His head spins a little as he steps out of the plane and onto the tarmac. Next thing he knows his arms are full of John and he struggles to focus on his own breathing, until strong hands pull him down and his lips crash inelegantly against his friend's.
His mind goes completely blank, except for a small voice that informs him of how right this actually feels. It's only for a moment though; soon enough John pulls away and Sherlock's brain stutters back to life.
He darts an apologetic glance at Mary, pointedly ignoring Mycroft's disapproving stare. Mary shoots him an impish smirk and steps closer; her hands are gentler as they rest on his shoulders and she kisses him in turn.
It's nice, he thinks, half-heartedly berating himself for the inaccuracy of the term he's just used. John is staring at them now, his previous confusion giving way to something different; Sherlock doesn't care that his brother is rolling his eyes in annoyance, all that matters is that he's loved and he's never going to be alone anymore.
He steals another kiss from Mary, because he can, and he trusts her, even if she shot him. John huffs in disbelief and claims his lips once more, and Sherlock knows that whatever happens now, he's back to where he belongs.