It had been seven months.
Actually, it had been three years, seven months and fourteen days, but who's counting? Certainly not John. Absolutely not Sherlock.
Definitely not both of them.
It had been three years since Sherlock's 'death' and seven months since his return. Seven months since John had punched him. Six and a half months since the first time they'd shared a bed. Six months since the first time they'd kissed. Five and a half months since the first time they'd made love.
Four months since the first time John had admitted his nightmares were no longer about the war, though six and a quarter months since Sherlock had begun to suspect this and refrained from saying anything.
Three months since both of them, nearly simultaneously, realized they occurred on the day Sherlock had jumped.
And now, they climb into bed together on the eve of that very day and Sherlock, in a dull gray tee-shirt that once belonged to John, wraps his arms around his best friend, boyfriend, lover, what have you, and slips two of his fingers into the collar of John's shirt and John just wraps one hand around Sherlock's and closes his eyes as Sherlock gently kisses the back of his neck.
They both know what's going to happen tonight. But they've come to enjoy pretending they don't.
Sherlock doesn't sleep; he waits. Long after John's drifted off, Sherlock's eyes are open, he's wide awake and he's eyeballing the clock on the end-table they've set up next to the bed.
1:30
John squirms slightly in his sleep. Sherlock's gaze is now fixed on him.
1:32
John's breath comes out at a slightly faster pace. He wriggles more against Sherlock, who tightens his grip around John's middle.
1:35
John starts to cry out now, first a quiet whisper which escalates quickly in loud, frightened cry's, consisting mostly of Sherlock's name. Sherlock burns with anger, at himself at Moriarty at everyone but namely himself, but this was his punishment; he had to sit through nights of listening to John's pain. This was his torture for the treatment John had received at his hands.
1:37
Sherlock couldn't take it anymore.
"John! John, wake up!" Sherlock whispers into John's ear, shaking him slightly. John is covered in a cold sweat and he's trembling and when he finally opens his eyes (1:38) his initial reaction is panic; he flips over, nearly landing his elbow in Sherlock's nose.
John buries his face in Sherlock's neck.
Neither says anything. Neither feels the need to. John doesn't cry anymore - he used to, for the first few weeks. He would wake up so scared it was a dream and then he would turn over and there was Sherlock, awake and safe and alive and watching him with a mixture of fascination, frustration and hurt.
They're not so sentimental anymore.
Sherlock's alive. That's all that matters.
That's all John thinks about.