As per your requests here is One More Miracle. If you haven't already make sure you read the two Dead, Defamed, Drunken stories included in Stories From Baker Street. They come prior to this, and you'll need them to understand what's going on. Enjoy!
"One more miracle?"
John had weathered battles, had explosions rattle his teeth, he'd been shot at and shot at others, he'd seen things that most people would never see in their whole lives in just the past few years.
He'd never seen anything more surprising than a bedraggled Sherlock Holmes seemingly rising out of a grave.
For a moment John was too shocked for rational thought, and he figured that Sherlock was a ghost or an angel. After all he was pale enough to be a ghost and beautiful enough to be an angel.
He wanted to go up to him, rest his hands on his shoulders and check for wings. He wanted to make sure he wouldn't vanish as soon as he turned around. He wanted to spend the rest of his life looking at him and touching him so that he wouldn't disappear.
"S-Sher...?" He stuttered, taking a hesitant step forward. Sherlock was less hesitant but not by much. He walked up to John until they were standing a few inches apart. John reached out a shaking hand, pressed it against Sherlock's shoulder. When his hand didn't go straight through him, he ran it through Sherlock's dark curls and then let it frame his cheek.
"...real?" Was all he could choke out. Sherlock knew what he meant though and he nodded, his throat going dry.
"I'm real." He said, putting his hand on John's.
That's when John's hand fell from Sherlock's face, formed a fist and punched the unfortunate detective in the jaw.
John almost felt bad about the dark bruise forming on Sherlock's cheek...almost.
The bruise was visible from where Sherlock sat, pouting, on the couch. After he'd punched the man out, John had practically dragged him back to his flat. Now Sherlock sulked in silence while John did what any Brit in a traumatic situation would do: he made tea.
He pressed a warm mug into one of Sherlock's hand, and an ice pack into the other. Then he sat down on the chair opposite the couch with his tea and stared.
Sherlock pressed the ice to his cheek, his eyes flicking from his feet to John's face. Finally he found the will to speak.
"...are you alright?" he asked, worried about the distant look in John's eyes.
"...No." John sighed, putting his untouched mug of tea on the table so he could put his head in his hands. "No, Sherlock I am not alright."
Sherlock dropped the ice pack and went to stand in front of John, looking down at him with concern.
"I'm sorry." He said.
"Somehow that just doesn't cover it." John chuckled without mirth and looked up at Sherlock.
"I know." Sherlock knelt in front of John's chair, putting his hands on John's knees. "There was...no other way to keep you safe."
"Yeah, so you've said."
"He would have killed you."
"I thought you killed you."
They sat in silence for a bit, each man trying to avoid the other's eyes.
"Sherlock..." John sighed. "I thought that you jumped off a building. That you talked yourself down to me in order to keep me from mourning you. That you couldn't live anymore." John's eyes filled with tears and he put a hand in front of them to hide it. "Sherlock it was bad enough that you were dead...but I couldn't do anything to stop it...you wanted to..."
Sherlock grabbed John's shoulders, he wasn't good with emotional responses and was unsure of what to do. All he knew is that he needed John to be well, he needed him to stop crying.
"I'm not dead." was all he could say.
John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, practically pulling the detective into his lap.
"I know. Sod."
John pulled back, his face losing all signs of sorrow and being replaced with the face of a soldier.
"So. What now?" He asked.
"All I need to do is catch Moran. Then I can come home." Sherlock replied.
"Alright then." John gave a determined grin. "Tell me what you need me to do."