A/N: I'm baaack! (grins) Hooray?

Firstly, THANK YOU from the bottom of my heart for your love and support! I would've never expected that you'd give a sequel such a warm response. (GLOMPS) So thank you! You guys are the best.

Awkay, before I loose my nerve… (gulps) Let's go, shall we? I really hope that you'll enjoy the ride.

Undoing

Dr. John Watson – or Dr. Benedict Freeman, as he was forced to correct himself every bloody day – dreamt of going back home a lot. Not a night passed by without sweet, tempting illusions of what might be waiting for him, of happy times that were right there, within his grasp until he opened his eyes and crashed back into reality. He missed a lot of things, so many that he would've surely gone mad if he would've allowed himself to think about them any more throughoutly.

His belongings. His job. His home. His friends. Sherlock.

It was unfair and cruel that now, when they would've finally had the chance to try and work things out, they were pulled apart once more. Trying to recover from Moriarty's latest ordeal had been sheer torture. Accepting the truth of Sherlock's resurrection was proving to be even more of a challenge. It was almost impossible for him to imagine that the detective was actually there, back home, waiting for him. How could he be sure that he was no longer pining after a ghost?

That bitter thought was cut abruptly by a flash of pain. Looking down in alarm John discovered that the book he'd been trying to focus on had given him a nasty cut. A couple of blood drops fell, staining the white page. John felt a wave of cold that couldn't be explained with reason.

It's rarely a good thing to get a phone call in the middle of the night.

A few hours after putting a band aid on the small cut John was, for once, about to drift into a sleep when his cell phone started ringing. In an instant the doctor was alerted, his eyes slightly widened and his pulse speeding up. Only Mycroft knew this phone number but since that one prank call…

John picked up after several moments of hesitation. "Hello?"

Mycroft hesitated, which alone was alarming. "John, I need you to listen to me carefully. And then I need you to stay calm." A very sure way to make a person panic.

John's fist balled so tightly that nails dug into skin. His head swam and everything around him seemed to be swaying. Still he got up, unsteady on his feet. "Sherlock's missing, isn't he?" It wasn't a question. His voice was tight, almost desperate. He didn't care.

If Sherlock had gotten himself hurt while John was here, miles and miles away, hiding and struggling from day to day…

"John, listen to me!" That voice claimed John's attention. "I'm only using this number because Moran found you. You're not safe anymore. Your agent is arranging a new hideout."

For a second, five, eight, John remained perfectly still, staring at the skull sitting on his desk. (A precious memento.) "I don't care about being safe. I'm coming home." He hung up before Mycroft could produce another word and switched off the cell phone.

Saying goodbye to his make believe life was harder than John had expected. He'd made new friends, as far as it was possible to use that word when he hadn't been able to tell his co-workers even his real name. He'd grown roots, feeble at best but still. One of his colleagues, a rather beautiful doctor named Mary, clearly wanted something more than friendship out of him. And the children… He'd loved working with them. If he'd stay here he might have the chance to finally have a family of his own. A wife, a house, two kids and maybe even a dog. His stay here had reminded him of those long ago smothered desires.A tiny part of John reminded him that he'd never, ever get some of the things he'd always dreamt of in the life he had in Baker Street.

But that life with Sherlock, the one that'd been so harshly interrupted twice, was real. Made him feel more alive than anything else ever had. The call of home (the call of Sherlock) was impossible to resist. Especially now when Sherlock needed him.

John planned on leaving in the security of the night, leaving behind only gifts for the children and a letter of apology for the adults along with his resignation report. And a letter for Mary, of course. She was more than able to manage with the children without him. One day she'd find a man who'd be able to give her all of those things she deserved.

John had already made it out of the building when he heard Mary's voice. "I always knew that you only considered this a temporary home." There was sadness but no accusation in her dark brown eyes. Wind played with her long, chestnut colored hair while she folded her arms. "But I was hoping that you'd say goodbye face to face before leaving us."

John looked down, feeling a stab of guilt although he knew that he'd never done anything to lead her on. Although he knew, deep in his heart and soul, that he was doing the only right thing. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Mary smiled. It almost reached her eyes. "You're only following your heart. I just…" She sighed, running a hand through her hair. "I know that you don't really sleep because of the nightmares. And that haunted look in your eyes right now… It was there when you first came in. I hope that whoever you've chosen can take it away. Take care of yourself, do you hear me?"

John nodded, his eyes softening. "I will." Then, on the spur of the moment, he added. "Thank you." After everything she'd done, or tried to do, for him she deserved at least that much.

All of a sudden Mary was less than a step away, less than a breath, really. The kiss she placed to his lips was warm, tender and brief, full of things he understood all too clearly. It was over before he could be fully sure if it was real, though. "Whoever it is you're running to… I really hope that they care about you even half as much as you care for them." With that she turned around and walked away before he got the chance to say another word.

John took a breath, stared at the direction to which she disappeared for a second before turning and continuing his own way. There was no hesitation in his steps.

John called Mycroft as soon as his feet hit London. His voice was tight with a lot of thing he was in no condition to process just yet. "Have you found him?"

Mycroft sighed. "No. But we found Moran an hour ago. Or what's left of him, anyway. His body was in a old warehouse. He died of a single, self inflicted gunshot wound to the head but he'd been beaten so badly post mortem that he had to be id'd from his dog tags and dental records."

John's knees nearly gave out as the information sunk in. Moran… was gone. It was finally over. Really, truly over. His relief was shortlived. Cool wind made him shiver when he dashed outside, despair burning in his eyes. "What about Sherlock? Where is he?"

"I think we both have a clue of where he might be now."

John's heartbeat gained a foreign rhythm. He was already hailing for a taxi. "Let me go there first. Please. There's no telling what condition he's in – what he'll do."

There was a heavy sigh that sounded more like a growl. Surrender. "How fast can you get there?"

Finally, finally a taxi stopped before John. He dove in without a thought, rattling the address without pausing for a breath. "Eight minutes."

"I'm giving you five."

Going back to Baker Street after such a long time felt overwhelming and surreal. John barely knew what he was doing while he paid for the ride and stumbled out of the vehicle, then struggled to quicken his pace. It was fortunate that Mrs. Hudson seemed to be out of the city. This all might've been too much drama for her.

Entering the familiar flat John felt like he'd stepped backwards in time. Nothing had been touched and it was dark. But no longer hollow, like it'd been during Sherlock's absence. At that very moment he knew.

Practically holding his breath John took several steps forward. His feet were hesitant although his whole body was begging him to run, as fast as he could. He reached the room that was his what felt like a lifetime ago. And stopped.

There, slumped to the floor beside the bed, was no one other than Sherlock. Clothes stained by a sickening amount of blood but alive. The detective was staring at the wall, breath coming out in irregular, wheezing intervals. Time froze. A minute ticked by, then another. John couldn't bring himself to move, barely dared to breathe in fear of breaking the illusion.

Then Sherlock finally noticed him. The detective blinked twice, as though trying to wake up properly, then emitted a choked wheeze. It was breathtaking to see the light that lit up into those haunted eyes.

John, however, didn't have the time to marvel for he finally regained his ability to function. With a couple of long strides he was on his knees beside Sherlock, trembling hands hovering above the bloodied clothes but not daring to touch. Fearing that even the slightest of brushes would… "Are you injured?" He recognized his own tone only absently. It was the same he wore in Afganistan. Always the soldier. Sherlock wouldn't respond and a wave of dread washed over him, making him shake right down to the core of his being. "Sherlock, I need you to answer me. Are you hurt? Do you need to…?" He never made it to the finish of that sentence.

Because all of a sudden a pair of arms wrapped around him, pulling him close with a stunning amount of force. Sherlock held on with the sheer power of despair, like he'd been the only thing anchoring the detective to the world. Soon, dazed and his heart jumping so hard that it hurt, John returned the embrace. Both men were trembling pitiably. Somewhere in the distance the sounds of sirens approached the building. Apparently Mycroft had finally called an ambulance. John's head was spinning madly while he tightened his hold on Sherlock, just a little bit.

Time… All those endless days… Suddenly the time they'd lost weighed a ton on John's quaking shoulders.

And then Sherlock collapsed into his arms.

A blow to the head but no concussion. A couple of stab wounds, painful but not lethal, not even bad enough to require a prolonged stay in the hospital. Bruises. A great deal of exhaustion, which was highly likely the biggest reason why Sherlock passed out in the first place. John heard all that but his head wouldn't really register any of it. Until, of course, it all came crashing down.

The doctor probably didn't understand why John burst into tears.

The next time John was at least remotely coherent Greg Lestrade was there, standing beside his chair with hands in pockets and staring at the figure that lay in a nearby bed. "It's unnerving to see him so still."

The laugh that burst out of John was nearly hysteric. He wiped his eyes although they didn't feel moist anymore. "I know." He would've given a lot if he would've had the chance to hear his best friend speak, perhaps even see the man pace around the room with the expression of sheer concentration and irritation, but the doctor in him understood that the detective needed rest. For now the steady rise and fall of the chest would have to do.

Greg gave him a frowny look. It took a couple of seconds before the man spoke. "John, are you… alright? I mean… This is all pretty overwhelming."

John swallowed, unable to look away from Sherlock. No, he wasn't alright. He was tired, shaken, worried, angry, guilty, elated, throughoutly lost, furious, relieved and confused. In pain, emotionally and physically. For the past nine months he'd been forced to lie to everyone around him, pretend to be someone he wasn't and act as though nothing was wrong when everything inside him was screaming. Nine months ago he almost died in the hands of a man who was supposed to be dead. He found out that his best friend faked his death, allowed him to grieve and long to a point where he almost…

But Sherlock was alive, although it'd been a close call. Sherlock was alive, after putting his life on the line thrice because of John. John had someone in his life who was actually willing to die for him. Who was he to hold that against Sherlock? And hadn't he made the same decision, when he'd been put into that spot?

It'd all been for him. It was horrific to even think about and the storm that wanted to erupt inside of him was making his head spin. But Sherlock was alive. It was finally over. Perhaps this was their fresh start. John had never been so relieved and grateful in his entire life.

John took a deep breath, just to make sure that he still could. It hurt more than he would've considered healthy. "I'll be okay", he murmured, deciding that yes, eventually he'd have to be. When his damn hands would stop shaking.

Greg nodded slowly, not appearing entirely convinced. Clearly coming to the conclusion that John might need some privacy the DI got up and stretched in a exaggerated manner. "I'm going to get myself some coffee. Do you need anything?"

John shook his head without giving it a lot of thought. All he needed was to see that Sherlock was still breathing. To be reassured over and over again that it was really over.

Greg squeezed his shoulder upon leaving but he barely noticed. Because just then he saw Sherlock's fingers twitch. Exactly five seconds after Greg's departure Sherlock's eyes opened halfway, a little bleary but full of life.

Despite the hurricane of mixed emotions John found himself smiling, his eyes watering ever so slightly. "Hey. How long have you been awake?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Long enough." The detective's gaze swept towards the room's door, as though to make sure that it'd stay closed. "'Thought he'd never leave."

"Hmm." John frowned upon noticing how his friend winced when trying to shift on the bed. "Are you in pain? I should get a doctor…"

Sherlock's shake of a head left no room for doubt. "You're a doctor, aren't you? So stay." There was something very close to despair in that command. A displeased frown appeared to the detective's face while those eyes examined him. "Sleep. You look ready to drop."

John emitted a suspiciously moist snort. He had to clear his throat before he managed to speak. "Oh, you're the one telling me that? I wish I had a mirror with me so you'd see yourself." He was already getting up, suddenly in a hurry to get out, to get away. "I'll be…"

Before John could speak out a word of protest Sherlock was moving. He didn't realize what was happening until the detective had grabbed his wrist so tightly that it hurt a little. There was a unreadable look on the man's face. "Stay or I swear I'll come right after you." John had never seen anyone look so serious before.

John fidgeted. In any other state of mind he would've chuckled at the absurdity of it all. "How far could I possibly go in a hospital?"

Sherlock shrugged again. "I don't care. I'm not letting you leave me again."

John blinked once. Were they still talking just about him going to get a doctor? He was too tired to tell how many conversations they were having all at once.

Fine.

Like he would've been able to deny Sherlock anything, anyway.

He owed this inexplainable man his life, after all.

John didn't like the way Sherlock grimaced with apparent pain while he sunk back down. The worry was almost enough to usher him into motion once more. "Are you okay?"

Sherlock leaned heavily against the pillow and bedsheets. The detective's eyes were already drooping. "Shut up and sleep, John."

Sherlock's familiar scent and presence lulled John into a peaceful oblivion, calmed him down enough to allow him to close his eyes. Hard as he tried to fight against sleep, terrified that his friend might not be there anymore when he'd wake up, the exhaustion turned out to be too much. They both went under, their breaths in perfect sync.

It was fortunate, really, that they both failed to realize something. True, the war was over – for a while, at least. But now they stood on the edge of trying to rebuild on all the ruins the battle had left behind.

(An hour later Greg peered into the room to find the two of them fast asleep. A nurse stopped by shortly after him. Neither had the heart to wake them up.)

TBC

A/N: (sighs) Yup, they're together. Not well but alive. But the route won't be easy once the first shock fades, that's for sure.

Sooooo…. How do you guys think this one's coming out? Any good, at all? PLEASE, leave a note! (gives puppy's eyes) Awww, you've gotta know by now that I absolutely adore hearing from you.

I've really gotta get going now. (pouts) Until next time, folks! I truly hope that I'll see you all there.

Take care!

Guest: It feels super good to hear that. (beams) I really hope that the next one won't end up being a pancake, either.

Colossal thank yous for the review!