A/N: So I was working on this during the hiatus but I'm so overwhelmed by Series Three that I don't even know which way is up and I will probably just leave this where it is. I know Sherlock's return has been done a thousand times... but here's my daydream about it. Let me know what you think!
Also, for the record, I am not mistaken about the gun: the RAMC issues the Sig, not the Browning... I did my homework. I even looked up what kind of safety the thing has and how many rounds the clip holds. So... don't yell at me that I messed that up. ;)
Lastly, a special thanks to JaimeWeasley who made me a Cumberbitch and also helped with this story. 3

Doctor John Watson walked unenthusiastically through the aisles at the Tesco on the corner of Baker Street. His basket- and stomach- were still empty despite having been there ten minutes. He sighed and gave it up as a bad job. His downtrodden steps- slightly uneven now as the ghost of a limp shortened his stride- carried him back to the front where he abandoned his basket and left empty handed. Cooking for one was truly awful. Eating alone was awful. Being alone was awful. On the sidewalk he flipped his collar up against the chill breeze and debated his options. Really, he needed to eat something. He hadn't had the energy to fuss with eating at lunch so he definitely needed dinner. He'd lost a few pounds with the stress and grief… he'd had to start wearing his belt two notches in. A bit not good. So since he'd abandoned the idea of cooking for himself he had to find something. He couldn't go to Angelo's; he was so tired of the pitying stares he got every time he went. All the pats on the shoulder and trite comments. Yes, he missed Sherlock. Yes, it was tragic and NO, he didn't want to talk about it!

His thoughts immediately went to Sherlock and that last phone call… he shook his head and started down the sidewalk, determined not to fall into that trap again. Once he started remembering that phone call a whole different sort of hurt would settle into his chest; why had Sherlock lied to him in his last moments? Shouldn't last moments be sincere if nothing else? He didn't expect some heartfelt apology or confession of love but hell, a little honesty would've been nice! What had he been playing at?

Ah bugger; the thoughts had gotten him anyways. Shite. He had spent the months since Sherlock jumped asking himself why. Debating all the reasons Sherlock could've had that would make him take his own life but he couldn't find a single damn thing that worked. Sherlock was simply too arrogant to kill himself. The idea that Moriarty had managed to ruin Sherlock's reputation should've only served to make the detective hell-bent on restoring it! The Sherlock John knew- or thought he'd known- would've never let Moriarty win like that. But then Moriarty's body had been found twenty feet away from where Sherlock had jumped with the back of his head blown out. Lestrade had kept him in the loop on the investigation and it was easily ruled a self-inflicted shot… the gun had still been in his hand, a hand that was covered with gunshot residue, the bullet's path was an exact match for Moriarty's left handed aim, no teeth broken inward or bruised lips that suggested the gun barrel had been shoved into his mouth during a struggle. So a double suicide it was. That made absolutely no sense to John. Why would Sherlock have watched Moriarty kill himself only to turn, call John, lie elaborately, and then leap to his own death? Lestrade had been beyond thorough in his casework and shockingly Moriarty had not been as thorough in creating his actor backstory as John had thought he would be. Apparently Moriarty had not planned on having his body be identified postmortem as whatever the name was he'd made up, John didn't bother to remember the SOB's fake name. The fingerprints weren't in any database, neither were the dental records. And, to NSY's amazement, the actor persona he'd adopted in order to black list Sherlock had no medical or dental records… no traffic citations, owned no property, paid no taxes… it seemed that aside from what appeared to be forged news articles and university backstory there was no substance behind this character. John identified the remains as the man who'd kidnapped and strapped a bomb to his chest and that been another blow to Moriarty's lie.

John shuffled down the sidewalk, admitting defeat and letting the sad musings wash over him like they had so many times before. He wasn't exactly hungry but forced himself to pick up some takeaway from the Thai place and plodded dejectedly back home.

Empty, lonely, cold home. He'd not come back to Baker Street for nearly a month after it happened. He couldn't face it but after a little while he couldn't stop the urge (and he was tired of Harry's lumpy sofa and mutterings of "you're better off"), so he'd come back. Now he hardly left the place… he went to work and he came home to 221B. He knew what he was doing wasn't healthy but he didn't have the energy to do anything about it. So instead of trying to move on John sat in his chair in front of the telly in the flat that hadn't changed a bit since the loss of half of its occupants. Sherlock's chair still sat there only the union jack pillow filled it instead of six feet of lanky detective. The microscope still sat on the kitchen table… Sherlock's laptop still sat on the desk, his books filled the shelves. Mrs. Hudson had quietly suggested he box up some of Sherlock's things, just a few things at a time, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He blinked forlornly at the skill thinking that pitifully all he'd managed to do was remove all biohazard material out of the fridge. Well, he'd moved into Sherlock's room as he wasn't able to afford to keep his own room upstairs anymore. So he'd brought his things down and hung his clothes in the closet beside Sherlock's suits, rearranged the chest of drawers so that his folded clothes would fit alongside his best mate's. God this was a pathetic way to live. But he just couldn't bring himself to put away Sherlock's things. He couldn't box them up and send them to Mycroft to do with them what he would. Instead he continued to live this farcical life in a flat that seemed to belong to two when in fact one had been dead for over half a year.

So now John slept in Sherlock's bed on pillows that had long since stopped smelling like the posh soap his flat mate had been so fond of, next to a nightstand that still had a chemistry text lying open- a page marked with a microscope slide and covered in a thin layer of dust. Mrs. Hudson didn't come up much to clean anymore… she always got a bit teary when she saw that John had made no attempt to move on or cope.

Why should he? Life was back to its pre-Sherlock stage. He was back to being useless. When the army invalided him and sent him home he'd been good for nothing. And now? Without the world's only consulting detective needing his assistance or reminders to eat he was once again without purpose. He was without the adrenaline fixes that he had apparently thrived on. He was without a best mate with whom he could have entire conversations that consisted of only a few looks and no words.

Part of him was still resistant to accepting the fact that Sherlock had truly died. Even though he'd watched him fall and knew there was no way a person could survive a five story fall. He could list all the injuries typical of such a fall, many of them fatal by themselves let alone all together. But some foolishly optimistic part of him still harbored the tiniest grain of hope that Sherlock hadn't died. That he'd somehow managed to fool them all and any day now he would come swooping back into his life, his coat flaring dramatically around those ridiculously long legs, declaring that he'd solved some mystery of the universe and say "For God's sake, John! Of course I wasn't dead; wasn't it obvious?"

But if there was anything Sherlock had taught him it was that logic ruled. And all logic pointed to Sherlock being dead. He'd seen him fall. He'd seen the bloodied body on the ground and watched grim-faced nurses wheel him immediately into St. Bart's while casting doubtful looks at each other.

An hour later Mycroft had finally come through the double doors of the waiting room where John and Lestrade had been silently waiting…. John had taken one look at his pale face and known. But Mycroft had still uttered the words that would make both men stare in shock. Dead.

Molly had examined the body and confirmed all the typical traumas of a jumper as the cause of death. John had nearly thrown the slight woman aside when she stopped him entering the morgue. She had tearfully pleaded with him not to go in. She'd clung to his jacket and begged him not to let the last memories of Sherlock be of his pale broken body. The sight of his falling would be terrible enough. Sherlock wouldn't want him to see him like this. She'd then broken down and instead of her holding him back, he was now holding her as she began sobbing and told him through broken breaths just how bad off Sherlock was. His stomach churned when she listed the facial injuries that rendered him almost unrecognizable; so many broken bones in his face…. One of the zygomatic bones- those cheekbones that Mrs. Hudson went on about- all but obliterated, the frontal bone, mandible… cartilage separation in his nose… Oh, god. Sherlock.

Molly had won in the end and he hadn't gone to see Sherlock's body. He still wasn't sure if that had been the right decision. Maybe if he'd seen the… him he'd be able to quash that bit of him that insisted Sherlock couldn't be dead. Maybe.

So the days and weeks went for John Watson. Sometimes Lestrade would drag him out for a pint after he trudged home from a lackluster day at the surgery, sometimes he'd catch sight of a black car with tinted windows and know that Mycroft was still checking up on him. He wasn't sure why really… it wasn't like he could do anything to his brother now. Perhaps the eldest Holmes had a bit of sentimentality in him even if he pretended that he didn't. Molly called or text him every now and then. She was always so apologetic, like she'd pushed him off the roof herself when really all she'd done was handle the body at one point.

Mrs. Hudson still checked on him but there wasn't much she could do.

Time began to mean very little to John… he spent most nights either lying awake in Sherlock's bed or nightmarishly reliving the moments when he'd watched the most important person in his life plummet to his death. His days were spent at the surgery diagnosing strep throat and sprained ankles. Dull.

He'd given up on seeing his therapist. She kept insisting that he continue the blog, that he write about his grief and how he was coping but he couldn't do that. His grief for Sherlock was too personal to put out there. Plus, many of the blog readers now thought Sherlock had been a fraud- even though sufficient doubt had been raised that the more fervent fans now believed in their idol again. But still, he couldn't share this with them. He could barely think about it himself must less put it out there for the world to see.

Sometimes, when he lay awake at night, hugging one of Sherlock's pillows to his chest he wondered at the depth of his grief. Was this normal? He'd lost friends, comrades, brothers-in-arms before, and that had hurt and he still missed them but this… This was a horse of a different color. There was something so different about this. Eventually he realized with a fair bit of chagrin that he'd allowed his life's focus to be his former flat mate. Solving cases with Sherlock, chasing criminals with Sherlock, quiet evenings at home with Sherlock, making sure Sherlock ate, slept, had cases to work on. It was pathetic really, that Sherlock Holmes had become the center of his world without his even realizing it. He recalled a term he'd learned in some psychology class at Uni… 'Codependency'. Was that what this was? Had he and Sherlock been codependent? Perhaps. It seemed like codependent relationships were usually between couples and he and Sherlock certainly hadn't been romantically involved.

He realized with some surprise that he hadn't had the desire to spend any time with a woman since Sherlock… since it happened. What did that mean? Well, he was probably just too tired. His grief was too deep to climb out of and pursue anyone. But… he himself had been pursued a couple of times. Usually when he and Lestrade went out they'd encounter a bird or two and a couple of times he'd gotten that line he used to love to hear: "Want to go back to mine?" But he'd turned them down after seeing Sherlock's disapproving face flickering in his mind. He knew that Sherlock had detested all of the women he dated but that was probably just because if he was with a woman he wasn't at Sherlock's beck and call. He'd almost felt as if he was betraying Sherlock's memory if he let those women take him home. That he didn't understand at all.

Eventually one night, something changed. He'd finally begun to doze off when he heard a sound in the living room as if someone had plopped gracelessly onto the sofa. For the split second before he was fully awake he muttered 'Sherlock' to himself, thinking that his flat mate was restless in the night as usual. But then in the next instant he remembered that there no longer was a flat mate and he was fully awake, he had his pistol in his hand a heartbeat later. He slipped silently out of the sheets, clad in only his pants, and peered slowly through the open bedroom door. It was fully dark, the only light coming off the street through the couple open inches between the curtains. He was certain that he'd heard something. He assessed the situation, his soldier instincts taking hold again quickly: unexpected person in the flat, intent unknown, weapons unknown. John had his Sig Sauer P226R, ten rounds in the clip and one in the chamber. He had a second clip in the drawer but didn't want to go back for it. If it came down to it he'd dive back into the bedroom but he was pretty confident he wouldn't need eleven shots to subdue anyone. Both his hand and leg were steady- the tremor and limp only faint memories under the first flood of adrenaline he'd had in months. His nerves also were steady; he felt like Captain Watson again.

He leaned around the edge of the door carefully keeping as much of his body as possible shielded by the wall. There, silhouetted by light from the street lamps, was a man sitting on the sofa, his head leaned back against the cushions like he had no care in the world. John stepped into the room and thumbed off the safety, the metallis snick sounded loud in the quiet; the man on the sofa didn't stir. He raised no weapon of his own that John could see, nor made any reaction to indicate that he'd heard the small sound. John slowly stepped towards the light switch with the gun held in a steady hand, aimed at center mass.

"I'm unarmed." The man said in a low voice that made the hair stand up on John's neck and his subconscious whisper Sherlock to him again. Not possible. He tightened his grip on the gun but felt as though his feet had soldered themselves to the floorboards.

"What do you want?" He asked in a voice rough with sleep and adrenaline.

John could only hear his own steady breathing for a moment before the man answered. "Well, I would appreciate not being shot. A and E is so tedious." John's heart clenched in his chest. Was someone fucking with him? If he hadn't seen Sherlock fall himself he would swear on his life that it was his best mate sitting on their sofa. Out of patience, he reached behind him with his right hand and flipped the overhead light on; his hand was back on the gun's grip in a flash.

He blinked in the sudden light and immediately froze when he was finally able to see the man looking back at him from the sofa. John stared in shock at the impeccably dressed man with pale skin and curly dark hair.

"You can put the gun down, John." Sherlock Holmes said calmly with a small roll of his eyes.

John stared over the sights of the Sig trying to comprehend the situation… He felt the blood draining out of his head and he swayed on his feet. Sherlock?

"For God's sake, John! Do use your brain before you accidentally kill me." Sherlock stood slowly with his hands held out in front of him and stepped forward slowly as if he was approaching a trapped animal. The man's impatient words finally broke into John's consciousness and it felt like a jolt to the heart, hearing that tone again.

He slowly lowered the Sig as part of his mind understood that he was pointing a loaded weapon at his best mate, whom he in fact did NOT want to kill. He watched a bit detached as Sherlock closed the distance and pulled the gun from his unresisting fingers. He watched him eject the clip, pull back and lock the slide to remove the chambered round. He set everything on the coffee table and turned back to face John.

"Sherlock?" John finally breathed, barely making a sound.

"Yes, John." Sherlock replied calmly but still watching him warily.

"But… I… you…" John stuttered out, his head spinning. Had he finally just lost his fucking mind? Was he dreaming? Was Sherlock actually here? Was he a ghost? He'd just handled the gun… could ghosts hold things? Was he a poltergeist? He shook his head to clear the ridiculous thoughts that were flitting through his bran. Those were all highly unlikely. Was he just… not dead then?

"Have you… all this time?" John asked, his throat constricting as he was entirely overwhelmed with every emotion he could name.

"Yes." The two men studied each other for a moment; Sherlock obviously waiting for John to process everything. John was in fact processing things and two emotions were vying for dominance: pure, unadulterated relief and joy that Sherlock was alive were competing with absolute fury that he'd been alive all this time while John had been left to grieve and come apart at the seams.

Before he even realized his intention his left hand had closed into a fist, snapped forward, and connected solidly with Sherlock's jaw. "You bloody fucking bastard!" He said breathlessly, still too unsettled to work up a proper yell. Sherlock had been taken unaware by the punch and had gone down, landing in a heap of long limbs and an oath half onto the sofa. John all but snarled at Sherlock's shocked and wounded expression and reached down to haul him up by the collar of that bloody dramatic coat. "What the bloody hell, Sherlock?" He ground out into the taller man's face, their noses mere inches apart. "I watched you jump! I saw you! You made me watch you fall! What… I don't…" His confusion caught up with him and the images of Sherlock's broken and bloodied body swam into his vision. His throat closed almost completely and he felt the humiliating sting of tears in his eyes. He stared at Sherlock as he tried to make sense of this madness. Sherlock looked well, aside from his reddened jaw… he might've lost a few pounds as his cheekbones might be even more pronounced than before and it looked as though he hadn't slept in a week… but other than that he looked whole and healthy.

"I know. I'm sorry." Sherlock said in the same maddeningly calm tone.

"You're sorry?" John repeated incredulously. Part of him was shocked that he'd apologized and the other part was outraged and felt that all the apologies in the world would never be enough.

"Yes."

John slowly released his grip on Sherlock's lapels and both men relaxed marginally. John eyed the detective suspiciously, still slightly disbelieving the entire situation. Maybe he'd wake up soon and the whole thing would be a bizarre dream.

"You're…." John trailed off, not even sure what he was trying to ask. The tumult of emotions churned again and the relief and joy welled up to push aside the anger. His actions took him by surprise again and before he knew what he was doing he'd thrown himself against Sherlock, knocking him back a half step, and wrapped his arms tightly around his waist. "Bloody hell, Sherlock." He whispered against too-sharp collar bones.

After a shocked second he felt Sherlock's arms come awkwardly around his shoulders and his cheek press to John's hair. "I am so fucking angry with you," he said quietly and he felt Sherlock's chuckle rumble through his chest at the contradiction in his words and his actions.

"I know." Sherlock repeated. "I'll explain everything."

John nodded into his chest, still not ready to release him. He was alive. Sherlock was alive and he was here. He was here… as soon as he thought that another thought was triggered and he froze with his arms still wrapped around Sherlock.

"Are you here to stay?" He asked with his eyes squeezed shut as if that would make Sherlock's answer more palatable.

"Yes, I've finished my… mission, for lack of a better word." Sherlock said, his cheek still resting on John's hair.

"Mission?" John asked immediately, finally pulling away to look up at his miraculously alive best mate. Sherlock dropped his arms and stepped away to shrug out of his coat and scarf.

Sherlock sighed as he toed off his shoes before he turned back. "It's… complicated." John finally noticed the sag in Sherlock's normally perfect posture and the pasty color of his skin. Now that his coat and jacket were off John could see that his shirt was rumpled and was even sporting a couple of stains.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes, just tired. I've been traveling for several days to get back here. I hate public transportation… so many idiots."

"Oh." John acknowledged… he had no idea what to do with himself though. Could he just go back to bed after his dead flat mate turned up in the middle of the night, apparently back from the dead? He supposed he could kip on the couch and let Sherlock have his room back…

"Mrs. Hudson let your room to someone else." Sherlock stated, apparently having deduced the situation.

"Yeah, I couldn't afford the rent by myself…" He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I don't know how long a lease it is. I can… well hell, I don't know what we'll do. I can't think straight." John ran his fingers through his hair feeling the adrenaline being replaced by emotional exhaustion.

"We'll sort it out in the morning." Sherlock said as he turned and walked towards the only remaining bedroom.

"Right." John muttered, his thoughts still a jumbled mess. "Let me just get my pillow and I'll kip on the sofa."

"Don't be ridiculous, John. It's likely that I'll only sleep for an hour or two anyway. I feel certain that we can share a bed without anything untoward happening." With that he swept into the bedroom and John robotically turned off the light and followed him. When he entered the room Sherlock was standing stock still, staring down into a drawer in the dresser. John nearly squirmed uncomfortably. What would Sherlock have to say about John's having put his clothes in next to his? And leaving his when he was supposed to be dead?

Sherlock slowly closed the drawer and opened the next to stare at their mixed belongings. He repeated the action with each drawer and John's discomfort grew with each one. After he closed the bottom drawer he turned and walked to the closet where he opened the door and stood silently observing its contents. John knew he was looking at their close hanging side by side, Sherlock's completely untouched.

Finally Sherlock turned back and stared at John. He sighed and waited patiently while Sherlock studied him. It had been a long time since he'd stood like this awaiting some judgment from the detective. He belatedly wished for some trousers…

After a moment Sherlock broke the silence. "You didn't believe that I had died."

John cleared his throat, "There erm… there was a part of me that was in denial, yes." He hoped Sherlock didn't deduce that the real reason for the way he had kept everything was solely because he'd been unable to let Sherlock go.

Sherlock grimaced but let the matter drop. He turned back to the dresser and removed a pair of sleep trousers and a tee, he spoke over his shoulder as he rifled through the drawer. "I need to shower. I've spent entirely too much time sitting entirely too close to too many disgusting people. And none of them were interesting."

"Yeah, sure." John said, still feeling incredibly wrong-footed.

Sherlock stopped on his way out of the room, "Go back to sleep, John." John blinked in surprise when Sherlock's large hand settled on his shoulder and squeezed him gently. Where did Sherlock learn how to comfort anyone? He must be looking pretty bad for Sherlock to offer comfort. John nodded dumbly in response. "I'm not going anywhere," The detective added quietly enough that John didn't have to acknowledge it; but the simple sentence loosened the knot in his stomach a bit.

John finally seemed to snap out of his shock with Sherlock's soft footfall down the hallway. Just as he was about to climb back under the sheets Sherlock's voice sounded from the bathroom. "I'll take the left side, John."

John rolled his eyes and obediently walked around to the other side of the bed and climbed in. "Hasn't been back a half hour and is already bossing me around." He was smiling despite himself.

He'd been sure that he wouldn't be able to fall asleep with the emotional upheaval of the night's revelations but it turned out that he never heard Sherlock return from the shower or climb in on his designated side of the bed.

Instead John was already sleeping. Before long his nightmare returned, as it did most nights.

He watched Sherlock fall as he stood rooted to the spot still holding his mobile to his hear, the scream lodged in his throat. The dash across the street seemed to take forever, as though he were running through hip deep water or something. Finally he made it to Sherlock's side and threw aside some of the gathered crowd. He staggered to his knees beside his best mate and reached for the wrist closes to him. His fingers searched but there was no pulse to find. John felt himself pulled back by a nurse as Sherlock was loaded onto a stretcher, revealing the extent of his injuries. Suddenly he was leaving Sherlock in the morgue after Molly wouldn't let him in and he returned to Baker Street… when he climbed the steps and opened the door it was to discover that he was not alone. Sherlock, looking as he had when they had rolled him over onto the stretcher, was waiting for him on the sofa. He turned to face John… his cheek crushed in, nose displaced, skin covered in blood, his eyes dead. The corpse-Sherlock spoke around broken teeth, "Hello, John."

John pressed a hand to his mouth as the nausea climbed up his throat. He watched as blood began to drip faster from the slightly misshapen forehead and dripped obscenely onto his plum colored shirt. He stifled a heave as his eyes trailed down and saw that one of Sherlock's shoulders was sitting several inches lower than the other and John's training couldn't help but list the broken bones that would cause this. As he watched a trickle of blood from a gash on Sherlock's forehead increased to an alarming flow and Sherlock serenely stared at him with eyes that had no presence behind him. John whimpered behind his hand, wondering how the hell his dead best mate was sitting on their sofa. Fear began to claw its way through his system.

"Sherlock…?" Whatever remained of Sherlock raised a mocking eyebrow and tears rolled down John's cheek at nearly the same rate as the blood flowed down Sherlock's. "No… Sherlock…"

Sherlock slowly stood from the couch with the hideous sound of grinding bones. He stood staring back at John, one hip stuck out unnaturally far- broken pelvis, left femur- and John finally had too much and he backed through the door onto the landing, unable to turn his back to the horror in the living room. He stumbled backwards and abruptly fell backwards down the stairs.

The dream-fall shocked John awake abruptly, gulping air in a terrified gasp.

"John! You're alright… it's a dream, John. You're perfectly fine." Sherlock spoke quickly in his deep, resonating voice his hand soft but firm on John's sweaty shoulder. John barely managed to stop his instinct to jerk away from the touch, visions of the dream still vivid in his mind.

"Oh, fuck." John muttered and flopped back onto his pillow. That dream was … horrific. Sherlock's tone was just impatient enough that it didn't allow for John to feel sorry for himself and instead it forced his attention to the here and now instead of the dream. He knew Sherlock hadn't done it to make it any easier for him; he was probably genuinely irritated that he'd been woken up.

His gaze was locked on Sherlock's intact face in the dim light from the window. Right now, he had never seen anything more beautiful than that face free of blood and broken bones. He reached up and grabbed Sherlock's wrist where his hand was still clasped on his shoulder, his fingers tightening around the other man's arm as though it was a lifeline. He felt Sherlock settle back onto his pillow.

"Your dream was about me." Sherlock stated… John turned towards him as he caught his breath and waited for Sherlock to launch into an explanation as to how he knew. The man couldn't resist the explanation. "You were saying my name."

John huffed out a laugh, not a difficult deduction then. "Yeah, it was about you. Watched you fall all over again… only this time you got back up and were talking to me." He shuddered again. "Tomorrow you're going to explain to me exactly how you survived that fall."

Sherlock rumbled an affirmative noise and they were quiet for a moment before Sherlock spoke up, "Do you… need anything?"

John laughed in surprise, "You feel guilty for all this, don't you?" He teased and shifted their arms so they were loosely clasping hands in the space between them. The simple contact was one of the most comforting things he'd experienced as far back as he could remember.

"Guilt is a wasted emotion; it solves nothing." Sherlock replied immediately. "Feeling guilt over something that cannot be altered is utterly ridiculous. I've better things to do with my time."

"Doesn't mean you don't feel it."

"Go to sleep, John." Sherlock said, avoiding the topic. "I would appreciate it if you will kindly desist with the nightmares. They are exceedingly useless and irritating."

John squeezed Sherlock's hand but let him avoid answering him; the detective didn't really do emotions well. "Have you slept at all?" He asked quietly.

"Some," came the equally quiet reply.

John wanted to ask if Sherlock would stay with him and if he'd be there when he woke but if felt entirely too childish. He wasn't a kid afraid of the dark.

"Well, try to get some more. You looked exhausted earlier." John said in his best boss-Sherlock-around voice… the one that usually got him to eat a begrudged meal.

"Yes, Mummy." Sherlock answered and John could all but hear his eye roll.

John released his hand and rolled onto his side to settle into a more comfortable position. He heard and felt Sherlock shifting a bit also. It was surprisingly comfortable sharing the bed with his best mate. Maybe it was because they'd been in nearly every situation conceivable so sleeping next to each other wasn't such a strange event in the scheme of things. They had killed for each other after all. Of course, it might be simply because he was so goddamn happy to have his best mate alive or that he might be slightly afraid to let him out of his sight.

He reached across the bed and his fingers encountered Sherlock's cotton covered back. Sherlock shifted back a couple inches so that the back of John's hand rested comfortably against his shoulder blade. Neither man commented on either of the actions. Perhaps they were both comforted by the small contact. John lay quietly in the dark, feeling sleep slowly creeping up on him as he stared at the dark silhouette of his best mate, finally back where he belonged. And if the bastard didn't have a damn good reason for this madness, John was going to beat the fear of God into him and then let Lestrade have a turn.

A/N: Seriously, what the hell happened in Series 3?