It does matter, of course, but maybe not just now.
John presses his face into the space below Sherlock's throat, overcome. One arm crosses Sherlock's back whilst the other nests into a clenched fist within the warm charcoal of his Belstaff. John breathes, attempting to focus on the simple mechanics of the thing and not that Sherlock smells exactly as he had two years ago. Scent is funny when it comes to memory, and John can catch a heady fusion of extravagant cologne, cool aftershave, fresh dry cleaning, and… not cigarettes, surprisingly enough.
Good, he thinks, unbidden. If he's had to keep himself away, at least those bloody things weren't part of it.
John flattens his cheek into the fabric. The late autumn air is brisk and chilled, but it is no match for the heat of the living, breathing body he's got crushed against his chest. He exhales wisps of dragon's coldfire and listens to the drone of London traffic and to the lively, glorious thrum of Sherlock's heart.
Everything shakes with tightly corralled adrenaline. The punch did its part in release as did the abrupt leap across the table, but epinephrine still floods the mires of his nervous system and circulates the networks of his bloodstream. It makes him tremble in a terrible way. The arm hooked round his waist helps; it's stabilising, grounding, but not quite enough.
Christ. John feels like he could sprint for miles. Miles upon miles upon miles. He feels like he could hit London pavement with abandon and dash across every available inch until his bones give out. His stomach is a bit twisty, afflicted by bilious somersaults and an angry-hurt cascade of I can't believe you're here you selfish bastard, but the percussive hurricane enshrined within his ribcage supersedes it all.
"You've been a long time away," says John. It's quiet, tight, murmured into the neck of Sherlock's shirt collar.
"I have," says Sherlock in equal tones.
John's knees nearly buckle. "'Sorry' isn't going to be enough, you know. It's not. It's absolutely not. You've—you can't just walk back in like this. You can't. Not after—"
"I know," says Sherlock.
The pressure at John's back increases. Solid, weighty, warm. No leather gloves; only fingerprints and heartlines meshed into his jacket. If John were to look up, he'd see Sherlock's other hand entertaining the reason his left knuckles hurt (a rightfully-deserved red smear under Sherlock's angular nose) but John can't seem to make himself move.
It's a strange sort of stasis, he thinks. He's been stagnant for so long, distilled in his own little microcosm with routine and domesticity and tedium, that when he is finally introduced to the very thing he's so missed, his mind and body cannot come to an accord. He is stuck in the in-between, suspended mid-motion, pressed amongst a pair of specimen slides for Sherlock to study and scrutinise with all of his manic intensity and fervour—and for probably the first time in his life, Jesus Christ, he'd welcome it.
John licks his lip and keeps himself firmly buried. This should not make him feel so stripped, so undefended, and yet it's as if someone has honed in on a single hairline crack in the armour, striking it over and over until it runnels and spiderwebs and naught but rubble remains. It is not a fun experience, being shattered and pieced together again. He'd rather not try it twice.
"Two years," he says.
"I know."
"Two years, Sherlock."
"Yes, I know. Two years." His throat works in a swallow by John's temple. "They were rather long."
"A bit long, yeah." John curls and uncurls his fist, the Belstaff's wool scritching against his knuckles. "So, was this—was this some sort of one-off?"
"Hm?" Oh, good. The sorry, I wasn't listening hm.
"Oh, for God's sake." John exhales a harsh breath. "Is it—again? Are you going to be doing this again? Will there be an again of this? A repeat event? Are you going to be pitching yourself off a rooftop every two years? Because if you've got plans for any more fake deaths, right now would be a fantastic time to let on."
Sherlock's hand exerts a stronger pressure into John's jacket. "No further plans, no," he says, and it's a bit nasally, further away—he must have tipped his head back again to help stop the bleeding. "I hadn't wanted to use this fake death to begin with, but the situation required it. There were a total of—"
"No," says John. "No, no. Not—not right now. I'm not interested in hearing how you did it. I know you want to prove you're clever because of course Sherlock bloody Holmes would be the one to come back from the dead, but I—no. Not now."
A sniff. More blood, he expects. "Later?"
Against his will, a snorting sort of laugh escapes into the cool air. "I haven't decided. Maybe once I've no longer got the urge to punch your lights out."
"And that won't be for a while, I assume."
"Not for a long while," says John.
"Mm. A fortnight?"
"Two months."
"Three weeks."
"Sherlock."
"Fine. A month."
"We'll see." Something pricks at the corners of John's eyes.
At last, Sherlock's other hand withdraws from dabbing the blood from his nose. After pocketing the blood-soaked tissue, the pressure of another arm crooks back behind John, and he can feel the distinct movement of Sherlock lacing his fingers together down below his shoulder blades.
Drawing a shuddering, adrenal-shaken breath, John relaxes into the embrace. His fist loosens and finds its way round to Sherlock's wool-covered back, the rest of him unfurling into a pliant weight. The familiarity of the Belstaff and one of Sherlock's customary button-downs keep him ensconced in a relieved, quavering sort of warmth and a two-years-ago scent that somehow does not reek of cigarettes.
Two years is an awful long time. And that does matter, of course. It does. It really does.
But… maybe not just now.