A/N: This is a continuation of my story Between Love and Death. I really had no intention of writing another story in this Universe but as usual Death had the last word:) I blame mattsloved1.She gave me the words peace, joy, love and this is what it produced. (I thank her for reading this over & catching my mistakes as well:). I took the words & started to write a one-shot but it wanted to be a 3 part story so here it is – I have the story mostly written – it just needs some tweaking so the next chapter should be up soonish - & I promise I will be working on the next chapter of Shadow as well - & I haven't forgotten Not Too Distant Future:P

I have made John a pescetarian in this, much like Martin Freeman. It is purely for bacon based humour:D

I do not own. I never will, but maybe someday I will write a story I do own:)

Between Life and Death

1. Peace

The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at anytime. Mark Twain

Dawn crept over the edge of the windowsill and slowly made its way across the floor, warming the boards, shining on the rug, the red fibers seemed redder and glowed in the light of day. It reached the edge of the bed. A long, thin, artistic hand stuck out from under the covers; the shaft of sunlight warmed it enough to cause a twitch. The hand was sluggishly drawn back beneath the sheets and the shape under them rolled away from the encroaching brightness, hoping to cling to the dark on the far side of the bed, not quite prepared to face the new day.

Exhaustion had played a toll on the young detective's body. A long case and a grueling set of murders had finally caught up with him. He had all but collapsed after Lestrade had slapped the handcuffs on the murderer.

The detective pulled the duvet further up and over his head, hoping to recapture that glorious bliss slumber can bring, especially when one simply does not have to get out of bed, just yet.

By the time the light reached the spot Sherlock had hidden, other disturbances were interfering with his ability to slip back under, most notably the sound of dishes rattling in the kitchen and the surprisingly delightful smell of bacon.

As the enticing, heavenly scent reached his nostrils and the realization it was meat from sus scrofa domesticus, he sat up abruptly in bed.

John did not eat bacon. John was a pescetarian. John refused to even think about frying up bacon for Sherlock, even when Sherlock was at his most stroppy and in need of a supply of high salt, high fat, crispy deliciousness. Mrs. Hudson would make him bacon, but she would have cooked it in her own flat and brought it up and the smell would not be as intense nor permeate through the closed bedroom door.

Therefore, it was not John in the kitchen and he was not, most definitely not, frying up bacon for Sherlock.

Intrigued and more than a little fascinated as to who would break into the flat to fry bacon and where was John in all of this, Sherlock wrapped the sheet around himself and padded silently out to the kitchen.

He stopped in the doorway and stood for a moment, head tilted to one side.

A curious sight met his eyes.

A short man with blond hair, which was valiantly hiding the elements of grey, in a t-shirt and jeans, feet bare, stood in the kitchen, frying up what looked like a Full English. He was wearing John's t-shirt, John's jeans and John's body. But it wasn't John. There was no sense of Johnness emanating from the figure.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

Just as he was about to speak, the body in the kitchen turned to face him, the face infused with the joy of the day and happiness at seeing the detective.

"Good Morning! I hope you don't mind. I know you've had a rough night and I thought I'd make it up to you and cook you some breakfast."

Sherlock glared. "You have done it again haven't you?"

"What? Oh. Yes. I see." There was a pause as the corners of John's mouth turned down, not as happy as when it first laid eyes on Sherlock. There was a sigh. "Come and sit down at the table and I'll explain." And as John, who was not John but was a familiar entity to Sherlock, passed by the taller man, it gave Sherlock a sad, sweet smile and led the way to the table with two laden plates. Death had returned once more to inhabit the body of his friend and blogger. It slipped back into the kitchen and returned with a pot of tea and two mugs.

Sherlock stood in his sheet, torn between glaring at Death or falling ravenously on the breakfast that had been made for him. He chose the later.

Winding the ends of the sheet over his arm he walked over to the table and sat down.

He tried the first bite of bacon and sighed.

Death was a good cook.

There was tranquility for a few moments as the two ate, Death obviously relishing the taste of food. The last time it had only had the opportunity to try tea.

While Sherlock ate he contemplated the expression on John's face as Death gazed out the window, eyes lit with pleasure and wonder, as entranced with people gazing and watching motes of dust dance in the sunlight as he had been with watching the rain the first time. Sherlock observed John's face as it became more open and relaxed than it ever did without the presence of Death. He wished he could see John respond like that; wished John would let his guard down.

A small part of him wished he could be the one who would put that look on his face.

After a companionable silence, the detective managed to shove the food around in his mouth in order to address his guest.

"John's a pescetarian. He would not be happy to discover you forced him to eat meat."

Death stopped chewing momentarily and looked decidedly embarrassed.

"Well, actually I did know, but when I started making breakfast for you, it smelled so good. I've always wanted to try it." He resumed eating again, but placed the bacon to the side of his plate with a wistful expression. He looked back at the taller man, John's eyes bright with inquisitiveness and something else. Ah, it was back. That look that he saw lurking in John's eyes, whenever the doctor thought Sherlock was not paying attention, but was never more prevalent than when Death was also peeking out. Death, who shared John's infatuation with the younger man.

During Death's last visit it had informed the detective it loved him, loved him for the beauty of The Work, for the beauty Sherlock made of it's work.

It had also told him John shared the sentiment.

The shy soft smile that was John's and not, continued to light the older man's face and made it appear younger.

The smile broadened and became more open, cheekier.

"You have questions?"

Sherlock stared at Death.

"You are quite amusing, aren't you?"

"Did you know John has always wanted to say that back to you, to say it and have a response you would be impressed with?"

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "Should you be giving away all of John's secrets? The last time you were here you happened to tell me John had feelings of desire for me. I don't think that is something he'd necessarily want me to know."

Death half shrugged. "Oh I think he wants you to, just doesn't know how to go about it. He's afraid it will ruin the friendship. He values your friendship more than anything."

Sherlock's face softened. He looked at Death the way he wished he could sometimes look at John. "I know."

"Is that regret?"

"Regret, no. It is a necessity. John does not want to cross the line, I do not want to hurt John by insisting he does. I too, value our friendship."

Death leaned forward and captured Sherlock's hand. "But he does. He just doesn't know how to take that first step." It stroked the inside of Sherlock's wrist. "Your pulse. It's increasing." It leaned forward into Sherlock's space. "Oh, yes, there go your eyes. Mmmhmm. It's a shame."

"What's a shame?"

Death was close enough to brush John's lips against Sherlock's, lightly, feather lightly, almost as if a cobweb of a dream. And then it sat back again. The mischievous look was still there, but the face had grown more sober.

"You need to tell him."

"Tell him what?"

"You need to tell him before it's too late."

Sherlock sat and looked at his friend and his inhabitant. Understanding gleamed in his eyes.

"You have inside knowledge. Something you want me to know. Do you want me to guess? I don't guess, you know. Is someone going to come along and sweep John off his feet? No, that's not it. You have that particular look on your face, the one John gets when he is trying to hide something from me or he doesn't know how to tell me. Ahhh, I see. Now I know. John is going to die and if I don't tell him, I will regret not expressing my unrequited love. It won't work, you know, you can't force me to upset the apple cart, reverse the status quo. I don't work that way."

Something hooded John's warm, blue ocean deep eyes, something blocked the light from shining out of them. Death had bad news for him. It had that look John must have had when trying to tell the young soldiers they were going to be okay, knowing he was lying to them. That look sat too familiarly upon John's face. Not comfortably. John would never be comfortable with having to break the news to someone, but as if it were a well-worn burden, one carried in the secret places in his heart.

He sat back quickly, "No. It's not John, is it? It's me."

The look on John's face turned regretful.

Sherlock was stunned. All men have places in their souls where, in the quiet of the night, thoughts overturn security and familiarity, bring forward the shades of worry and stress and magnify them. Sherlock had never been afraid to die, he had been afraid to miss out on the thrill, the chase. If he died what would become of all of the lovely, vivid puzzles.

"I wanted you to know. I wanted you to have a few days, a few nights, perhaps, of happiness. Not everyone gets a chance like this. I wanted you to have it."

Sherlock looked at the face of his friend. "And what happens to John? I tell him I reciprocate his feelings and then I die? Do you really think that could be the best thing for him?"

Looking thoughtful, Death said, "It wouldn't be easy for him, but he will heal more quickly because he will have no regrets, he won't harbour bitterness in his heart from not sharing this with you."

Death stood up and began to clear away the dishes and left Sherlock to sit there, staring pensively out the window.

"Well I am sorry, but I must be going. I have a schedule and I'm a bit behind." It looked guilty. "Umm, could you please not let John know he ate bacon? I do feel rather badly about that. But, you know, it's bacon."

Sherlock looked at Death in John's body. "I am not sure how I would even be able to begin that conversation."

It looked back down at the floor. "I'm really sorry, Sherlock. I don't choose people. It is just the way it is. I'm going to go upstairs and lie down. When John wakes up he won't remember any of this." It turned to head up the stairs and then paused. "I'll see you soon," it said softly.

Sherlock looked down at the floor, thoughts firing rapidly. "Wait."

It paused.

"How? How will it happen?"

Death looked with a terrible wretched longing at the young man in the sheet. "I can't say, Sherlock." It gazed deeply into Sherlock's eyes. And then it seemed to come to a decision. "It will be quick. I promise. No pain."

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully.

Death turned and climbed the stairs without a backward glance.

The sun continued to rise, the world to turn and Sherlock, to wait once more for John.