Disclaimer - I own nothing you recognise, including the title, which was taken from a Pink song, Just Give Me A Reason.

Word Count - 1401

We're Not Broken, Just Bent

John sat graveside, picking absentmindedly at a thread on the bottom of his jumper. It was a nice day out, clear sky and a light wind helping to counteract the heat of the sun. His phone dinged a text alert in his pocket, but he ignored it, the same as he had been doing since leaving the house he shared with Mary that morning.

He knew she was worried about him. He knew that she'd probably contacted Sherlock or Greg to help find him, but he wasn't particularly hiding. If she knew him at all, she'd have known hours ago where to find him.

Of course, she might not be thinking right. He had just called off their engagement, only weeks after proposing to her. Or, weeks after she accepted his almost proposal, he supposed.

He'd never actually got around to asking the question, but the ring had appeared on her finger the following morning anyway, and that had been that.

At the time, he'd had more pressing matters on his mind and had left it be. Since then, he'd withdrawn into himself, two sides of him arguing on the best possible course of action. Would it be better to remain with Mary, allow himself the normal life he'd thought he craved, the wife and possibly kids, the white picket fence and maybe one day, a dog?

The other side of him, the side that got progressively louder and more forceful, was the soldier in John, the one that said that he'd never be satisfied by normal. That side of him argued that Sherlock was his flipside, the chaos to John's order, the man that both mystified and irritated John in equal measure, but also the man that brought action and adventure to his life that he sorely craved.

He thought there might be a way to have both; he could work with Sherlock and come home to Mary. He'd known almost immediately that he was fooling himself for ever thinking it could work.

Sherlock was a force of nature. John knew that he couldn't be half hearted in anything to do with the madman; Sherlock would accept nothing less than all of John's attention. Oh, he hadn't said anything, but John could observe too, and Sherlock wasn't happy with the current set up.

He pretended admirably, but the odd glance showed sadness on Sherlock's face when looking at John. It burnt John inside to know that he was putting that sadness there.

John leant out, brushing away some dried dirt from the bottom of the headstone, gently so he didn't leave fingerprints behind.

"You could have just come to me, you know?"

John didn't bother turning around when he heard the voice, but his lips tilted up in a smile.

"Maybe I wanted to talk without being interrupted," he replied, a teasing lilt softening the words. "Besides, I didn't know where you were."

"There's been a miraculous invention, John. It's called a phone."

John chuckled at the sarcasm, turning his head when Sherlock sat down on the grass beside him. A hesitant hand reached out to rub John's shoulders.

"Are you okay?"

John nodded. "Mary phoned you?"

"Hmm, after checking in with everybody else you know, I believe." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I could have saved her a lot of time had she phoned me first."

"You told her where I was?" John asked, raising his eyebrow.

"Of course not," Sherlock replied, looking offended. "But I would have told her that I knew where you was and that you're fine. She seems to be under the illusion that you're about to off yourself."

John winced. "Not entirely unthinkable, given the way I was when she met me, I suppose."

"John… you're not… you don't…?"

"Of course not," John reassured gently. "But I can see why she would think that way, is what I'm saying. I should let her know I'm safe, at least. I've been rather selfish, today."

"You could never be entirely selfish, John. It's simply not in your nature. Had you done this on your wedding day…. Then I suppose you would be entitled to feel guilty."

John laughed. "Even I'm not that much of a schmuck."

He pulled his phone out, scrolling through the list of messages from Mary to the last one. He fired off a quick reply, telling her he was safe and sound and would be there within the hour to talk. He owed her that much, he supposed.

"Your bedroom is ready for you," Sherlock said after a moments silence. "You know, if you wanted to come home."

John nodded absently, offering Sherlock a small smile. "Home sounds good."

Loading his three suitcases into the back of the cab, John took a moment to look at the house he'd shared with Mary. She stood at the gate, tears pouring unashamedly down her cheeks.

"I'm sorry," John murmured one last time. "I truly, truly am."

Mary smiled sadly, shaking her head. "I knew the moment he turned up in that restaurant, John. I was lying to myself to think that you'd have room in your life for anyone other than him."

John thought briefly about protesting, the words 'not gay' sitting on his tongue, but he shook it off. As Mary had been lying to herself, John was done lying to himself.

He might not be gay, but he wasn't entirely straight, if his love for his consulting detective was taken into account. No matter that the two of them were friends, he knew Mary was correct; he didn't have room for anyone else in his life.

"Thank you," he said, leaning forward to kiss her cheek. "For everything."

Pressing her hand to his cheek, Mary took a step back. "Be happy, John."

Sherlock was waiting for John at the door to 221 when the cab pulled up, and after paying the driver, John and Sherlock took the three suitcases up the stairs to John's bedroom.

Sherlock had a small smile on his face as John lugged one of them onto the bed, unzipping it quickly. He began placing his clothes back into their given drawers, constantly aware of Sherlock's eyes on him as he worked, the Detective settling himself up by the pillows on the bed, his legs crossed in front of him, his elbows resting on his knees.

"I… I'm glad you're home," Sherlock said after a moment. When John looked at him, he was surprised to see a soft blush colouring the pale skin on his cheeks.

"Me too," John admitted. "I feel bad for hurting Mary, but this was the only way this was ever going to work out, sooner or later. I should have known that the moment I saw you."

Sherlock appeared at a loss of what to say and so John got on with putting his things back in their rightful places, making fast work of the three suitcases.

"John…"

He'd just stashed the empty suitcases under the bed, and as he straightened up, he was surprised to find Sherlock directly behind him, his arms winding around Johns waist as his head lowered to rest on John's shoulder.

"Is this okay?"

John nodded. "Of course it is," he replied quietly. "Whatever you want is okay, Sherlock."

He found himself being spun to face the taller man, and taking in the shock on his face, John smiled softly. "I was so broken when you died, you know? It was like… it was like someone took the sun away. I was living in perpetual night, waiting for that one ray of light to blind me again."

He leant forward, running his fingers softly over Sherlock's cheek. "You gave me my miracle, Sherlock. You brought my light back."

Sherlock's eyes were suspiciously bright as he pulled John to his chest in a crushing hug.

"You're not broken, John. Maybe just a little bent."

John pulled back a little, a giggle escaping him as he met Sherlock's eyes. Before either of them could blink, they were laughing, leaning against one another for support as the relief and joy of being back together filled them both to the very brim.

"Is it okay if I love you, John?" Sherlock asked when they settled down a bit, his grip still tight, though his eyes slightly unsure. The sight made John ache.

"It's fine. It's all fine," John assured him. "I love you too."