A/N: A further instalment to the Resuscitation series. Reading order is findable on my profile page. While this is likely the last instalment, I am leaving it open for now for one more entry. Time shall tell.
Six weeks after getting shot, Sherlock is allowed to come home to Baker Street. He's still weak and tired, still recovering which is to be expected, so John settles him into bed as soon as they get home and sits with him until he falls asleep. John bends down and presses a kiss to Sherlock's forehead, smoothing back his curls and lying down beside him.
It feels like years since he's gotten to lie down properly beside Sherlock, gotten to wrap his arms around him and hold him close. In the hospital, such a thing was nigh on impossible, what with all of the tubes and wires. This is the first time he's gotten to see his fiancé without them. It's a shock to see how frail he's become. (To be expected, of course. He is recovering from a major trauma, not to mention the complication of the pneumonia. He's bound to be diminished, somewhat.)
Tears burn John's eyes. It's not that long since he sat by Sherlock's bedside, watching machines forcing him to breathe, and holding a hand that was cool and limp in his. Now, now he can lie beside Sherlock and hold him and know that he's going to live. He's going to be all right, even if it's going to take some time for him to get there. They'll get through it.
That sure knowledge opens the floodgates. Oh, John's cried before, in quiet moments of doubt and fear when he couldn't contain it anymore. But the whole time in the hospital he held it in as much as possible. Crying was no help there. And now, here in Baker Street, there is no reason to keep it in anymore and it's all too much. Too much pain, too much fear, too much relief and even the relief weighs heavy after the all-consuming worry. The relief aches in his chest, like a tingling, numbing rock that he carries with him because, yes, Sherlock will be all right after this, he will recover and they will go on just like they always have, but what about next time? What about the time after that? Someday it won't have such a happy ending and he'll have to go on alone, or Sherlock will have to go on alone. And much as he'd hate to lose Sherlock, he'd hate it even more to inflict that pain on Sherlock by leaving him.
It's all a fucking mess, and why won't the tears stop coming? There is nothing to cry over, no place for them now. They will be all right. It just might take a little while to get there. Sherlock's neck is damp from John's tears, and John presses gentle kisses to the skin, feeling the pulse under his lips, assuring him of Sherlock's continued survival.
It's another wave every time that that thought strikes him, another flash and another ache. He's so worn out with relief, so exhausted from the worry that he feels wrung out. All he wants is to sleep here, like this, folded around Sherlock to keep him safe. A short rest, now that the war is won. Later, there will be more time for tears, and worry, and relief at Sherlock's recovery. For now, rest is enough.