Author's Notes: Season 3, episode 1 spoilers. In my world, this HAD to have happened!

John and Sherlock, out of breath, slumped up against the wall of 221B. It was surreal, really, after so much time and so much water under the bridge, to find themselves exactly the way they started out together. Notable differences shattered the illusion of sameness, however, the most obvious, the personification of the passage of time, was John's fiancée at his heels. If not for her, it could still be 2012 and they'd be crawling home together after a particularly trying and strenuous case.

Together, they climbed the stairs to the old flat, both men still getting chills at being back here after all that had happened. They went in and threw themselves down in the available seats. All were still too stricken to speak. John's narrow escape from being burned alive, Mary's and Sherlock's cooperation and heroic rescue, Sherlock's maddeningly last-minute disarming of the bomb in the underground,it was just like old times. In many ways, their recent 'adventures' helped break the ice that had built up in the space of two years, helped Sherlock and John feel at home again, safe. This was normal, this was as it should be!

"All right, Sherlock?" John asked, getting the post-panic giggles. They were contagious, and Sherlock joined in. John had gone through a two-year stretch of adrenaline withdrawal, and was happy to have finally gotten a good dose. No one could provide better than his favorite lunatic detective. How it brought everything back! Hearing his friend's demonic chuckle along with his was music to his ears. I

could listen to that all day, he thought contentedly. He sounds like Tim Curry's long-lost son.

"I think so. You?"

He shook his head bemusedly. "Never better. I'll be back in shape in no time if you stick around long enough."

Sherlock had gotten his breath back by now and was searching the room for something. His far-seeing eyes scanned intensely. A slow, triumphant smile spread onto his face. "Oh, my old friend..." he sighed with satisfaction. He crossed near the fireplace and picked up his violin case. He opened it up and slid his hands over the surface of the instrument. He picked it up, gave the strings a pluck, and tweaked the pegs. The second he started to play, however, he realized something was amiss. His audience winced at the sharp noise coming from it, but still he soldiered on. The resulting "music" was worsening rapidly until he finally flung the violin away onto a cushion. He looked at his hands in disgust: they had betrayed him! "For god's sake, it sounds like a cat being murdered! What's wrong with me?!"

John stood up, snatching the bow from his friend's hand before he broke it in a fit of rage. "You're out of practice, it's been two years. You can't have been able to keep up with your scales and such while you were on the run." Sherlock's face reflected something close to grief. He looked down at the instrument and back at John. He looked all around the room, appearing profoundly lost. He sniffed loudly and nodded.

"I'd forgotten. For a minute there, I'd forgotten. I must have..." he gave a sharp shriek of mirthless laughter. "I've deleted it! I didn't mean to."

"Can't imagine the state of your mind-palace now," John joked weakly, trying to bring his friend around. "Must be crowded with all sorts of dreadful things."

"Yes. Yes, it is," Sherlock agreed, actually thinking about it, realizing it for the first time. It was as though the past two years, while on his mission, he'd been on autopilot. Barely functioning, barely human. Here...here was where he was always the most human. "It'll definitely need a spring cleaning."

John put a hand on his shoulder, giving it a rub. "It's all right. You're back. You're home."

Sherlock nodded. "John, could you do me...a huge huge favor? D'you...think you could stay with me tonight?"

John blinked mildly, then turned to Mary. "Uh, think that would be fine with you? If I stayed the night here?"

With a look almost of pity, Mary stood up. "Okay by me. I'll dash home and throw together an overnight bag for you. I think you boys need a proper catching-up after all this excitement." She gave both John and Sherlock a kiss on the cheek and headed down to call a cab for home.

Somehow, this amused the detective. He looked down the stairs, then back at John with a knowing smirk. "I like her."

"Yeah, she likes you, too."

Sherlock only looked surprised for a second before hiding his reaction. It was something rather remarkable, though! Not many people could say they liked him! He briefly wondered what that might say about Mary. She certainly couldn't be of ordinary stock! What a perfect almost-sister-in-law! I always wanted a sister to play with when I was a kid. "Good. We should all get on like a house on fire," he purred, steepling his fingers under his chin. The familiar gesture set John at ease, bringing back fond memories and the just comfort that came with with the odd familiarity between them. Sherlock smirked right back, obviously on the same wavelength. "God, I missed you. I missed you!" he hissed, wiping a hand across his nose. "You...have no idea..."

This got John on the defensive again. He stood straighter, crossing his arms over his chest. "Right, I have no idea what it's like to miss someone. Let's see here, who was the last person I missed that badly? Hmm..." he mock-pondered.

Sherlock grabbed him by the shoulders, pulling him up so their faces were an inch from each other. "You...have no...idea!" he repeated, almost growling. "I wanted...I wanted this, I wanted it so much. I kept silent, but it wasn't for laughs or to see the look on your face when I finally reappeared."

"Oh, no?"

"No!" He released him roughly, almost shoving him away. He paced hard, snarling. "I was one digit away from texting you a thousand times! So close! Ten times a day if there was time. I didn't...because of my mission. It would have compromised the mission. I knew...that if I were to contact you, hear your voice, even read your words on a screen, I'd come running home to you. I could not resist! You at least thought I was dead! There was no temptation, no lure to get in touch. You grieved..." he murmured this last word lovingly. Sherlock was still amazed that anyone would care for him enough to grieve. "And I'm sorry for that. I had to, though. I had to hurt you...in order to save you. Sure, the rest of the world was at stake, too, but the rest of the world can go whistle. You kept me to my task, John. Keeping you safe, so I could someday come home to you. I knew that every success, every link in the chain that I broke brought me one step closer to home." He sank down into the sofa, tilting his head back in thought with a faraway smile. "You remarked on the state of my mind-palace...there've been some changes."

"Really? Put new curtains up in the Death and Destruction corridor?"

Sherlock laughed softly. "No. Built you a room, though."

"What?"

He leaned over himself with his hands on his knees, looking up at John with a shy look of confession. "There's a room...and all that's in there is you. Everything about you. It's all there. Sometimes...when it would get to be too much...the times I was imprisoned and tortured, especially...I'd just slip off into that room and I couldn't feel a thing. I'd just hold you all night. It was so real. I'd wake up all bruised and bloody...but I'd been with you the whole night. It was my safe place; they couldn't take that from me. Having you with me in my head, it was...I can only describe it as nepenthe: you helped me forget my troubles, kept me from despair." They gazed at each other, their very eyes reflecting the hurt, the torment, the loneliness that had ravaged their souls.

Right at that moment, Mary returned. Her feet ran up the stairs and she threw open the door, dropping in a sports bag with a change of clothes and toiletries. "Back, John! Here you go. You boys have fun now. Good night!" She gave John a parting kiss, and off she flew, leaving her intended rather windswept. She scurried off, so glad that John and Sherlock had patched things up. True, she could understand why John had been angry at first. He'd mourned his best friend for two years... and the number of times she'd accompanied him to the gravesite! Still, Mary could recognize this as Sherlock being Sherlock. They'd only known each other for a few days, but they were already in step with each other. Between his indescribable "sameness" and the stories John had treated her to about the man, she felt like she'd always known him.

"Sherlock..." he choked, clearing his throat. "You...you say you...held me in your mind palace. When you were scared or tired or sad...when people were hurting you, you'd just slip into your own head and..." he petered out, nonplussed but wholly touched. He'd never seen his friend so open, so vulnerable. John could see now how exhausted his friend was, how long he'd needed this, to come home like this.

"I held you," Sherlock repeated, staring plainly at him in his usually off-putting way. He looked back down at the floor again with a dry chuckle. "Disturb you?"

"No. No, not really. Glad I could give you some comfort at least."

"I talked to you a lot, too. Like those times that used to annoy you, when I'd carry on talking long after you left the room. It wasn't because I didn't notice you were gone. It was never that. I suppose...and this became more obvious when I was away...that by continuing talking to you even if you weren't there, it meant that you'd be back soon. That I'd see you again. So I just carried on talking to you when I was a thousand miles away, because if I stopped, it would mean that I'd given up, and that I would never get to come home again and be with you."

There was nothing that could be said to this that would sound right. Out of habit, John headed into the kitchen to poke around. Miraculously, he found some bread and a can of baked beans that had been bought recently. Mrs. Hudson had probably been to the store and picked up a few things for Sherlock. It always touched John how much she would mother them, and how his prickly friend would accept such treatment from her. This seemed just the thing after retracing old steps. He returned a few minutes later to the living room, handing Sherlock a plate of beans on toast before sitting next to him with his share. Even more surprising than the mere existence of actual edible food, was the fact that Sherlock actually seemed hungry!

"How long since you last ate, anyway?" John asked.

"Don't remember," he grunted as he wolfed down his supper. "Day before yesterday, maybe day before that...I lose track."

John shook his head, scraping up the last smears of sauce with his toast. "Not much has changed there, then," he observed.

Sherlock stood up, laid his plate aside, and made his way to his bedroom. "John, could you...?" he whispered. "I know we're just back on speaking terms after all that, and I don't mean anything lewd by it...but might you," he cleared his throat roughly, muttering in a hurry, "Might you join me in here tonight? I mean, it's only practical, your old upstairs room's bed is stripped bare. It's either this or the sofa. I've..um, thought of it so many times." The normally impassive, impenetrable man sounded so vulnerable and lost, almost childlike.

This brought John's eyebrows way up as he considered this suggestion. He took in his friend's pleading expression, this friend of his who had toiled and fought and bled for two long years, all effectively for his sake. This friend whose sole source of solace was imagining having him in his arms...and now he'd invited him into his bed. Oddly, John found himself nodding. He grabbed his overnight bag with numb fingers and followed Sherlock. They sat down together, Sherlock looking deliberately away as they dressed for bed. John tried to inject a bit of levity into the situation. "Are these the same sheets as-"

"Yes," Sherlock answered calmly, smiling now at the memory. John breathed out a sharp, short laugh as well, remembering.

"Think anyone else has done that since?"

"Hmm?"

"Strutted into Buckingham Palace wearing nothing but a sheet?" John asked, his giggles getting up a good head of steam again as he replayed that incident in his mind. "And the look on your brother's face... I almost felt sorry for him! God, that was the best day," he sighed, sliding under them. Then he reached over and turned out the light.

Sherlock scooted in next to him with a contented sigh. "No, this is the best. I get to sleep in my own bed again. This won't get old for ages, I'm sure. Mmm..." he sighed with pleasure, rolling over and pulling John up against his body in one swift motion. His breath was shaky, John wondered for a moment if he was crying...then realized they both were. He felt Sherlock's heart pounding against him as they lay spooned together. It felt strangely cozy. After grieving for his best friend for so long, to have him warm and alive, real and close to him at last, it was good therapy for both of them. John heaved a contented sigh as well. Carefully, he turned over to face him.

In the moonlight, Sherlock grinned at him tearfully as he realized his fondest wish had been granted. Still, he worried how his friend was coping; he thought he ought to set his mind at ease as best as he could. "Don't worry, John, I don't plan on trying anything. Wouldn't even know how," he reminded him. "I am so happy, though. So happy to see you again, that we're friends again. This is the best day of my life. My name is cleared, I'm home, you're here, everything is perfect...except for that blasted violin!"

"Just a little practice is all you need. It's still in there somewhere, your hands just need reminding." John was surprised at how much he wasn't bothered by this. He didn't desire Sherlock, not in a sexual or romantic sense, but they'd been so close, so much a part of each other, that this just didn't baffle him. And in a way, he felt he owed it to him, for all he'd done. Part of him would always resent his friend for disappearing and leaving him to grieve, not knowing that he was still alive and fighting...but he can still forgive him. In a bizarre way, this pleased him just as much as it did his friend. He'd longed for a nice, quiet moment with him, and if he had to snuggle to get it, then that was perfectly fine. He felt a wet, childish kiss smack his forehead and heard a soft murmur against his skin:

"I love you, John Watson. I would...love you so perfectly if you wanted me to. If I even knew the...basic mechanics of it," he sniggered hysterically, nuzzling his hair. "Oh, help me. I'm in love."

John drew his hand up Sherlock's chiseled cheek and tousled his hair affectionately. "I love you, too, Sherlock. Not quite the same way, but, it's still there, still real." He felt a head rest on his shoulder, felt sharp gasps of breath on his skin. More tears, straining sounds of Sherlock trying to hold it in...then losing it.

"Yes. I understand. I really like Mary. You two are lucky to have each other. I'm lucky to have both of you." He sounded as though he was already drifting off. Just floating away on a happy cloud. "Stay with me, John. Please stay. Don't let her take you from me. I want to keep you...I've never felt this good before. You make me feel the most extraordinary things, John. I only wish...oh, but..." he trailed off, his mind jumping again. "Mary does this to you, doesn't she?" Sherlock was sounding pleasantly sleepy by now, and he gave John another cuddle, pressing his cheek against his shoulder with a sigh.

John rubbed his friend's shoulder and back, his fingers drifting through his hair. "Yeah. Yeah, she does. That's why we're getting married. But I won't let her 'take me away,' Sherlock. I won't let anything take you from me again, I swear."

The poor, tormented man pulled his friend in tighter, nearly kissing him several times, but stopping just short, as if he didn't dare.

It reminded John of all the times that Mycroft had made snide allusions to Sherlock's lack of experience. It also brought to mind the number of times people assumed they were a couple, and how he'd reacted each time...he felt terrible for all the times he'd essentially denied him. "God, I never knew, though. Why didn't you ever say anything? All those times people said stuff and I blew it aside. Bet that hurt."

"Hmm, no," Sherlock drawled calmly, sounding more like himself than the emotional wreck he'd just been. "No, it didn't hurt. Hearing it repeated was actually helpful. It helped to...curtail my impulses, before I became too demonstrative. When I'd find myself feeling particularly...eager, I'd just be as rude and monosyllabic as possible to you until you went away. Problem averted. I stayed back, not wanting to...disgust you. I never thought I'd be in love, like an ordinary person. I...didn't think I'd get to. Thank you. For this. And I do like Mary. Glad she has you."

"And we're very glad we have you. We'll all stick together, I promise. Good night, Sherlock."

"Good night."

"And we'll never speak of this again."

"Mmm, nope, never," he agreed as sleep overtook him. Together, they rolled back over into their original spooning position. They drifted off with sleepy smiles on their faces, feeling perfectly content and peaceful. Two lost, storm-tossed ships had finally come home to port.

The next morning, Mary came to fetch John. She climbed up the stairs and let herself in. The first place she visited was her fiance's old room upstairs. When he wasn't there, she went down and saw Sherlock's bedroom door open a crack. She pushed it open, and found John and his long-lost friend snuggled in bed together. Sherlock's head rested quite naturally on John's shoulder. He gave a short, muttering grunt and pulled him closer. They looked so cozy, she hated to disturb them, but the thought of seeing the looks on their faces won out. She cleared her throat loudly.

"Well, Sherlock, I don't think my wedding dress would fit you, but you're welcome to try it on."

They woke up, struggling a little with the covers and each other. They both stared at her, aghast! Clutching the sheets up to their necks, they froze like frightened animals. Then, together, they remembered...there wasn't anything to be guilty about.

"Oh, for god's sake, what was I thinking? Sherlock, it's all right, remember?" John threw off the sheets, showing he was still in his pyjamas.

"Oh, right," Sherlock murmured, revealing himself as being similarly covered for once. "No hanky-panky, I promise." Mary dragged her eyes from him to her fiance.

"He doesn't even have a panky, and my hanky is in my other coat," John replied.

"It was my idea, Mary," the detective confessed. "I just wanted to hold him. To know he was near, safe. I'm sure he was thinking of you the whole time." Both men sniggered darkly at this, ending up feeding off of each other and making themselves worse.

"Did you two do this a lot when you lived together? Because that might explain the way they talk about you," she returned crisply. Her eyes sparkled teasingly. Somehow it didn't strike her as scandalous or something to get in a twist over. If half the stories she'd read about them were true, they were closer than brothers. For all their domestic snapping she'd heard about, they practically breathed together.

They got out of bed, leaving Sherlock rather crestfallen. John tried to further explain. "It's not what it looks like. He's been traumatised, he needed to feel safe. He's not been safe for ages. I was just...helping him."

"Helping him?" She smirked at them with her arms crossed.

"Uh, you know, touch therapy. Very beneficial," John stammered.

"Very," Sherlock agreed with a smirk of his own. "I feel like a new man."

"Well," Mary laughed, "you'd better find one, because you can't have mine."

John crossed the room and gave his fiancée a kiss. "You are a pro, you know that? Can't think of anyone other than Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson who can handle the two of us together."

"Tell me about it," Sherlock grumped, "Half the time, Mycroft looks like he could kill us with his thoughts."

"Good thing he hasn't got many of those," John jibed. More sniggering. The last twenty four hours had been just what the doctor ordered. It took both of them right back to their glory days. "Has it really been two years?"

"It's starting to feel like it was all a bad dream, so let's just go with that. Except..." Sherlock's eyes fell on Mary again, pretending to be surprised to see her. "If it was all a bad dream, then where did this one come from?"

John decided to play along, kissing his lady again. "Hmm, followed me home one night. Can I keep her?"

With a dark, wicked laugh, Sherlock threw his arm across Mary's shoulders, swatting her back amicably. "You've been warned, this is what you're getting into. Bizarre cases and dead bodies and all kinds of fun stuff. He might be your future husband, but he's my best friend and he was mine first."

"Well," Mary breathed, feeling quite pleased with getting Sherlock's stamp of approval, "I suppose since we're all here anyway, we could get some wedding stuff looked at. If you don't mind, of course."

A new thought occurred to the newly-reinstated consulting detective, as he looked from John to Mary. His mind zoomed rapidly over everything he knew about weddings, and it landed on the tradition of giving the bride away. The absurd thought sprang up that he would be effectively giving John away, regardless of what promises had been made. It made him feel cold all over. Seeing these two happy, though, overrode his own selfishness. He would do it, he would endure whatever was asked of him, and maybe he could avoid being shunted out. Maybe, among the three of them, they could make this work.