You're My Home
He took a deep breath as he knocked at the door. Sherlock knew it had been far too long since he'd left to expect a welcome party upon his return. That didn't stop him from hoping for one.
Slowly, the door opened, revealing a worn, but gracefully aged face. "Sherlock?" Her voice was so much weaker and more insecure than it had once been.
"Mrs. Hudson," he said, giving her a warm smile.
In an instant, he was inside her flat, pulled into a tight hug. "We thought you were dead." Sherlock could feel the woman's tears soaking into his coat.
"I know."
Mrs. Hudson pulled away. "You're just skin and bones! Let me get you some tea and biscuits."
Sherlock sat down in the dining room, watching her rush about the kitchen. "Does. . . Does John still live upstairs?"
Mrs. Hudson turned around too look at him, catching that glint in his eyes that she knew was a mixture of fear and hope. "Yes. I'll go get him." She put the kettle on the stove, rushing upstairs. Sherlock was left alone, pondering whether or not this was a good idea. He could run and John would assume that Mrs. Hudson had had too many 'herbal soothers'.
He heard the footsteps outside the door. Too late now. John entered. When his eyes landed on Sherlock, they widened and his face drained of color. Sherlock could see the trembling in his knees and rushed over to him just in time to catch the man in his arms. "It's alright, John." He slowly rubbed his back. "It's alright. I'm here."
"I—I thought. . ." John started.
"I know. I know. It's okay." He hushed the man. "It's okay, John. Sherlock pulled away, placing a kiss on his forehead.
"Sherlock?"
His face flushed red. "Sorry." He wanted to slap himself. He couldn't just go around snogging him. It was not appropriate, nor was it his right. He'd realized what his heart had wanted. But there was no telling of John felt the same.
"It's fine." John ell back into his arms. His tears soaked through Sherlock's shirt and onto his chest. "Sherlock. . ."
The detective stroked his hair. "Shh. . . It's okay."
"Boys, the tea's ready," Mrs. Hudson said, startling them.
Sherlock helped John to stand and slowly walked him over to the table. They sat side by side, John gripping onto Sherlock's wrist, not wanting to let him slip away.
"I'm not letting you go," John said as Sherlock stood.
"And I'm not leaving." He gently removed John's hand from his wrist and placed his teacup in the sink before returning to his seat.
"I. . . I thought you did it because of me."
Sherlock didn't have to ask what he meant. "Never. John, you're the only thing that made me think twice about jumping. You make me want to live. All this time, it's been you. You're what keeps me going, what has kept me alive."
John grabbed Sherlock's hand. "I. . . Sherlock . . ." Tears threatened to escape again.
"Shh." Sherlock stood, not letting go. "Let's get you home." He eased John up, holding him tight so he wouldn't fall.
"You are my home," John whispered, face in Sherlock's chest. Wherever Sherlock went, he was meant to be. That man was the one thing that made him feel comfortable in his own skin.
Together, they stumbled into 221B. Sherlock sat him his old chair, John climbing on top of him.
There was a lot to discuss, but now was now was not the time for that. Sherlock just held John close, comforting him.
He was right. Home was the place where he was comfortable. And he was only comfortable with John.
.
.
.
A/N:
At last, I have something kinda fluffy and nice! No more depression! For now. . . You just wait until I get lonely on Valentine's Day, people. No more happy junk then. I hope you enjoyed this, guys!
The author of this fic is not to be held accountable for any nosebleeds, feels, or fangirl squealing that may result of this story.