It had been a year. A year since Sherlock had jumped off of the roof of St Bart's hospital. A year since John had rushed towards the body of his friend, his stomach lurching, his phone falling to the floor. A year since John had first seen the image that haunted his dreams; Sherlock's body, broken, on the pavement, a pool of blood around his head, those icy blue eyes completely devoid of life...
A year of misery and crushing depression, a year of visiting Sherlock's grave once a week, of lying awake in bed and counting the cracks in the ceiling, of being haunted by dreams of him. A year of trying and failing to move on, of failed relationships which only led to the conclusion that John had been supressing his feelings for Sherlock the entire time they had known each other. He knew now that he had loved Sherlock, and wished every day that he could tell him that.
It was 6:32pm on a cold, wet and dark Friday evening in November when John returned to Baker Street with a bag full of his favourite Chinese food. He had tried over the course of the past year to move out and find his own flat, but he didn't have it in his heart to leave. Mycroft had initially insisted on taking Sherlock's things but John had flatly refused. Sherlock's room was exactly how he had left it; the bookcase in the living room was still practically groaning under the weight of all of Sherlock's books, and the skull still sat on the mantelpiece above the fire. John had found that venting his frustrations to it had been surprisingly effective. He sighed and shrugged off his coat before collapsing onto the sofa. He switched on the television, kicked off his shoes, and settled back to eat his Chinese without really tasting it.
It had been a long day at the surgery, and John had been rushed off his feet with patients who were convinced that they had anything from the flu to lupus. John had laughed at the latter, and for a brief moment had thought about texting Sherlock, before he remembered that he was never going to get a reply. John tried desperately not to think of Sherlock and attempted to immerse himself in the program on tv, but it was no use; everything reminded him of Sherlock nowadays. The ache in John's heart was almost unbearable.
"How could you do this to me, you idiot?" He whispered to himself. "God, Sherlock, I miss you so much." He felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes and let them fall, powerless to stop them. He pushed his Chinese away from him, no longer hungry. Exhaustion overwhelmed him and he sprawled out on the sofa - not unlike the way in which Sherlock used to - and pulled the blanket off of the back of the sofa to wrap around himself. Within a few minutes, he was fast asleep.
John awoke to the sound of floorboards creaking under the weight of barely audible footsteps. He immediately tensed, his hands curling into fists as the noises passed by the sofa. He could vaguely male out the figure of a man, illuminated by the dim light coming through the window. The figure was tall and thin, John noticed as his eyes grew accustomed to the lack of real light. His breath hitched in his throat as he recognised the outline of a sharply cut suit.
"Sherlock," John breathed, convinced that he was dreaming. "This can't be real. I must still be asleep." He reached for the lamp and switched it on, his eyes widening in shock as the figure was bathed in a yellow glow.
"You're not dreaming," said Sherlock.
God, that voice. How John had missed it. "But...you're dead. I watched you jump!" John stood up, the blanket falling to the floor as he did so.
"It was a trick, John." Sherlock didn't flinch as John reached up, running a thumb over his cheek, noticing that Sherlock was looking practically gaunt. His cheekbones, although they had always been prominent, now seemed to stick out far too much, and what used to be perfectly smooth, clear skin was now pulled taught across the bones of Sherlock's face, and featured a few scars.
Satisfied that Sherlock had not disappeared in a puff of smoke at John's touch, he drew back; taking in his appearance, immaculate as always. Somewhere deep within him, anger coiled and twisted and turned, and John suddenly lashed out, hitting Sherlock square in the jaw.
"How could you do this?" John was saying. "You let me believe that you were dead for this whole time. Not a day has gone by where I haven't of you, mourned you, wished against all odds that I could see you again!"
Sherlock clutched at his jaw, a red mark already forming where John had struck him."I had to protect you. I had to make Moriarty's men believe that I was dead. But it's over now. I'm back."
John was overcome with a thousand different emotions at once, tears were cascading down his cheeks, and then he was pulling Sherlock into his arms and crushing their lips together. Sherlock hesitated for only a moment, and then he was kissing John back, pushing him down onto the sofa and then pulling him onto his lap.
They broke apart, John staring up at him, his face still damp with tears. "Sherlock-" he began, but was silenced by another kiss. Eventually they broke apart, both of them breathing heavily.
"I have wanted to do that for such a long time," Sherlock said.
"Why didn't you tell me before?"
"Because I didn't think you felt the same."
"God, Sherlock, for someone as clever as you, you aren't half stupid," said John. "I have loved you since the day I met you, you fantastic, insane, ridiculous, bloody gorgeous idiot." He pulled him down for another kiss, and Sherlock responded eagerly, running his tongue along John's lower lip, making him loan and arch his back. John let out a noise that sounded suspiciously like a whimper when Sherlock drew away to press a kiss to the hollow of John's throat.
"I'm sorry that it took me so long to come home. I thought of you every day," Sherlock whispered.
"I forgive you, Sherlock, of course I do. I'm just glad you're home." John moved so that he was lying down on the sofa again. "Come here." He opened his arms and Sherlock pulled of his jacket before curling, draping himself across John's body with his head on his chest.
John began to play with Sherlock's hair, running his fingers through those perfect curls. Sherlock hummed in appreciation as his breathing began to slow, the tension seeping out of his body. John felt warm and happy under the comforting weight of Sherlock's body, and soon they were both asleep.
John woke feeling cold and empty, realising that Sherlock was no longer lying with him. For one terrible, gut-wrenching minute, he thought that it really had all been a dream, but then he noticed Sherlock's shoes and jacket by the coffee table, and heard the unmistakeable sounds of tea being made in the kitchen.
John got up, wincing at the ache in his neck and shoulder, and padded over to Sherlock, wrapping his arms around him from behind. Sherlock stiffened in surprise, but quickly relaxed as John pressed a kiss to his shoulder.
"How long have you been awake for? What time is it?" He asked, turning Sherlock around in his arms.
"Oh, about an hour. And it's 6am." Sherlock pulled John tighter against him and buried his face in John's neck.
John groaned. "Way too early to be up on a Saturday morning...Did we kiss last night, or was that just me fantasizing?" he joked.
Sherlock chuckled. "No, I think we did." He leant down and pressed his lips against John's. "I've never wanted a relationship before, but I want one with you. I've spend the past year thinking of little else, and to answer your unasked questions, yes I am sure, there's nothing I've ever wanted more in my life, and I am prepared to do absolutely anything you want if it means we can be together.
John stepped back, a little surprised by Sherlock's outburst. "God, Sherlock, I want it too. But it won't be easy; relationships take a lot of work."
"I know. I may be inexperienced but I do have a basic understanding of how these sorts of things work," he muttered somewhere close to John's ear. "I want this. I want you."
"I want you too... Come to bed with me," said John, desire spiking in his stomach..
"I thought you'd never ask." Sherlock grinned wickedly, and it went straight to John's groin. He dragged him upstairs by the hand, barely getting into the room before Sherlock had him up against the wall, kissing him desperately.
"As much as I want to have you on your hands and knees on the floor and fuck you so hard that you scream, I think it would probably be better if we moved in stages," John breathed, pulling Sherlock down onto the bed and lying them both down with Sherlock underneath him.
"I trust you, John," said Sherlock, running his hands up John's back.
"I know you do, but I think it will be too much for you right now." He lowered his head to claim Sherlock's lips again, while his hands set about unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt. He pushed it off his shoulders and tossed it carelessly across the room. In a few minutes, John had stripped Sherlock to his boxers, where the evidence of his arousal was clearly visible.
"You're wearing far too many clothes," Sherlock huffed, making quick work of John's shirt and jeans.
John watched as Sherlock's gaze lingered on the tangle of scar tissue around his shoulder. Glancing up at John as if for permission, Sherlock lightly ran his fingers over it, causing John to shiver. Apparently pleased with this reaction, he stretched up and tentatively ran his tongue over the matted flesh of the bullet wound.
Some kind of noise that was a combination of a yelp of surprise and a groan of pleasure escaped John's lips, and he drew Sherlock closer for a searing kiss. He ran his hands down Sherlock's marble chest, pausing momentarily to hover on the waistband of his boxers, before plunging his hand inside and wrapping his fingers around Sherlock's throbbing cock. Sherlock responded by arching his back and moaning in pleasure.
"Oh fuck." Sherlock felt like he was about to die from pleasure, his usually active brain now only focused on John's hand, which was beginning to move up and down his length.
"Fuck, John, yes!" He was dimly aware of saying those words, but it sounded so strange coming from his mouth. His hips surged forwards of their own accord, pushing his cock further into John's hand.
Suddenly, John moved, and Sherlock whimpered at the lack of contact, but he quickly realised that John was stripping off both his own and Sherlock's boxers. The sight of John completely naked, his cock thick and full, almost drove Sherlock over the edge, but he forced it back, taking John's lips with his own again. John returned his hand to Sherlock's now achingly hard cock, stroking him, teasing him, sliding his thumb over the slit and spreading precum all over his length, using it as lube.
Sherlock's breath was coming in short, sharp gasps now, his head spinning with pleasure. John sped up his hand, squeezing him a little tighter, and Sherlock could not fight the cry of pleasure that escaped him as he came, hot and fast, spilling all over John's hand and his own stomach.
"Oh God," was all he was capable of saying as he collapsed back onto the bed, running a hand through his hair.
"Fuck you're beautiful," John growled, nipping at Sherlock's lower lip, his erection pressing insistently into Sherlock's thigh.
Sherlock did not reply, instead he slid his hand between them and, using his own cum as lubricant, began to slide his hand over John's cock.
"S-Sherlock." John stuttered his name, his body surging forwards. "Maybe you should...be on top?"
Sherlock quickly flipped them over, somehow managing to do so without breaking his hold on John.
John pulled Sherlock down to kiss him, his tongue insistent against Sherlock's. After a few minutes, Sherlock broke the kiss to suck on John's neck, leaving a very obvious mark there, speeding up his hand as John had done and relishing in the noises he was making.
Sherlock kissed lower on John's body, flicking his tongue over his left nipple, which John must have liked given the frankly obscene sound he made. He felt John's cock stiffen in his hand, and heard him cry out as he came, his body sagging immediately afterwards.
After a few moments of heavy breathing, he said, "Fetch a towel."
"Hm?" replied Sherlock. "Oh right." He stood up and went into the bathroom to find a towel, wiping himself off with it as he re-entered the bedroom. He chucked it at John, who quickly cleaned himself up and promptly curled up under the covers. Sherlock quickly joined him, wrapping his arms protectively around him. "Was that okay?" he asked quietly.
"Okay?" John repeated incredulously. "That was bloody brilliant, Sherlock. You're fucking gorgeous, especially when you come."
Sherlock blushed at that. "You aren't half bad either." He pressed a kiss to the top of John's head. "Do you have work today?"
"No," John yawned and stretched. "I plan on sleeping some more, because frankly, it is way too early, and then spending all day in bed with my ridiculous, back-from-the-dead flatmate."
"Are you ever going to forgive me for that?"
"I already said that I forgive you, but give me another orgasm like that and I might just drop it for a few weeks."
Sherlock laughed.
"Who else knew that you were still alive?" asked John, suddenly serious.
"Molly, she helped me convince everyone I was dead. And I visited Mycroft a few months ago. He was irritatingly unsurprised to see me alive." Sherlock frowned.
"Molly helped you? But I've seen her since..." John trailed off. "You told her not to tell me."
"It was for the best." Sherlock hugged him tighter. "I promise that I'm never going to leave you again."
John nestled into Sherlock's chest, closing his eyes as he relaxed into his arms.
"Go back to sleep, John. God knows you haven't slept properly in a year," Sherlock murmured, stroking his fingers through John's short, dark blonde hair.
But John was already asleep, his arm draped protectively over Sherlock's stomach, his breathing deep and steady. Sherlock decided that he would wake John at midday at the latest, and settled down into the bed. Keeping his arms wrapped firmly around his sleeping lover, he stared at the ceiling and counted the cracks that covered it. He wondered if John had felt like the ceiling looked; coming apart, slowly crumbling, but desperately trying to keep it together. He made a mental note to re-plaster the ceiling to fix those cracks, and hoped that his return would fix the ones in John.