DISCLAIMER: only the plot is mine, not the characters.

Four years. That's how long its been since John had seen Sherlock last. They had been planning on three.. 'They' being everyone who knew John had been deployed. However, there had been a change of plans. At least that's what Captain John Watson had told them. In reality for most of that year, he had the worst of luck; being shot twice while in combat and having contracted an illness a good few months afterwards. It was all quite ironic for an army doctor. After physical therapy and counseling, he was finally allowed to come home. So, here he was, back home in the airport, not having told anyone he was coming home today as he wanted it to be a surprise... Of course, the deal with the crutch was going to be a bit of a shock (he would graduate to a cane once he improved enough), but John knew they'd get over it soon enough. After a few minutes, he hailed a cab after rounding a corner, giving the cabbie the address before it pulled back out onto the street. The ride was nerve wracking, but John eventually found himself climbing out and making his way to the door. 221B Baker Street. God, I hope Sherlock is home...' He thought before knocking, snow settling in his hair. Checking his watch (he ensured to set it back) the date confirmed that the detective shouldn't have many plans. February 14th. 'Sherlock isn't that social... If he's not on a case right now, I don't see any reason why he shouldn't be here.'

Sherlock Knew the Moment that John got out of the Taxi. Four long years had passed with nothing but emails and letters. Four Years where Sherlock lost himself every night and forced himself to Liver every day going forward to this exact moment. The moment when they would meet again. a thousand thoughts bombarded the detective as he watched the Doctor stumble out of the Cab, the crutch was not permanent, psychosomatic at best, a cane at worst. Blond Hair graying at the temples showed the signs of stress the body and mind had seen.

After watching John move out of sight and under the canopy of the next door shop he bolted into action. racing downstairs skipping every third step. he skidded to a stop at the closed door just as a steady and firm KNOCK was heard. That sound reverberated through his whole body, Bringing the sedentary parts of his mind back into full action. the world was technicolor again and full of interesting things.. his hand froze as he went to lift the handle. What if he is different? The thought slammed into him What if he has changed His John that left all those years ago may very well have changed and become something twisted, something warped from his time away. Battle scars could litter his body, Sherlock could care less about Transport! But that heart.. What if that loyal, sacrificial, loving heart had hardened in the eternity spent away from his home, from Sherlock?

taking a steadying breath he forced his digits to work, clasping the iron handle and easing the door open tentatively. "John" the word left him at less than a whisper but the Blonde Head Shot up.

The veteran gazed up at him, a small smile spread across his face. He was worn, thinner, and the war had most certainly taken its toll on him. Nonetheless, here he was at 221B. John knew it would take time to adjust to civilization, as his jacket was zipped up tight from the climate change. He missed London more than he thought: the cases, chases, chaos, rants, arguments, deductions, the sweet sound of a violin playing at 2 AM, the explosions, experiments, even the body parts in the refrigerator (as disgusting as it was). However, what- or rather whom- Captain John Hamish Watson had missed most was none other than the detective himself: Sherlock Holmes. "I... I'm home..." He said quietly, adjusting the strap of his duffle bag in an attempt to alleviate his bad shoulder. The blonde never thought he would be able to speak those words.

Sherlock did not miss the slight stutter in the Doctors words. his breath hitched, finally home his mind rejoiced. Opening the door wider he allowed John through the threshold of 221B Baker Street, Reaching out a pale lim he quickly divested His Blogger of the cumbersome pack, Knowing full well the pain his Heart was experiencing from the bullet wounds. He followed John up the stairs an a much slower manny then the previous descent. he noticed that his hands were clammy, shaking. {later} he decided to analyse his body's reactions once John was settled. Making his way into the living room of Their flat, He dropped the duffle bgd unceremoniously on the floor and skidded past his love.
Making a swift display of elegant grace he deposited himself in HIS chair and resolutely stared at the currently empty armchair across form him.

"John" he said again in rapture, and waited. not too sure yet what it was he was waiting for, yet unable to express anymore words than the mantra that was repeating its self in his mind John, John, John, Home, John Home, John is home .. Finally the buzzing that had become an uncomfortable companion for the last four years quietened and was replaced with a symphony of violins, quietly sounding out their glee, His Heart thumping out a rhythm to which he gently tapped out upon his steepled fingers.

"Yes?" John asked, looking around the flat before gently easing himself into his armchair. It had been so long. And everything was just as he remembered it: the wallpaper, the bookshelves, Sherlock, home. Nothing he could possibly say would come close to how he truly felt about being back. Honestly, it was a sight he'd never thought he'd see. The blonde leaned back against the back of his chair, right leg relaxed and straightened more than his left as his crutch leaned against the chair for easy access.

Sherlock drifted out of his mental retreat a second after John eased himself into the chair, his world narrowed until he found himself kneeling in front of the man, inspecting, deducing learning everything he could about the last four year. "You are Home" He bit out just before resting his forehead against the older man's Knee. it was almost Childlike, He knew, but he was incapable of stopping, just like a child hugs their teddy tightly when uncertain, Sherlock simply breathed deeply, taking in the small of his John. with a deep breath he gave in to the doubt. he gave in to the doubt that had lingered deep inside and allowed the relief to cascade over him. racking sobs tore from his chest, unable to stop the Detective simply clung to the others knee "you're here, you're alive, you're safe, you're back" it went on. relinquishing his hold on his emotions that he forever kept inside. The Great Detective curled around john's feet and wept.

"I know." He murmured, reaching out and gently running his fingers through the brunette's hair, hand shaking from the tremor. "I know, Sherlock. I'm right here." His voice was soft, and the veteran didn't know he was consoling more: Sherlock or himself? "I promise you this when I say that I'm here to stay, and I'm not going anywhere. I've been honorably discharged, and my service is no longer required. Definitely home now Sherlock ,I promise."

"Thank you, Thank you for coming home to me" Sherlock whispered after long moments. He was drained and needed to sleep. When was the last time i slept he thought. Looking up into the tired eyes of his companion he realized that his love was in the same boat. Rising he pulled the doctor to his feet and gently eased them down to the couch, shuffling like a small child afraid of getting rejected Sherlock carefully wrapped himself around John, mindful of the healing wounds, Not Mindful of any laws regarding correct and proper use of personal space. John was his comfort, John was his home. John was his Life! With that final thought. Sherlock Holmes relaxed enough to sleep.