A/N:

Mother of GOD I haven't been on here for AGES and I apologise. I really hate rather a lot of my stories so I'm trying to sort of waft away and never return. But this story BEGGED to be written. So yeah. I did. I think my problem is continuing stories. I'm okay with oneshots, but when it comes to more than about two chapters I suddenly start foaming at the mouth. I don't even know what I'm saying anymore.

So anyway without further ado, Sleeping Beauty.

Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing(s): Hints of MorMor, hints of MyStrade, hints of - and focused on - JohnLock.
Warnings: Suggestions of drug use, heavily based on psychological disorders, fluffy moments, suggestions of M/M, extreme angst
Rating: T (No, there aren't any sexytiemz, sorry)

I do not own BBC Sherlock because if I did then JohnLock would be real and Sebastian Moran would be played by Tom Hiddleston.

Enjoy. :)

First there was a punch, then there was a hug. The army doctor resisted the urge to hit the man he was currently holding – clutching – in his arms. The main thing stopping him, was that he'd hurt his hand after directly hitting the prominent cheekbone. If he hadn't have done that, then he could continue punching the man until the sun went down, and even for a little while after that. No words were spoken between the two as the silence became comfortable. Neither man dared break the quiet in fear of the other disappearing, again, or punching them, again. The situation they were currently in was calm and yet still surprisingly volatile, each breath they took was increasingly daring as the both came to a boiling point.

"John, I-"

"Sherlock, I-"

They broke simultaneously, moving out of the embrace as they realised that it had lasted just that little bit too long. The point where it stopped meaning nothing and became something. And yet, neither of them would ever admit it. Even if they knew or understood why it was longer than it needed to be.

Both men stared at each other, willing the other to talk first, to break the now unbearable silence between them. Sherlock sighed. "I'm sorry." He meant it. It was strange for John to witness the man in such a state of apology as to actually say the two dreaded words. He actually began to feel a little uneasy when the man repeated his apology.

The pair sat down in their respective chairs. It seemed perplexing to John that Sherlock would pick this day, moving day, of all days to return to him. There was another pregnant pause.

"Perhaps I should explain," Sherlock started, placing his hands before his face in that Sherlock way.

The noise the doctor made was one of agreement. "I think that may be wise."

Sherlock shifted in his chair with discomfort. It was as if what he was about to say was physically making him feel irate. After a few minutes of him fidgeting and a few false starts (all of which was trying John's patience, although he wouldn't let himself show it, what with the risk of losing Sherlock's explanation) Sherlock began to explain.

"Well," he began, on the verge of another false start. He sighed. "There were snipers, John," his face contorted at the memory, John's changing to one of surprise.

"I see," he decided to add. He didn't really know why he said it, as it didn't exactly help the situation, other than breaking yet another awkward pause.

"There was one on Lestrade, one on Mrs. Hudson and..." he faltered. John put on his best brave and comforting face already guessing what was coming. Strangely, it felt to him as if he really needed to hear Sherlock say it, as though hearing the words would mean that Sherlock was really alive, that he was really himself and that they were back to normal.

"There was a sniper on you, John. In the building opposite St. Bart's and he was aiming at you." He stopped.

"And so you decided to jump off the roof because, what, you couldn't live without us?" It came out perhaps a little more venomous than he'd intended but Sherlock had hurt him. Bad. And he needed to know that.

Sherlock's face settled, as if it were stone. "Do you not understand?" he questioned in the condescending tone that he usually used when talking to the human race. John merely glared. Sherlock cracked a small smirk. "Of course, you see but you do not observe," he said softly, not at all in a violent way.

"Tell me," John whispered, leaning closer.

"Figure it out," Sherlock replied. "Look at the facts, John. Moriarty wanted me destroyed, not just dead but thoroughly ruined and he did this by-"

"By making himself Richard Brook and making you out to be a fraud," he interrupted.

Sherlock's smile widened marginally. "Yes."

"So why get you to commit suicide? Why set the snipers on us?" Sherlock's smile faded, his face once again hard. John gasped. "Oh, I see..." He leaned back in his chair and raised his fingers to his lips. The other man chuckled, immediately recognising himself in the ex-army doctor. It was strange seeing how much he'd changed over the time that he'd been gone, how much more like him he'd become. "I see what happened," the older man continued. "It was incentive." He looked at the younger for any sign of agreement. He nodded slowly, urging him to finish his deduction. "He'd set you up as a fraud but people would still struggle to believe it if you were alive. Moriarty couldn't kill you himself, as that would look suspicious, so instead he got you to commit suicide because then," he paused, sitting further forward in his chair again and sucking air hungrily through his lips as he became more excited about deducing the truth. "Then," he restarted, "people would think you did it because you'd been found out. They would believe the story easier knowing that you'd killed yourself out of shame and despair. The snipers were not there to kill us, not really, they were merely there to make sure that you jumped." He stopped for a second, the detective looking at him with admiration. He opened his mouth to speak but John kept talking. "Ah, but there's more. The great Sherlock Holmes would have known that Moriarty was bluffing slightly. He would have figured out that the snipers wouldn't shoot if Moriarty was in your possession, they just couldn't risk it, knowing what you could do to him. He panicked and killed himself, reiterating that he was quite literally prepared to do anything to destroy you. But that's not all." At this moment Sherlock pulled his legs up towards his chest and placed his hands flat on his knees. Watching John deduce, he noted, was more amazing and entertaining as any case he'd ever solved. He watched on in complete admiration as his friend finished. "From this we can also deduce that Moriarty wanted to protect at least one of his snipers, showing a friendly, possibly even romantic connection between them. Knowing this, knowing that the snipers would not stop until you were dead, knowing that at least one of them would come after me if they needed revenge, you did what you could to protect me. To protect us. You risked everything, your life, your reputation, yourself. And you jumped." By this point, John was sitting so far forward in his chair he was practically on the floor.

Sherlock beamed. "That's fantastic, John." Said man returned the smile, thoroughly pleased with himself.

The silence returned between them and once again it was warm and welcome as the two men just sat, staring at each other, enjoying their companionship after such a long time being apart from each other. The taller man rose, stepped over the table separating them and moved to the kitchen. "Tea?" he questioned.

John, rather alarmed at the thought of Sherlock going anywhere near the teapot, stood and took it from him, urging the rather tired looking detective to sit back down in fear of him collapsing. He took his hands in his and squeezed them gently between them and the pot. He took the tea making instrument from his friend's grasp, smiled and whispered a "thank you" before making the drink. The younger man smiled and returned to the living room to play a sweet melody on his violin.

It had taken them a few months for everything to completely get back to normal, but they eventually got there. Their first case was to find and successfully stop the sniper that had managed to follow Sherlock half way around the world. It was curious to see the man that had threatened his life so long ago sitting before him, unable to escape. John noted how much he looked like Sherlock. His hair was black, short and curled, his lips soft and pink, his cheekbones prominent. He concluded that this was the man that Moriarty sent to abduct Claudette and therefore why she had screamed when Sherlock entered the room. Except there was something decidedly not Sherlock about this man and that was the mischievous grin that was constantly plastered on his face. It was very unnerving to hear him chuckle as he spoke of how he'd dreamed of murdering the men. John was right though, the sniper, Sebastian Moran, was intimate with Moriarty and confessed fully to wanting revenge by slowly torturing John. That was until a certain consulting detective conveniently took the murderer's attention away from the army doctor and goaded him into following him instead. The blonde turned to smile at Sherlock, communicating a silent "thank you" to the man who had save his life without him even knowing it. Again.

There was one thing that John didn't understand, though, and it had been eating away at him for months. A tiny, niggling thought at the back of his mind. A question that demanded to be asked. A question that, if asked, could destroy the past months of reconstruction, or worse, the past few years of friendship. A question of-

"How?" On a cold winter's night, almost a year after their reunion, the question finally managed to break its way past the barriers John had created to keep it in its rightful place.

Sherlock, sitting in his chair in his pyjamas and robe, hummed hos response and turned his face to look at his friend. "Hm?"

John stopped typing on his laptop and pushed it from his lap and onto the table between them. He sighed, rubbing his eyes. "How did you survive the fall?"

A flicker of unreadable emotion flitted its way across Sherlock's face. "It's difficult to explain," he mumbled, looking away into the fire, hoping John would drop the subject.

"Try me," he replied, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms.

There was a long period of quiet before Sherlock finally returned his gaze to that of his flatmate and said "I can't do that."

John let out a surprised breath of air. "Scared I won't understand you? I've had years of practice without you, Sherlock. Try me."

Sherlock stared at him, hurt. His worried face searched John's" "I can't tell you, John."

John stared, incredulously, before letting out an angry scoff and rolling his eyes. He sat upright in his chair. "Why can't you tell me? What on earth could there be to stop you from telling me?" His gaze burned into the fearful look in Sherlock's eyes.

"I can't tell you, John. I can't. I can't tell you."

"In case what, Sherlock?" he asked, his rage betrayed by his voice rising in volume. "What could there possibly be about it that you can't tell me? I'm your friend, Sherlock."

He didn't say another word. He didn't want to make the situation any worse than it already was. So he sat there, composed his facial expression and turned to stare at the fire again. John scoffed again and stood up, making his way into the kitchen to go and make some tea. He stopped before he got there, unsatisfied and curious. He turned.

"I don't understand you sometimes, Sherlock. I really don't. Said man cautiously made eye contact with the other. John placed his hands on the back of his chair and leaned on it. "If I'm your friend, why can't you tell me?"

"John, know this. I consider you to be a great friend of mine," John shifted self-consciously as Sherlock said this, something screaming at him from deep inside. He mentally shouted at the butterflies in his stomach and willed them to go away. "That's why I can't tell you."

That shut the butterflies up. Anger replaced the feeling in the ex-army doctor's body and he let out another astonished breath. "Sebastian's gone, Sherlock, as have the other snipers. What could possibly be holding you back?" He just sat there and stared. Unmoving. Not saying a word. Face as hard as a rock. Lips set in a firm line. Adams apple bobbing as he swallowed nervously. "Sod it," John breathed, grabbing his coat from the table.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked quietly, frightened he may once again lose the only good thing that has ever happened to him.

"Out. I need to think"

"Can't you think here?"

"Not right now," he replied dejectedly. "You know," he began, "I really thought that we had something special here... but if you can't trust me..." he trailed off, afraid he'd said too much and given himself away.

I can trust you, John."

"Then why won't you tell me, Sherlock?" he asked, losing breath at the end as he choked on his words. This was far too much for him. He couldn't handle it any more. He needed to get out. He needed to breathe. And, as he watched Sherlock open and close his mouth before setting his lips straight, that's exactly what John did. He went out and got some air, leaving a muddled Sherlock to watch as the door closed and took his blogger away from him.

It had been almost two hours before John had calmed down and began making his way home before a large black car with tinted windows slowed beside him. The window nearest to him rolled down ominously and a "get in, John" was heard from within the car. Knowing that voice anywhere, he obliged, albeit a little reluctantly.

"What is it, Mycroft?" He sighed once he'd finally settled and the car began to move.

It's about my younger brother."

"I'd gathered. Why else would you be talking to me after such a long time?" He refused to make eye contact with him and so resorted to staring out the window, squinting at the passing scenery.

The man sighed, "I'm sure you've realised that my brother is slightly," he struggled for the right word, "different." This made John inquisitive and he met the other man's gaze.

"What do you mean?"

"Ah," was the only reply that he got as a hushed air rolled throughout the car. It was a while before the brother started again. "I see. I suppose he's been quite normal around you?" The question thoroughly confused John. Mycroft chuckled. "Typical Sherlock. He's always trying to protect you from the slightest of things. Trying not to show you how he truly feels."

John's heart caught in his throat and his chest constricted. "What do you mean?" he croaked, his mouth dry with anticipation.

"He's... broken, John." John cocked his head slightly, swallowing to dissipate the pain in his throat. "Over those three years he's struggled to deal with-"

"Wait a second, you knew?" John's nervousness was overthrown by anger and he finally relocated his voice. "Sherlock told you, but not me? Bloody typical!"

"John, try to calm down, it's important that you listen to what I have to say."

"Calm down?" he said, his voice rising in pitch as he became more infuriated. "Sherlock came to you for help. He came to you to tell you that he was alive. He came to you and not me?" John felt something akin to jealousy eat away at him.

"I am his brother," Mycroft replied cooly.

"I'm his friend!" John retorted.

Mycroft smirked. "Yes, I suppose that is more important, considering who we're talking about."

John's rage died down as he considered the statement. Yes. Sherlock Holmes is one to care more about one friend than his entire family put together. He is, indeed, a strange and perplexing man. John turned to smile out of the window and chuckled at the memory of his friend.

"Yeah, he's weird like that, isn't he?" he said, turning his eyes back to Mycroft to grin at him before both men burst into a small fit of the giggles. Rather like the ones that Sherlock and John shared after cases. John noted how alike the brothers actually were.

"You have to understand that he was just trying to protect you, John," Mycroft said, breathless after the laughter finally died down.

"I understand."

"Good."

"What were you saying before I interrupted?"

"Ah. Well. Yes," he faltered and shifted slightly. "Over those few years Sherlock struggled with his loss of... you." John, thoroughly surprised, gasped audibly.

"Me?"

"Indeed. For the entire time all he kept talking about was you. How much he wanted to get back to you, how much he wanted to say sorry. It destroyed him, knowing you didn't know – that you couldn't know." Mycroft huffed a lung full of air, drawing out his long sigh. "You know that he was a user before you came along, do you not?"

"I had gathered, yes. He'd never fully confirmed it, but there were the signs. The withdrawal symptoms, the shaking, the blatant substitution of nicotine for a quick fix." John realised he was listing off symptoms like a doctor and checked himself, clearing his throat. "There was even a moment, back when we first met, where Lestrade was looking for a piece of evidence in the flat and he used a drugs bust as a cover explanation. Sherlock looked... concerned when it happened." John looked back on the time with warmth.

"He never used with you around." Again, John, shocked by Mycroft's words, stared at said man, mouth agape. "He never needed to with you around," he broke his gaze to stare at the new raindrops on his window, playing with his lip. "Unfortunately," he continued, "you weren't there when he needed you most and..." he left the sentence hanging. "It got out of hand at one point and it began to drive him mad. Some days he'd complain about having visions of waking up in a ward, connected to tubes, me sitting next to him, pleading with him to wake up. You should have seen him, John," again their eyes met, "the greatest mind in the world, finally breaking under the stress. The most fabulous brain this planet has ever known, afraid of itself." He stopped suddenly, choking, the rest of the story becoming unbearable to tell.

John, ever the heart, placed a caring hand on Mycroft's shoulder. No matter how angry he was at the man for practically causing his brother's 'death' he understood entirely and decided that being angry at him now would just be petty and spiteful.

"It got so awful that we had to admit him." John gave him a comforting squeeze. Mycroft's eyes searched John's, obviously distressed, and yet the rest of his face appeared to soldier on. No matter what people said, the Holmes brothers really did care for each other. Mycroft let out a sad chuckle. "He was only in there for about a week. Sherlock's mind is unique and once the drugs left his system it appeared to correct itself extremely quickly. He was his usual self again. It was inhuman, really."

"Yeah, well, that's Sherlock for you." The men chortled.

"Quite so."

The car stopped. "221B, sir," a soft voice spoke.

"Thank you, Mary, darling," Mycroft replied. John made to get out of the car but felt a hand restricting him. "Please, look after him, John. He's still very fragile. God only knows what would happen if a mind like his were to break again – what would happen if he were to lose you again." John's stomach flipped. It was actually quite... endearing, knowing how much he meant to his flatmate's mental health. How much he meant to the existence to one of the most fascinating things on the planet.

"I'll try." He got out of the car, adding a "thank you for the lift. Tell Greg I said hi." Mycroft smiled abashedly. "Don't think I didn't figure it out." John chuckled before waving goodbye to the now slightly flustered man waving back at him from the moving car.

Looking up at the window to the flat, John saw something mysterious. The lights were off. Confused and concerned, he walked briskly into the building and up the stairs. Sherlock couldn't be asleep, as he never slept, so why were the lights off? He heard movement from within and pushed the door open.

"Sherlock?" he whispered as the door creaked inauspiciously. That's when he saw it. "Sherlock, no!" he screamed at the silhouette as he pounced on him, sending the offending item clattering to the ground. He looked up at the man who was framed only by the moonlight seeping in through the window behind him. "What the hell do you think you're doing, Sherlock?" he shouted, perhaps a little too angrily. Scolding the man right now probably wasn't the best of ideas.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" the taller man snarled. John turned on the lights, squirted the liquid that was in the syringe down the kitchen sink and then threw said object out of the kitchen window. Which was, let's be honest, a rather rash thing to do but John wasn't exactly thinking straight at this moment in time.

"Sherlock, stop it! Stop this! This is ridiculous. Why would you do this to yourself?"

"I thought you'd left again!"

"So you thought you'd shoot up? Christ, Sherlock! Are you really that unable to deal with these things yourself?" John took in his friend's disheveled look for the first time since he'd returned from his walk. His eyes were red. They were raw.

Sherlock laughed uncomfortably and turned his face away from his friend's. "I-"

"Are you... have you already...?" he couldn't bring himself to say it.

"No. That would have been my first since..." he trailed off and began anew with new-found anger. "But you knocked it out of my hands." He ran his ringers through his hair with frustration and tugged. "Why did you do that?"

"Why did I- Sherlock, do you not understand? I couldn't exactly just sit back and destroy yourself!" He really did try not to shout but it didn't seem to be working. So he resorted to childishness. "'Oh, John, I was just about to take some drugs, would you like to join me?' 'No thank you Sherlock, I'll just sit here and watch as you drift further away from consciousness – from me. And just for fun I'll be there to hold your hair back when you're throwing up in the toilet. How does that sound?'" His anger bubbled in his chest. "I mean, how could you? Don't you understand, Sherlock? Don't you see what you do to other people?" He was really hoping to just come back to apologise and tell him how sorry he was for over reacting. He was hoping to tell Sherlock that he was always there for him. But coming back to this... it infuriated the ex-army doctor.

"No, I don't understand, John. Why, exactly, would it bother you so much?" he retorted.

"Because I care, Sherlock!" he bellowed, body lurching forwards as the force of his voice almost made him double over. He thought a silent apology to Mrs. Hudson whom he may have accidentally woken up. Sherlock stood, stunned. He made to speak but found he couldn't and so made do with awkwardly shifting his weight and shuffling in place.

"I just wanted it to stop, John," he croaked. He looked at the ex-army doctor, face full of sincerity. The men sat down in their respective chairs and John listened to what his friend had to say. "You cloud my mind and it frightens me," Sherlock continued. John made no move but inside he was screaming. "I cannot figure you out, and when I think I have, you go ahead and do something even more perplexing that it muddles me up again. I have never known anything or anyone to be as interesting and infuriating as you." He brought his legs up to his chest and hugged them, like a child. "I thought I'd wanted it to stop. But then the three years that I was away, when it finally did stop, I found that my brain couldn't handle the loss. You were an ample distraction for it but when you weren't there..." he paused. "For those three years, I'd been struggling over my loss of-"

"Me. Your brother told me, Sherlock," he huffed, "it's okay, I know.

"Quite." The pause that followed was almost unbearable but John knew that he had to give the man all the time that he requited. It was a few minutes before the man could speak again and even then it was broken and quiet. "I tried so hard, in those years. There were so many times that I wanted to return and tell you – show you – that I was alive." He scoffed in remembrance. "There was one time that I got so close that both Molly and Mycroft had to physically restrain me and pull me away."

"Wait, Molly knew as well?" John whispered. Sherlock looked at him, dejected. "Sorry. Yes. It's fine. Continue."

"It's only natural for you to be disappointed, John, I understand." John shook his head. "I thought what my brain needed was for it to stop. But I found, that when you weren't there, the only thing that happened was that it started again. It became more. It became worse. I realised that you were the drug that my brain needed in order to be reigned in. But you weren't there." He chocked. "So I turned to other drugs. The effect that they had was pleasant... for a while. I began to have dreams – visions. Ones where I would wake up and be in a ward and Mycroft was staring at me, asking 'Who is John?'", he lurched, "and he'd say 'Stop talking about a man who doesn't exist and bloody well come back to me!'... etcetera. It was... extremely frightening." This seemed difficult for Sherlock to admit to and John's heart ached as a single tear rolled down his friend's face. He yearned to reach out and wipe it away, as if he could, by doing that, erase the pain in Sherlock's body. Sherlock looked to the floor.

"I can imagine th-"

"Could you, John?" Sherlock's head snapped up to meet the other's, icy eyes boring into John as Sherlock spat his words. "Could you imagine a world where everything in your life, or what you thought was your life, was a complete lie, made up by another you? Could you imagine a world where you meant nothing to anyone?" at this, John visibly shivered, knowing what that used to feel like. "A world so dark and depressing that you make up years of cases for yourself to solve in order to make yourself feel better – feel like somebody. A world that was so horrid that you escaped into yourself in order to be something." Sherlock paused for breath. "A world where the only friend you've ever made, the only person you've ever cared about, doesn't exist because he's actually just a figment of your sick, twisted, broken imagination!" He finished adding a "I lived that world, John." and panting, growls erupting in his throat as he cried freely.

It was a terrifying sight for John, to see Sherlock in such a state of emotional distress. The only other time he'd seen such a reaction was when he'd seen the hound, and even then there was still a part of the great man that was still deducing, thinking, being Sherlock. But this... this was 100% pure fear. It was definitely not Sherlock.

"I am so, so sorry, Sherlock." He rose from his chair and moved over to his trembling friend. He sat on the floor in front of his feat and wrapped his arms around the shaking figure, smiling as he felt said figure's hands wrap around his neck and his face dig into his shoulder. John rocked the body slightly as it convulsed and let out the most human sound he's ever heard coming from Sherlock. He cried.

A few hours and a considerably large amount of tea later, after the two felt as though they had talked about everything that they needed to, Sherlock said something that John thought he'd never hear.

"John, I'm tired. I'm going to bed."

"Good God, who are you and what have you done to my Sherlock?" the man joked.

Sherlock smiled at the way that John described him as his. He found that he really enjoyed hearing the man claim possession over him and decided to ponder why exactly that was, later. However, at this moment, he was just happy to know that everything was finally back to normal... for real this time. "Goodnight, John."

John woke with a start to the sound of his friend screaming. "Sherlock?" he questioned the air sleepily. The soldier inside him kicked in and he quickly leaped from the bed, ran downstairs and burst through Sherlock's door. "Sherlock, are you okay?" he shouted into the dark room. He was greeted by the sight of a figure balled up and shivering in the middle of his bed.

"Don't leave me," it whispered. "Please, John, don't leave me. Not like everyone else. Everyone leaves. They always leave. Oh God. Please. Please, John. Don't leave me."

He rushed to the bed, sat upright against the wall and pulled Sherlock's body into his. "Shh," he whispered, placing a kiss to the man's temple. "It's okay, Sherlock, I'm here. I'm real. I'm not leaving you." He rocked the man, slowly, hushing him like a mother hushing to her baby. "Shh," he said again, cradling him closer to himself in order to get as much bodily connection as possible to remind Sherlock that he was here – that he was real. He continued to rock him and kissed him on the temple again, softly.

It took a while but Sherlock's sobbing finally ceased and he appeared to fall asleep with a comfortable smile on his lips. John decided that staying with him for the night was probably the best idea, to hell with the back pain and the cramp in the morning. His friend needed him.

No, it was more than that.

His Sherlock needed him.

"How is he today?"

"Still locked in his mind. I'm sorry, but we've tried everything. We just can't get him to wake up."

"I see." He moved to the bed, smiling as he saw the comfortable smile on his brother's lips. "Then I suppose this is goodbye."

The doctors flipped the switches and the beeping of the machines slowly dissipated until one long beep sounded.

"Goodnight," he placed a kiss on his brother's head.

"Goodnight. Sherlock."

A/N:

Thank you for reading. If you'd care to review and/or fave then that'd be amazing because it makes me a happy bunny.

Once again, thank you for reading, and I hope you have a good day :)