were put away, life was moving on.

I should be moving on.

The kettle was on, serving as the only sound in the flat; the flames hissed, licking the metal sitting atop it, blue and orange tangling across the bottom. John sat at the table with his head bowed into one hand. How many times had he memorised the grain of the wood? That long scratch in the table made his lips twitch in sad remembrance. Git. His fingers found his temples, rubbing small circles into them as another headache edge its way into the confines of his skull. These spontaneous pains were becoming fairly common, weren't they? John was in the middle of trying to remember when his last headache had been when a soft thump in the other room caught his attention. His head popped up sending a sharp jolt toward his frontal lobe.

"Shit!" John gripped onto his forehead to keep at the rhythmic rubbing, got to his feet, and peeked around the corner to inspect the hall. The cold from his damp clothes seemed to finally seep into his bones as he rooted around for the phantom noise. Satisfied with the wind as his culprit, John entered the old room. One step inside and his head seemed to split at the seams, protesting the intrusion on such a sacred space. John stripped from the heavy, damp fabrics and plopped onto the bed. Even with his body in it, it was empty, much too big for one; he was too small a person to sleep in this bed. Only one body could fill such a space. Both hands dropped to rest on his legs. Nothing could stop the powerful surge in his brain, the painful pulse with which it wracked his mind was numbing—that was nice at least. Another thud outside the door.

"Hello?" John flew to his closet, slipped into a pair of burgundy pants and ripped the door open. Nothing. Anger etched itself into the lines of his forehead. "Hello!" Had someone hit his window? Trotting out to the sitting room he saw nothing except for his perfectly sound glass windows, still, silent. "What the hell is wrong with me?" John rubbed his eyes.

She's dying. You…machine!

John's world spun around him, his vision blurry, knees buckling. The only sense that seemed to be functioning was his hearing.

"This is my friend, John Watson"

"Friend?"

"Colleague."

Another thud. Then a bang. The kettle was hissing. John was on his knees threading his fingers through his thin greying hair with that blinding pain searing the backs of his eyes. Moments passed and he begged for his hearing to go, for everything to be silent; the flat was filled with sharp cracks. Gunfire. Screaming. Please doctor, I need to keep the leg. He could smell it, the sweet aroma of burned gunpowder, that hot metallic scent of blood, Sherlock—oh that smell that was so very Sherlock Holmes.

"Will caring about them help save them?"

"Nope."

"Then I'll continue to not make that mistake."

"And you find that easy, do you?"

"Yes. Very. Is that news to you?"

"No. No."

"I've disappointed you."

"Good. That's a good deduction. Yeah."

"Don't make people into heroes John. Heroes don't exist and if they did I wouldn't be one of them."

"Stop..stop this," John curled on the carpet, pressing his face against the floor to drown out the shrieks, the sounds of war, the haunting memory that had plagued him for the last three years—Sherlock falling. It had been noiseless, slow. The image of his sleek body cutting through the air.

It was as if his brain had compiled every moment of his life that he regretted and played his guilt like a soundtrack in his weary ears. Sweat dripped down his body as his chest heaved for the oxygen he couldn't find face down in the floorboards. When he righted himself to sit on his heels he was struck with the most horrifying images in the windows. Old comrades. Brothers in arms. Beating down his windows, leaving their blood splattered in intricate designs. Mates he couldn't save. Those shadows were creeping in on him, sucking the air from his very lungs and making them burn as he suffocated.

Just as John felt his faintness, the sweet relief of unconsciousness coming over him, it all stopped with one heavy pound on his personal front door. Just like that it and all that was left was the high pitched whistle of the water behind him. Frantic, John looked at the empty windows. All clean, faceless, nothing but the picturesque image of a rainy London evening. John got to his feet. His lungs sucked in the air they had been denied in an attempt to steady his quaking limbs and put his brain back at one hundred percent functioning capacity. Another heavy knock on the door sent him from the kitchen where he'd removed the kettle toward the door. A quick hand combed through his wet mop.

Compose yourself, no one can know you're a nutter.

The door clicked open. John could feel the colour drain from his face; he was feverish, delusional, obviously. Right? Right.

"Sher-"his feet were taking him backwards away from the surreal human being standing in front of him, "No, you're..." Sherlock was holding up his hands defensively. He looked fine. The perfect image of health really, maybe a bit thin for John's taste but it only made those dashing cheekbones pop more.

"John, listen…I can explain."

"Oh my God, you're…you're here?" The last bit came out like Sherlock's life was supposed to be some well-kept secret between them.

"Yes, obviously." Oh, John could have died watching those striking blue eyes roll in annoyance at him but for the moment he was struck absolutely dumb. He was sure his mouth was hanging wide open as Sherlock strode into the flat with a quick shove at the door; suddenly that brilliant bastard was on about something John could have cared less about. A case? Where he had been? Watching that commanding figure step around 221B like it had never left made John sure of one thing, none of it mattered. Sherlock was home.

Who gives a toss? Sherlock bloody Holmes is here, in front of me. Home. Home.

It sunk in bit by bit until John let his chin drop to his chest and turned away. Sherlock would laugh at him if he saw just how quickly tears were making their way down his face; he had been dabbing at them discreetly, sniffling into his sleeve when he felt a spread of warm fingers curl around his shoulder.

"John?" Another time John might have protested or shoved that hand off his shoulder but he was so tired, so bloody tired of missing the arrogant sod standing behind him. John let himself be turned, inspected, judged probably.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," laughing as he desperately wiped at his face, but it was no use, "I'm so sorry," he sobbed. It didn't take Sherlock Holmes to realise how quickly John's meaning had changed in those two apologies. "Please forgive me," John slumped against that strong body, his head cradled near the dip where neck met shoulder, "I've always believed, I never-" there were so many things to say, so many words to apologise for but in that moment, John couldn't. He was beginning to feel like an idiot standing there, covering Sherlock with his blubbering body so that he might leech some strength from the detective but then those long arms were around him, holding him, squeezing back and coaxing new tears out to stain Sherlock's shirt.

"No, I'm sorry, truly."

They stood there. Locked in the warm embrace of two people who had been lost without their other half. John didn't know how long it lasted. It didn't matter. Nothing did. Sherlock Holmes was holding him. He was feeling. When they did part it felt too soon, John had made fists on his flatmate's chest, gripping the taut shirt that would surely pop if Sherlock moved too quickly from his grasp. Those firm muscles beneath were moving, away? Closer? John could feel them writhing under his little finger as breath flowed in and out. He was going to protest such a short embrace and parted his lips, but air slipped inside his chest and was immediately thrust out by the crushing of their mouths.

John felt limp in the arms that still circled his waist. Neither of them moved for several seconds before Sherlock broke first.

"Sorry..I've….well I thought you—I've never…"

"Shut up," John grabbed the back of that elegant neck that had to crane down to seal them together again. They were humming together, groaning into the foreign contact that John thought he had forever lost when he buried Sherlock in the ground. At first it was obvious that Sherlock had never kissed someone. His lips were still, rigid, confused as John tore at his mouth mercilessly; a different approach then. The soldier lowered himself off the tips of his toes, softened his hold and lowered it to one of Sherlock's shoulders. Their lips popped apart for a breath, "I've missed you," John sucked in that perfectly bowed lower lip, ran his tongue along it and memorised the taste, the feel, the weight; he wanted to memorise all of it. Everything Sherlock.

Time stopped between them. It was just them, exploring, tasting, remembering, and creating new memories. John smiled into the lips that were slowly relaxing and becoming suppler against his own.

Mmm, that's it. Well done Sherlock. Later, he'd tell Sherlock later what a fantastic kisser he is.

Eager, teasing kisses ran down that pale neck, nipping at the protruding collarbone just above the buttons screaming for mercy across Sherlock's broad chest; those lovely little gasps being released into the air were enough to bring John to his knees. Not a bad idea really. John released each button, kissing every newly exposed patch of flesh until he'd thrown the shirt to the floor. He took a moment to admire that thinly muscled frame; there had been a number of times that he had seen Sherlock in all his glory but never had he allowed himself to look, to stare shamelessly.

"You really are a gorgeous bastard," that obtained a hearty laugh from Sherlock. It was refreshing to hear that forgotten sound with all its deep richness tickling John's skin as he was scooped into another close hold.

"You're an idiot." Open mouths met, tongues slid in beside one another engaged in a slow dance that had been forever a fantasy. Sherlock ran his fingers up along John's torso, exploring the scars, dips, the gentle curves of muscle, memorising, calculating, storing. Something in him had been stirred, his kisses became feverish as he drew John even closer to feel skin on skin; their hearts threw themselves frantically against bone as if they could defy physics and meet somewhere outside their bodies in the interim. Together. Finally. The duo dropped without a word of consent. John on top, straddling that impossibly thin waist.

"Trousers," he whimpered, hands nudging at his lover's waistband stupidly.

Fuck. Come on you're a bloody doctor! Get it together, fingers.

It was quick work once his brain finally agreed to transfer the message to his clumsy digits and soon they were writhing on the floor, fingers ripping off the only remaining barrier between them. Flesh against flesh. Hot and hard. Slick with arousal. John wasn't gay. Even to this day he had never looked at another man but Sherlock Holmes was no man, he was unreal. A shadow. Or an Angel. An unearthly creature that somehow had come to be attracted to someone as ordinary as John Watson. Whatever the reason, it didn't matter. Nothing did.

Sherlock took the upper hand, tossing John on the floor with a thud; they were giggling into each other's mouths.

"Keep it down would you? Mrs. Hudson doesn't need to stumble in on this, Christ she'll have more to worry about than her hip."

"If you're going to complain about my methods after being apart for three years," John grabbed Sherlock's face to stop the rude flow of words that were bound to come out. They were laughing again, Sherlock resting on top, they were heat, breath, beating hearts, pulsing bodies, and salty skin. They were John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. "Do you want this?" Suddenly Sherlock's hand was traveling toward unexplored territory, prying between John's legs with a curious finger. Before John could respond his head was tilting back, air pooling in his lungs as the tip of that slim digit simply rested at the unused entrance.

"Christ Sherlock…I don't know," those grey orbs met that impossibly blue gaze and they held each other there. There were no words but they were speaking. John could feel his features being measured, assessed, stored for future reference and all he had to do was stare up at those all seeing eyes; whatever Sherlock saw he knew that was what he wanted.

Silence sat heavy upon them as Sherlock extracted his hand leaving John feeling empty and a bit let down. A smug smirk appeared on those perfectly bowed lips before they curved into a tight 'O' to circle around that same finger. John laid there, mouth wide as he watched the obscenity of Sherlock Holmes wrapping his tongue around his slender finger, sliding it in, out, dripping. His own mouth was watering, wanting a turn at that finger to see just what tasted so good that kept Sherlock pumping it between his lips. The cold air nipped at his newly heated skin. Then Sherlock was sinking, disappearing and taking his warmth with him; he sat between John's legs and finally relinquished that finger to the cavern of open legs below him. Eyes met. Sherlock was pressing, stretching muscles that resisted him despite how thin his index finger was. John wriggled but mostly trained his eyes on Sherlock's and relaxed, as long as he could see that beautiful face he knew he was safe.

Uncomfortable. Full. Torn. John was all those things as Sherlock slipped tenderly inside but, he felt safe. He pressed his shoulders into the floor, arching his back against the alien pressure that felt so very deep inside him; he had closed his eyes now, relying solely on Sherlock's expert powers to deduce whether or not he was enjoying what he was doing—because honestly, he didn't know what he was feeling. Overwhelmed. That was it. John's eyes flew open with his revelation only to stare up into the tenderest look he had ever seen on the detective's face.

"Stop thinking," Sherlock's voice was so low John was surprised it didn't rattle his bones; he let the deep bass coerce him back to earth and soon his hips were moving of their own accord against not one, but two fingers now. The discomfort dissipated leaving behind it a lust for more.

"Sherlock," John wrapped an arm around the back of his flatmate, "Jesus…."

"As many times as I've dreamt of you like this, it certainly doesn't compare to the real thing. You're gorgeous," a tickling brush of his lips swept across John's moist forehead.

Their lips were sealed again, roaming as Sherlock moved quicker, stretched John beyond what he thought possible and elicited the most wicked sounds from his partner; when they parted they got caught staring again, soaking in the other, afraid to blink and destroy the beautiful mirage dancing before their eyes. John wanted more. Needed more. He pressed the back of Sherlock's shoulder, to encourage him, stoking the flames as he let his hand ride the dip of the detective's low back.

"I don't have anything John, it wouldn't be comfortable."

God dammit Sherlock, get out of my fucking head. No, stay. I want you in here, deducing me, knowing what I'm thinking before I do. But really, get out you loveable idiot.

"This," John pushed his finger between Sherlock's lips and laid entranced by the way it disappeared into the dark wetness, "mmmm, this." His finger pulled out with a pop.

"That's ridiculous it's hardly enough lubrication, John I'll destroy you and you'll never want to try this again."

John gave a more violent shove of his finger into that stubborn mouth, collected a sample, then smeared it over that tight pink ring of muscles himself only to be delightfully pleased at the way Sherlock reacted; his eyes widened, glazed over with a primal lust as he watched John toy with himself and spread that clear liquid over such a vulnerable place. Lithe movements brought Sherlock over John's body, hand against his mouth then brushing over neglected cock, mouth again, John's waiting arse. Eyes met.

It is going to hurt still.

I don't care. I need you. I need this, I have needed it for three years.

I love you.

John felt as if he were being split in two along the ridge of his spine, torn apart ruthlessly only to be carefully knitted back together by the calming kisses down his torso. Then there was a hand at his own dripping prick, tugging in slow long strokes to match the passionate thrusting below.

"Oh my-"his mouth was covered, stolen by the man he'd yearned for his entire life but hardly knew it until he watched him fall. John threw his arms around that set of broad shoulders, hugging, clutching, drawing life from them as the muscles beneath alabaster skin wrinkled and stretched. They were rolling together, pelvis to pelvis, every so often Sherlock would lean back exposing his slender waist and the strong trench-like lines engraved in his abdomen as he added more of the inadequate lube to their writhing bodies; then he'd return like a soft shadow, falling over John with kisses to spare. Their breath was lost between them in heavy puffs, sweat dripped, muscles tightened in resentment at the horrible but breathtaking intrusion. All the while, that wide palm moving over John, slowing down, speeding up, in time with hips that could only be so gracefully skilled from taking hundreds of lovers; but they hadn't, John grinned into Sherlock's neck, that was just Sherlock. Good at everything, down to the last detail.

Sherlock was deep, moving quicker now.

"Sherlock, I-"

"I know."

Of course he knew. John hadn't noticed but those eyes were steady on him, memorising his face, reading him and his body; Sherlock was as attentive in lovemaking as he was at a crime scene and it was beautiful. John crushed their lips together, stifling a cry that surely would have woken the whole street as he hit the edge and came crashing down; Sherlock's free hand had somehow made it behind his head, cushioning his fall as his body relaxed in its sticky glory.

"God John..the look on your face." Sherlock looked absolutely incredulous, as if he'd never seen a sight more arousing and he gave one last strong buck that was his undoing. Black curls splayed across John's chest, he was being filled, consumed, and devoured by Sherlock and his commanding body. They were a pile of bodies seconds later. Heaving on the floor. Holding. Kissing. Touching. This was real. John could hardly withstand the bursting in his heart as it continued its violent flailing, desperate to be held in the hands of its lover; he grabbed a hold of Sherlock, dug his fingers in that mess of hair and simply held them there. Forehead to forehead. Mind melding. Becoming one in heart, body, mind, and soul.

Grey met blue.

"Did that actually just happen? Did you walk into my flat-"

"Our flat."

"…my flat, after being dead for three years, and shag me senseless on the ground?"

"I wouldn't say that, it took a lot of sense to draw that out of you, I think I heard a 'oh Sherlock, please don't stop' somewhere in there."

"Come off it." They were laughing again, this time as they lay entangled in each other's limbs. It felt good to let go, to be whole once more. They were staring again. Silence. A comfortable one though.

"Why don't we have a shower and go out?"

"As long as I get a turn later." John swatted at Sherlock's retreating figure and to the best of his ability, plodded along after him.

They were like schoolboys in the shower, all roaming hands and shy glances as they rinsed. Quiet words of affection were drowned out by the water and old creaking pipes in the wall; no one needed to hear. Fuck the rest of the world. When the water had grown cold they threw themselves out in robes and towels in search of fresh clothing.

"Still taking longer than me, glad to see much hasn't changed," Sherlock was wrapping his neck with the scarf John had always wanted to tug on and so he finally did and pulled the taller man down to connect.

"You missed me, don't lie."

An exchange of knowing smiles and they were out the door in a whirlwind, whipping around the stairs like the old days and into the streets for a cab. John had just lifted a hand, stepped in and scooted over for his companion.

"Oi, I am a bit sore," he was giggling again.

What is wrong you with John? Running about giggling like a young girlish thing.

The cab began rolling.

"Angelo's then?" John turned toward the seat next to him. It was empty. "What?" he whirled around in his seat to look out the back and saw no sign of the detective. Not even a fleeting coattail. His body slowly sunk back down into the seat. He felt woozy. That pain from earlier was eating at the back of his head making his vision sparkle as he tried to regain his bearings. Sherlock was here. Sherlock was home. They had just-

"Sher-"

"John listen I can explain."

"You bloody well should you…you!" John threw a mean right hook.

"All right…I deserved that" Sherlock was holding his cheek.

"No," a manic laugh escaped John, "no, I watched you fall Sherlock, I watched you die."

"I had to protect you. It was…just a trick John,"

"Don't you fucking say that to me! Don't-"

Sherlock was surrounding him, filling all his senses, holding him as he slipped slowly into a fit of tears.

"I'm so sorry."

They were silent at first, both processing that the other was real. After three years Sherlock thought John might have moved, gone off and married, he hadn't known what to expect to find here at Baker Street. He found John Watson. A damaged man but by no means broken. Still the strong soldier, wounded in battle but alive to fight another day.

They were tangled in each other's arms.

"Oh you better run you little shit!"

Sherlock leapt down the steps with John on his heels; he must have been chased for several streets before both men stopped, hands on their knees, bent in half.

"You. Better. Keep. Running. Sherlock." John gasped, leaning back now with his hands on his hips.

"Or. What?"

Each memory was different, flashing before John's eyes like someone had set his brain on fast forward. It always ended the same though. Their lovemaking. On the floor, in their bed, on the kitchen table, in an alleyway; Sherlock would profess his love, take John with his body and make music as he plucked the doctor's weary heart strings. Always beautiful. Always surreal. The moment would pass and they'd leave that safe vicinity of passionate romance and all would be lost. John remembered every instance, the build-up of the last year; every moment a dagger in his heart as he realised Sherlock Holmes was dead all over again, never to return, never to bestow upon him that intimate connection of bodies and souls.

Then he forgot it.

John was lying in bed. It was seven in the morning. Time to go to work.