Sherlock stepped across the threshold of John's front door and paused, the lock made the faintest of clicks. Had John been asleep it would not have woken even the lightest of sleepers. However, the reality was that John was very much awake; in fact he was feeling more awake than he had ever felt in his life. Minutes passed as he stared at the back of the bathroom door; all he had to do was step outside and he would know, know for certain if that click had meant the return of Sherlock Holmes. His body was still, tense with suspense, with not knowing. Part of his brain wondered if he could stay in the bathroom forever and not risk the utter crushing devastation should he be mistaken.
Then again, perhaps it was worse to be right.

Sherlock had visited John's apartment a few times since the fall and he had always been careful to leave no trace and yet; tonight he knew that he would be found out, he was almost counting on it. He had had enough of hiding, acting like a ghost to the friend who had been the most real thing in his life.
In a world of corpses and crime scenes John Watson had positively radiated heat and life; shooting colour into Sherlock's world of grey. Whether he was puffing, cheeks flushed red after chasing down a cab or laughing at some rubbish show on the TV, every sound John made seemed magnified to Sherlock's astute hearing. Which is precisely why he knew at that very moment John was standing in the bathroom hardly breathing. Sherlock could hear the short, rattled intakes of breath. It would appear his friend seemed uncertain about whether to investigate which could only mean one thing; he knew it was him.
Had it been Mrs Hudson John would have surely met her at the door and had John thought the intruder to be dangerous he would have brought his gun with him. The element of surprise had been lost which left the consulting detective uncertain about how to proceed and uncertainty was not something that Sherlock felt comfortable with, ever.

Sherlock's stride was longer than John 's and in the few steps it took Sherlock to cross the hall and arrive at the bathroom door John had turned and wrenched it open. There they stood face to face unblinking.
John's right arm shot out aiming straight for Sherlock's jaw, Sherlock had read the attack in the flexing of John's shoulder blades. Since the doctor was shirtless it was all too easy to predict his every move. Sherlock caught the fist in his palm, inches from his face and held it there; his slender fingers wrapping slowly and purposefully around the worn skin of John's knuckles.
Neither of them blinked.
Neither inhaled nor exhaled.
There was only silence.

John didn't retract the punch, didn't relax his arm, despite the pain blooming under the bandage he had wound only minutes before. He would no doubt need to re-attach the butterfly clips after a swing like that. John felt the inside of his throat thicken, uncertain as to whether he wasn't breathing by choice or if he was suffocating.
Staring into Sherlock's eyes he could see something there that he had only seen once before, at the pub in Dartmoor, fear.
Sherlock was genuinely terrified and John would have found that somewhat amusing if he wasn't so fucking furious.

"Liar." He whispered hoarsely trying to put as much malice into the two syllable word as possible. "You bloody liar." Everything was spoken quietly, shouting would not have helped.
As quickly as the rage had surged through him, it left; pushed out by a tidal wave of relief. His hand relaxed into Sherlock's and he fell against the man's chest, all the strength leaving his body. It was as if he was seeing the fall all over again, except this time he was the one falling.

Sherlock was not overly familiar with physical contact, dead bodies don't need hugs, and yet there was something instinctive about the way his arms encased John as his friend fell onto his chest. Their hands still linked, a fist around a fist.
John's body began convulsing, this alarmed Sherlock at first until he realised that the shakes were caused by heavy sobs emanating from John's chest. The man was crying. Sherlock realised the true damage done and felt his defences crumble away as well.

For the past few years Sherlock had been working hard to erase his enemies and even more so, erase himself. He had dyed his hair, wore contact lenses, adopted a new walk, a new accent and a whole new lifestyle in order to become so much more than an alias. Of course in order to truly erase himself he would of had to erase John and that had proven to be something he couldn't do, even if it stood in the way of success. John's friendship had permanently altered the way Sherlock thought, worked and felt. He could no longer be the man he was before he met John Watson, and consequently no other man after. Now the last of Moriarty's enemies lay bleeding in a warehouse. Detective Lestrade had been alerted by Mycroft, giving Sherlock the freedom to return, like a ghost floating, back into the body that was once it's home.

Gently he lowered his chin towards the top of John's head which rested against Sherlock's chest eyes fixed to the floor. "I am sorry," he took a deep and steadying breath. "I know that will never be enough, but just know that I am."
John gave a short, curt nod. Accepting in his action but not entirely forgiving.
"Just know, if you ever do something like that again, I will kill you myself."
Sherlock gave a small grin and the two raised their heads in unison, locking eyes once more, Sherlock could see the conviction of John's words in his stare.
"I don't doubt it." Sherlock replied.
And he didn't it.