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- The fall; so far down. Almost like flying. Almost. John clutches the phone as though it will save the martyr on the roof. Like there's hope.
Body twisted on the pavement. Press your fingers to the life line and feel nothing. Sherlock walks away from the fall but John doesn't.
- It takes three years before Sherlock manages to wipe away all the marks and scars of Moriarty. Three years before the world's cleansed.
He isn't prepared for how hard it is to return to Baker Street. He knows John's still there, Mrs. Hudson too. He hasn't left them unguarded, asks Mycroft to watch over them when he can't. He knows that John remains at 221B and he knows that he hasn't been replaced. There's a space for him still. Sherlock just isn't sure if John will let him back in.
Sentimentality, he thinks, never helped anyone. Still, his chest clenches strangely when he thinks of John.
- It's some day in December when he knocks on the door, the air tight with cold that turns his breath to mist. He knocks again and waits for the answer. There's still a key in his pocket to 221 but he knows it wouldn't be socially acceptable to walk straight in. He knows this because he can't ever imagine John doing it.
The door opens and John's standing in front of Sherlock, close enough to touch. His eyes blow wide, globes to see the whole world spinning in his thin face.
"Hello, John." Sherlock smiles and ignores the uneasy nervous flip of his stomach. Emotions, just emotion and sentimentality and all those things that never helped anyone. In the back of his mind a little voice wonders why he has even returned.
A fist connects with his cheek, hard and unforgiving against the sharp bones of his face. It hurts, stings, more than anything he's ever felt before. His stomach plummets and it feels as though he's falling, falling.
Then arms catch him, slip under his elbows and wrap tightly around his back. There's a body pressed against his, smaller than he remembers. He lets his hands dig into the soft wool jumper and clings like a limpet on an unwavering reef. John's squeezing him until he can't breathe but that's okay because Sherlock's flying.
- Christmas, John tells him after explanations have been given and given and given again, is the next day. Sherlock should've realised really, should've deduced it from the decor of London but he hadn't really seen much on the cab ride from the airport.
He wants to tell John that Christmas is silly, a notion instilled by Christianity under false beliefs and incorrect dating. He wants to tell John that Christmas is a corporate construction but there's a smile on his blogger's face that looks as though it hasn't been used in a long time.
John tells him the guest list for their dinner that night. It's short but pleasant, full of people who've yet to see him returned from the dead. It seems John's life hasn't strayed far from the one Sherlock moulded him into.
The smile spreads, crinkles the corners of John's eyes and stretches muscles long unused. There's something that seems so wrong, even to a sociopath, about pulling down that smile. Instead he gives a little smile of his own and promises he won't be going anywhere.
- The dinner's as interesting as such dinners ever are. There's entertainment in the various reactions to his presence. Mrs. Hudson screams when she first sees him, her hands fluttering from her chest to her mouth and back again. John has to guide her to a chair and it's a few minutes before she can speak again.
A soft smile splits Molly's face when he answers the door. There's gentle affection in her voice as she greets him, eyes wet with unbidden tears. He asks himself what John would do and then hugs her, thanks her for helping him survive the fall.
Lestrade swears loudly then drains the closest glass of alcohol – Molly's half-finished eggnog. For a few minutes he splutters but finally a resigned look appears on his face, unwilling acceptance. He spends the rest of the night shaking his head at intervals, muttering 'should've known, should've known'. Sherlock agrees but always knew he would never figure it out.
- John spends the night staring at him. It's as though he thinks that if he stops watching Sherlock, lets him out of his sight, that the detective will disappear again. It's as though John thinks that Sherlock wants to.
They sit on the couch together, thighs just touching. The evening's growing old, conversation drifting sluggishly back and forth. The alcohol has left a pleasant buzz curved by the heavy feeling of a large meal. There's a fire in the grate, warming their bodies and adding a glow to outline all the dips and dives of Sherlock's skull that still sits atop the mantelpiece.
It's almost ten when Sherlock first feels the gentle weight coming to rest against his shoulder. It's heavy but not unpleasantly so. Soft curls of hair tickle his collar bone and John's breathing evens into the steady rhythm of sleep. Eyes flick to the pair but no one comments beyond the curve of lips or raise of eyebrows.
He knows why, knows that they are surprised that he's allowing the unorthodox, irrational use of his shoulder. They think him a sociopath, an empty creature without emotions or connections. They think he doesn't care for the lives of others and sometimes he likes to think that too.
John snuffles quietly in his sleep and shuffles closer, leaning into Sherlock's side. It feels like comfort, the weight on his shoulder. It feels like the confirmation of life and friendship and love and trust and all these things he craves without really wanting to. It feels like happiness and home and he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he has spent three years searching for this. Maybe, just maybe, this is the answer he's always been trying to find.
- By half past ten their dinner guests are leaving. Sherlock doesn't stand to say goodbye or show them out. They know the way and it's perfectly acceptable to bid them farewell from a seated position. He can't bring himself to disrupt the warm comfort of John pressed against his side.
It's not entirely selfish reasoning though. Sherlock's not a fool. He's seen the dark shadows under John's eyes, knows how little his blogger has been sleeping. It's not an entirely selfish decision not to wake John.
Mrs. Hudson finds two blankets before she leaves, drapes one over John and gives the second to Sherlock. She smiles and pats his hand, tells him she's so glad he's back. There are tears in her eyes and Sherlock thinks that he has missed her. She wishes him Happy Christmas. The door's closing behind her and they're alone.
Spreading the blanket across his knees, Sherlock adjusts his position minutely, careful not to wake John. He turns his head slightly, lets his eyes rest on the sleeping form beside him. John's snoring softly, the barely noticeable hitch of breath like a stammer in his sleep. His eyes move frantically back and forth behind his eyelids, lost in a dream world that curves his lips into a smile every now and then.
It's strange but Sherlock finds he can't look away. There's something about the calmness in John's face, the way all those lines that create the complexities of human expression lie still and smoothed out. It's pure serenity, simplicity personified in the man pillowed by Sherlock's body.
It's strange and it makes no sense but he thinks that he might like to stay here forever, holding his doctor up so that John can always be lost in the peace of dreams. Sherlock thinks, then closes his eyes and thinks no more.
- When they wake the next morning John has a crick in his neck and Sherlock's back aches incessantly. They grin awkwardly at each other, massaging their respective pains. Sherlock bends his back, curves and twists and listens to the satisfying little pops and cracks that answer his movements. Beside him John sits straight-backed and angles his head carefully from side to side in measured tilts.
Sherlock's still watching his blogger when John turns to him. Their eyes meet in the dazed looks of half-awake zombies of sleep. For a moment they pause and suddenly someone's stretching out time, pulling apart the seconds until they're minutes. Sherlock thinks that something's supposed to happen but he doesn't know what, can't solve the riddle that's sitting beside him.
Then John leans forward and presses his lips to Sherlock's. It's only a momentary touch, the lightest brush of skin on skin but instantly he knows it's the answer, the only conclusion that remains. He still doesn't understand, can't quite comprehend, why this is right, why it all fits together.
John pulls back, clearing his throat and tilting his head back, eyes averted. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, wavers uncertainly. There's the slightest hint of red sitting high his cheekbones.
He turns back to the detective and says, "Happy Christmas, Sherlock."
He doesn't hesitate before he answers, "Happy Christmas, John."
As he leans forward to press his lips against John's, a spike of pain runs down his back and Sherlock thinks that all this and everything was worth it for the simple puzzle of skin meeting skin.