Life
Sherlock had been planning this for a long time, his craving for home and for the normality becoming something that overrode his logical thought. To sleep in his own bed, to rest on his own sofa, to get back to a 'normal' life.
In a moment of weakness, Sherlock made it to a snow draped Baker Street under cover of darkness. He wormed his way through his own bedroom window, swinging himself in through the frosted window and landing like a cat on the floorboards. He was quiet, creeping towards the soft bed and running his hand over the soft sheets that felt like down to him. Sighing, he sank into it with a soft moan of approval, not even taking his coat off as he fell asleep, curled up a tiny little ball with heat slowly returning to his chilled fingers and toes.
John closed his eyes, trying to get back to sleep after another paralysing nightmare. He lay quiet in the dark for a long time, staring intently at the light that danced over his eyes with every car that crawled up a snowy Baker Street at funeral procession speed. Still sleep didn't come to him, no matter how much he tried to trick himself into relaxing.
Rising, he gave a sigh of annoyance and got out of bed, his hair in disarray and his eyes ringed with red. He yawned and pottered down the stairs, grumbling to himself as he set the kettle going.
Was he going mad, or could he hear something? A snoring sound, soft and rhythmic. No, surely not. His eyes widened and he flicked the kettle off to hear it better. No, that really was snoring. Coming from Sherlock's room.
Casting his eyes around, John armed himself with a heavy bottomed pan, creeping along the hall to the bedroom, frowning at the chill of the wind from the open window, a flurry of snow dampening the carpet. Redoubling his grip on the frying pan, he eased the door open and lifted it a bit higher.
There was a mound in the bed, curled in on itself and snoring gently. John swallowed, enraged by the desecration of Sherlock's memory. He had dealt with the e-mails, the nasty letters and the graffiti sprayed over Sherlock's headstone, but this was too fucking far now.
Advancing on the bed with a face like thunder, John lifted the pan higher, intending to knock the trespasser out and ring Greg to lock him up. The mound moved, rolled over and in the dim orange streetlight, the intruders face was illuminated. Sickly pale skin was illuminated with the orange haze of the streetlight, making John gasp in shock and nearly drop the pan.
Sherlock Holmes. It was. There was no doubt as to who it was, those cheekbones, that cupid bow of lips! John let out a moan of shock, his legs going wobbly as he let the bed drop to the floor with a clunk.
Sherlock's eyes opened wide, meeting John's. The two stared at each other, dark blue meeting pale blue for the first time in years. Sherlock was off the bed in a flash, catching John in his arms before he could swoon in shock. But John was recovering fast, his anger raising again.
Fingers curling into a fist, John punched Sherlock right in the jaw, still missing his nose and eyes after all this long time. The detective staggered and flopped to the bed, his eyes wide as he looked up at John, bruise gleaming on his jaw already.
"You son of a bitch!" John roared.
"Now… now, John… calm down." Sherlock said, holding his hands out and looking apologetic.
John let out an exacerbated noise and his anger faded, closing his eyes as he threw his arms around Sherlock's neck. Sherlock was shocked with the sudden abundance of John in his arms, uneasy at the physical contact. He gasped and then his arms slowly curled around John's warm body.
Explanations and apologies could be made in the weeks to come, but right now, Sherlock was more than happy just to be home and with John again.
"I'm home… I'm home and I'm alive." he whispered, closing his eyes as John squeezed him tight.