Sherlock steps into the living room with his gown hanging limply off of one shoulder and his eyes still glazed with sleep. John glances up from his newspaper and stares at the man in the doorway.
It's been two weeks since Sherlock came back to life. Two weeks in which John finds himself staring and staring and barely believing that this ethereal man in front of him is truly back for good.
He takes a moment to look at Sherlock and realises that he isn't angry. It has taken exactly two weeks and the anger is gone. Perhaps it shouldn't be, John considers. A part of him knows that he has every right to be mad for a very long time. But as he looks at Sherlock he is struck by the sudden thought that he would die for this man.
This, okay, is ridiculously cliché and more the type of thing that you would say about a lover than a friend and yet it is so obviously true. He would die for Sherlock. He would do anything to keep Sherlock alive.
"Tea?" Sherlock mumbles and John snaps back to reality. Sherlock gives him a curious look but refrains from saying anything so John gets up. He doesn't head to the kitchen to make the tea that Sherlock so obviously expects of him but stops in front of him instead. Looking down at his shoes because that's always easier he says, "I think I understand now," before looking tentatively at Sherlock.
"Well finally," is Sherlock's reply before he hugs him. It's weird, John thinks, that Sherlock has hugged him twice in two weeks. Then he's clutching his arms tightly around Sherlock's back because he's not quite ready to let go yet.
And he does understand now. He knows why Sherlock faked his own death because he knows that if it meant keeping those closest to him alive then he would do the same.
An eternity later and all too soon John steps back. He stretches up to press a kiss to Sherlock's cheek.
"I'm glad you're back," he whispers. He chuckle's quietly at the slightly confused look on Sherlock's face and leaves him to his deductions. He has tea to make after all.