Been thinking of this one for a while, and I finally got writing it last night. I should be working on my senior project... but oh, well. When the plot bunnies strike, there are no survivors from schoolwork.

This oneshot is based off of Christina Perri's song 'Arms'. I suggest listening to it while reading, or at least before or after. It's lovely.

Warnings: light Johnlock; very brief mentions of suicide, but nothing graphic.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. We reserve that honor for Mofftiss.

It was often said that Sherlock Holmes did not have a heart, that he didn't feel empathy, was incapable of loving anyone or anything. To a certain point, it was true. He found his heart to be nothing more than a necessary organ, something that pumped blood to his brain, that kept him alive so he could do his work. That was all it was good for. Right now, he wishes it all were still true. He knows what is coming, what he has to do, and it is slowly breaking his heart.

He doesn't want to hurt John. He doesn't want to leave. As he sits in Molly's lab, he looks over and sees John, and he can't control an overwhelming rush of affection for the doctor. He calls to him softly. The snoozing man picks up his head to look at Sherlock. The detective asks, "Will you please come here?" very softly, and John does so, the question he doesn't have to ask written all over his face. Sherlock simply reaches out and pulls John close. The doctor carefully embraces back, pressing his face into Sherlock's hair. This poor, wonderful, precious, perfect man… his John Watson. Sherlock doesn't want to break his heart, doesn't want him to hurt in any way, but it has to be done to keep him safe. He knows this… but the knowledge hurts more than anything.

"It'll be okay, Sherlock," John murmurs, "We'll get through this. I know it."

Sherlock says nothing. He knows what will happen. It will not end well. It takes all of his willpower to disengage from John's embrace, citing their current case with Moriarty and avoiding arrest. He will need to think him cold, unfeeling, less than human. He hides his momentary panic when John announces Mrs. Hudson has been shot, realizing it's a ruse. He's actually grateful for it.

Now he stands on the edge of the roof of St. Bart's, staring down at John, feeling his heart break for the first time. Tears he isn't forcing come spilling from his eyes. His voice breaks despite his willing so hard for it not to do so. Even as he lies to John, tells him Moriarty/Brook was right, he wants so much for John to deny what he says. John does not disappoint, denying until the very end.

"It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"

"Leave a note when?"

"Goodbye, John."

He barely hears John shouting into his phone as he shuts it off and drops it to the ground. So many thoughts whirl around his brain: I'm so sorry, John. Please forgive me. I'll come back someday soon. I'll miss you. I need you. I love you. He hears the scream of his name as steps off the roof, just before the noise of whistling wind cuts out all other sound. Poor John, wonderful John, perfect John… forgive me. This is for the best. They can't hurt you if I'm gone. I can't hurt you.

Sherlock spends the next three years dreaming of deceptively strong arms around him, of smelling tea and aftershave and soap and everything that reminds him of home, of simply loving and being loved. He wonders when he became so human, and he wishes desperately it would go away. The pain could become numbing, all-encompassing, especially when he sees photos of John's wedding, when he hears of Mary's sudden illness and death. He's so glad, in a way, that he never told John he loved him. His John would never recover from that… and Sherlock couldn't have dealt with that fallout.

He waits three years, until it's safe to come home. He waits for John to shout at him, to scream, swear, hit, kick, anything. He doesn't expect John to step forward and his arms around him, burying his face in his chest and muttering, "I knew it. I knew you'd come back," before finally crying. Sherlock presses his face into the short blonde hair, breathing in the scent he'd missed for so long. He's not ashamed to admit he's crying, too, repeating, "I'm home, John. I'm home," over and over until he believes it himself.

"Oh, John, I've missed you so much. I didn't want to do it, but I had to. You've got to believe me. I just… I wanted… there was… I… safe. You needed to be safe. Alive," Sherlock babbles quickly, "They were… you could've been killed, and it would've been my fault. I couldn't've handled that… I… I don't know what I would've done. I love you, John Watson. If you died, I think I would've killed myself, I really would-"

John stops him with a swift kiss to the lips.

"Sherlock, stop talking like that. I don't want to think about you dead anymore. Not when I've had to do it for three years. Not when I finally have you back… because I love you, too, you idiot."

They sit together on the couch, curling into each other, not-so-stealthily seeking out the other's pulse or heartbeat, just to make sure the other was there. Sherlock revels in the feeling of John's arms around him, of his scent in his nostrils, of his face against his. At last, after what felt like more than one lifetime, Sherlock feels like he's home.

He doesn't know that John feels exactly the same way.

I tried my best to never let you in to see the truth
And I've never opened up
I've never truly loved 'til you put your arms around me
And I believe that it's easier for you to let me go

I hope that you see right through my walls
I hope that you catch me, 'cause I'm already falling
I'll never let a love get so close
You put your arms around me and I'm home

You put your arms around me and I'm home

Thanks for reading! Reviews are like sunshine :)