I told myself this was going to be a one-shot. But, as it turns out, the more I was brought back to this story by everyone's lovely comments, the more I found myself visualizing what that first night's encounter would have been like, how exactly these two would have ended up in bed together and how Sherlock could be compelled to do something so uncharacteristically sentimental. I couldn't take it anymore and decided to write up a prologue. So to all of you guys who asked if I could continue it, I kind of cheated. It's technically a continuation, just in the wrong direction. Hope you guys enjoy it! Thanks so much for all of your wonderful comments! I hope this little installment is just as pleasing as the original.

[xxx]

Prologue

Busy London streets. People. Cars. Sounds. Lights. They all whizzed by him as he ran as fast as his trained legs would carry him. Out in front, a long coat flapped elegantly in the wind, held in motion securely by the shoulders of the brilliant man it rested upon. Mop of curls bouncing with each stride as they ran from the cops. Or possibly towards a specific destination. John could not be sure in that moment with adrenaline flooding his veins.

He remembered Sherlock Holmes.

That first case was one of his most poignant memories. But that's all it was now; a memory. Something to look back upon fondly, before remembering why it was only a thing of the past, and then delving into an incurable depression. The first few months had been the worst. As time past, the wounds did not heal, but they scarred over a bit. Thinking back to those days of watching the detective work, sometimes even helping him piece it all together, irritated the mental scabs. But he needed to. He needed to remember. And then one day he didn't need to remember.

Because Sherlock was back.

John had been mad at first. Furious, in fact. His fist cracked against Sherlock's pale face, square in the lip. Then again on one of those impossibly sharp cheekbones. As much as he wanted to, though, he could not bring himself to do it again when he saw Sherlock's lip bleeding. It just reminded him of the man's broken and battered face, his head split open on the pavement, blood everywhere. So much blood. John never wanted to see it again.

Sherlock had let himself get hit. When John's fist stopped, and he gazed into his eyes, saw the look of sheer panic on his companion's face, bordering on mania, he finally spoke.

"It's okay, John."

They left. Went back to John's new flat just outside the city. Sherlock hated it. Demanded that they go back to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson let them in after hugging the detective for a solid minute, crying and thanking every star in the sky that he was alive. She swatted his arm, of course, but lightly, as the bruises on John's left hand told her very well where the cuts on his face had come from. She could verbally abuse him for lying later. Key in hand, Sherlock took the steps in twos as he usually did, and entered the flat the two used to share for the first time in three years.

Cleaned, packed, and unnaturally spotless; just as John remembered leaving it on the day he told Mrs. Hudson he was moving out. He took what was his, packed up what wasn't in case she decided to rent it out to another party, and left. He hadn't spoken to her much. Come to think of it, he hadn't spoken to really anyone in the past three years. All of his city friends just reminded him of Sherlock.

Sherlock sat down on the sofa and gestured for John to sit as well. He remained standing. The detective let the issue drop and began divulging the more important matter at hand: the circumstances of his survival. The suicide was fake. That was obvious by the man's presence. But to hear the tale, to hear how the sleuth avoided death despite genuinely jumping off of the roof of a hospital building… well, it was just so Sherlock.

Because if anyone could pull it off, it was Sherlock Holmes.

After gaining assurance that the flat was his again if he wanted it, Sherlock asked John to stay. He wanted to say no. He wanted to tell the detective that you can't just let your best friend think you dead for three years and expect everything to be okay when you come back. He wanted to shout, and reprimand, and scold, and maybe even verbally abuse, just to get Sherlock to cringe, or show some sign of humanity. Because this was cold. This was so cold.

But what came out was "yes."

Too emotionally drained to go back home for any sleeping clothes, he shed his jumper and trousers, content with sleeping in just his t-shirt and pants for one night. Tomorrow he could go back to his flat, collect his belongings, and find a way to get out of the lease he had signed. But that could wait until tomorrow. After he'd had a night to sleep on the idea that Sherlock was really back and not just a hallucination.

[xxx]

"No, stay exactly where you are."

"Alright, alright-"

Reaching. Reaching out. But the further he reached the further his friend became. Reaching back. A plea, a desperate plea. Save me. Save him. Just save him, dammit.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?"

Please don't do this.

"This phone call, it's um,"

His voice was trembling. Was it his or Sherlock's? Was it both? Crying. Genuine tears. Please don't cry, Sherlock. I'm here.

"It's my note."

We can still fix this. Just come down. Put you're hand back up. Reach for me again. I'll help you down. Please, Sherlock. Whatever you need. However you know to fix this. Just let me help you. Let me in for once so I can help you.

"That's what people do don't they?"

Not you. Don't you dare. Just stop it. Come home. Sherlock.

"Leave a note."

Lips trembling. Definitely his own voice cracking. "Leave a note when?"

Blood. So much blood. Where is his pulse? No, he can't be dead. Sherlock Holmes is immortal. He's the best of us all. We were going to have a lifetime together. He was supposed to beat Moriarty, prove to everyone how brilliant he was.

"He will outlive God trying to have the last word."

Come back. Come back to me. There's blood everywhere. Am I bleeding? No, not my blood. Sherlock's. His hair is matted and face is red. The pavement is drenched in crimson, concentrated to blackness. Vision blurring. Must not cry. The picture is fuzzy. Where is his pulse?

Red. Everything is red. Except for a pair of piercing blue eyes. But the blood is tainting them, too.

"Goodbye John."

[xxx]

Sherlock's eyes are fixated on his microscope when he hears it. Quite possibly the most painful and desperate cry, like a wounded animal, and it's coming from upstairs. But the voice is a familiar one. Snapping to full attention, Sherlock pushes himself up and out of his chair, running up the stairs into the room above. Had someone broken in and hurt John? They'd regret it.

The detective burst through the door of John's bedroom, charged and prepared for an altercation. But the room was empty, except for the army doctor in the bed, still screaming. His eyes were closed and his body tensed.

"John," Sherlock approached the bed and shook the man's shoulder, carefully at first, then harsher when he did not wake. "John, wake up! Wake up!"

The soldier snapped awake violently, sitting up and inhaling sharply. His fingers tangled in his sandy hair and clenched down, tightening, tightening, returning him to reality through a stinging sensation. His lungs labored irregularly; Sherlock did not like the raspy quality of his respiration. His hand remained on his friend's shoulder as he gazed at him in concern, not daring to call his attention until it could be risked.

Finally, when the doctor's breathing leveled out, Sherlock addressed him again. "John?" his friend did not turn to look at him. "Are you alright?"

"You jumped," John whispered in horror at the dark shapes below the blanket, "You jumped. I couldn't - save you - wasn't enough to - you - you had no pulse, Sherlock. There was so much - blood. Blood everywhere. Your eyes…" sobs choked off the words that attempted to follow. Sherlock saw all of the warning signs of a severe anxiety attack threatening to shatter the doctor's body and mind: chest rising and falling erratically in hyperventilation, tremors in the hands, constricted pupils, frantic heart rate, blood pressure climbing, his pulse visible in his neck, strained and labored breathing.

Sherlock remembered what anxiety felt like. It was not something he wished for his friend to experience. Particularly because of him.

Sitting on the bed, he kicked his shoes off before pulling the soldier down by his shoulders and swinging his legs onto the bed, slipping them under the blanket for convenience should the other man desire it. John reflexively bent his knees, and the detective's fit into the backs of them nicely. When John attempted to flee, he constricted his arms around the smaller man and pulled him tight, his back pressing against the detective's firm chest. One long, slender leg slipped atop his to secure him by the hip. When breath returned to the smaller man, Sherlock moved his arm to cover John's, and took his hand, lacing his fingers in between his friend's, palms both facing down. He felt John clench his hand to hug them back, his left hand reaching out to grab the arm below his neck. The tightness of his grip was desperate. Sherlock felt a strain on his heart.

His chin rested in the crook of John's shoulder, trying to comfort him so the sobbing would cease. They appeared to only worsen. After a moment of evaluation, Sherlock planted a chaste kiss on John's neck.

The soldier froze.

They both sat perfectly still, able to hear their own blood pulsing behind their ears. When John began breathing again, Sherlock did as well, and he was relieved to discover that the older's breaths did not sound quite as labored. He repeated the action once more, freezing up again after. The second pause was not as long or as tense as the first.

The third touch of Sherlock's surprisingly supple lips fell to the back of John's neck, when his own began to ache. John relaxed into it, and rolled his shoulder to bring Sherlock closer, seeking out the touch again. He felt Sherlock's thumb brushing soothingly along the top of his own, the touch so faint he wondered if it had been occurring for long. Part of him wanted to ask, but he repressed the desire to, in fear of Sherlock not even being consciously aware of it. If brought to his attention, he might stop. He couldn't stop.

John was tired. So terribly tired. But frightening images kept flashing and dancing behind his eyelids the moment he attempted to close them. Sherlock's piercing eyes, glazed over and lifeless, his face drenched in blood. Blood everywhere. Crimson horror. When he opened his eyes again, the dark room was tinted red. The scream caught in his throat.

John would relax, and begin to feel as if he were drifting to sleep. But as soon as the tension left his body, it would return again, with him gasping and sobbing and screaming on occasion, plagued by horrible visions Sherlock could only assume were still of him lying dead in a pool of his own blood. He would just hold him tighter, not saying a word, only "sssh"ing in his ear at most, before planting another kiss to his sweat-dampened skin. He wanted to brush the hair out of John's eyes for him, afraid of them irritating the sensitive organs, but did not dare remove his dominant hand from John's grasp.

The night progressed in a vicious cycle of relaxation and relapses for what felt like hours. Sparing a quick glance at the clock on the nightstand, Sherlock discovered it had been, in fact, two hours since he had first charged into the room. John felt heavier now; relaxing again. Except this time, the tension did not return to his muscles a few minutes later. His breathing slowed further than it had all night. The stifled sobs gave way to even, shallow breaths. The fingers desperately clutching the flesh of his left arm, tucked comfortably under the gap between the doctor's neck and the pillow, loosened slightly.

John was finally asleep.

With one last kiss to the doctor's sandy hair, Sherlock allowed himself to relax as well.

This whole ordeal had been the result of his faked suicide. Despite knowing clearly now the trick behind it, the falseness of what he had seen, John's mind was incapable of deleting or replacing the imagery. For him, Sherlock had well and truly died. Killed himself right before his eyes. John's already fragile psyche had been further damaged by his actions. And he could blame no one but himself.

But he would do everything in his power to fix the soldier again.

[xxx]

Please leave any comments. To receive any little thought that a piece might have inspired in anyone is the biggest compliment a writer can receive. And who knows? Since I've just taken it out of being a one-shot, being drawn back to it over and over again just might get me thinking about where else this could go. (Basically, if you'd like to see this continue, say something. I write for myself but I write fanfictions for the community.)

Thank you again so much for reading! I really hope you enjoyed it!