*NOTE: I am so sorry for my laziness at updates! I am on my last week on summer vacay, so I will try very hard to whip out a few more chapters before I go back to school. Thank you to everyone who has been following and/or reviewing, it really means the world to me! Feedback appreciated and I hope you enjoy :)

Title: One More Miracle

Genre: Romance/Angst

Summary: "He wants to watch those fingers fidget with the newspaper and run through their dark locks and fiddle with the dials on the microscope that toke up most of the kitchen, and still does because John refuses to get rid of it, because it would mean that Sherlock wasn't dead. That he got his miracle. " It's after the fall, Sherlock is gone, and John's nightmares are getting worse. But everything changes when John comes downstairs in the middle of the night to find his final miracle asleep on the sofa.

SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH

He awakens at a quarter past one, drenched in sweat.

John collapses back onto the mattress, breath coming in short gasps, heart hammering against his ribs with such force he is half-afraid they might shatter. He closes his eyes, palms pressing into their sockets with a non-too delicate pressure. Spirals of dark color flash across his lids, brought on by the sudden force. He presses a little harder, making the spirals morph into stars, circles, triangles; trying to erase the still-fresh dream that is burned into his brain with neon intensity to no avail.

There was so much blood.

It oozes from the pavement itself, rising up from the earth and spilling over, crimson staining every inch of the street. He can't see where it's coming from. People mill around him and he can't see anything from around them.

Suddenly he sees a flash of blue.

A scarf.

Splash of dark curls, ruffled by the wind.

"Sherlock?" He pushes through the crowd, but can't quite reach the tall figure in front of him. He stretches out a hand, straining to catch a fistful of grey wool, but comes up with nothing but air.

"Sherlock!" He pushes harder, shoving at the faceless masses around him, drowning in a sea from which no one will help him. Sherlock is getting further away, too far to touch, too far to see. John calls out, trying to run but his legs won't work. He fights, fierce conviction propelling him forward, yet its like running through jello, and every step he takes seems to push him backwards, further from Sherlock's quickly disappearing figure. He cries out again, louder this time. Sherlock hears it and turns, still too far away. He is frowning, clearly confused about where the voice is coming from, and looks away after a split second, pushing onward through the crowd.

"Sherlock!" John is screaming now, desperation kicking in, hands clawing at the people around him, writhing to catch Sherlock's gaze.

Sherlock turns again, and this time he sees John. Those grey eyes lock with John's, and there is a moment of recognition, of surprise, of apology. Those eyes light up, mouth turning upward into the warmest smile John has ever seen, and for a half-second it seems as though everything will be okay.

Then a gunshot sounds, and suddenly Sherlock's body spasms as the bullet strikes him squarely in the chest. He staggers, but not before the barrage of impeding bullets attack him, pulverizing every inch of flesh they can find.

His temple, his shoulder, his cheek, his heart.

He crumples to the ground, vanishing into the ocean of strangers.

"SHERLOCK!"

And then John is running like he has never run before, beating down civilians left and right, feet pounding the pavement until he reaches the place where his hero has fallen.

He is ankle deep in it now, warm and red and sticky against his socks, and suddenly the source of the blood is apparent. John bends down, hands trembling as he touches Sherlock's face, tracing his jawline with one shaking finger.

"No..."

STOP.

He knows he can't keep doing this to himself.

John sits up, eyes snapping open as he tries to shrug off the remnants of the nightmare to no avail. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes again, back tracking a few seconds before hitting "play".

Those eyes light up, mouth turning up into a smile. A real smile. A smile reserved exclusively for John. It's not a sneer, or a humoring sort of twitch of the mouth, but a full fledged smile that lights up every millimeter of that face so that its practically glowing. John mentally inspects the shape of his lips, his nose, his cheekbones, trying to remember it all so that if anyone asks him what color Sherlock Holmes' eyes were, or the shape of his mouth or the shade of his fingernails- John will know.

Though really, most of him doesn't want to know.

Doesn't want to have to know, because he wants to be able to look across the room and SEE. He wants to watch those fingers fidget with the newspaper and run through their dark locks and fiddle with the dials on the microscope that toke up most of the kitchen, and still does because John refuses to get rid of it, and then be able to observe the shape of those fingernails, because it would mean that Sherlock wasn't dead.

That he got his miracle.

John fights against the tears that are now threatening to spill over, knuckling them away angrily when a few manage to sneak through. He turns away from the wall and swings his legs over the side of the bed, switching on the lamp in the process. He stares into the darkness of the room. He decided he needs tea, and moves toward the stairs, taking them one at a time. He finally reaches the bottom, and is about to turn into the kitchen, when he realizes there is someone asleep on the sofa.

John freezes, his entire body seizing up as a list of scenarios play through his head. Criminal. Assassin. One of Moriarty's people. Whoever they are, they are quite deeply asleep, and do not seem to be waking any time soon. Heart hammering, John moves off the bottom stair, squinting to make out a face. The only accessible light is coming from the kitchen, so he inches closer, warily watching the rise and fall of the person's chest. John's breath hitches in his throat and can feel his pulse growing more irregular by the second as his wariness grows, half-expecting the man to leap up and finish him off. However the soft breath of sleep continues to wash over the room, deep and methodical, so John inches slightly closer. The man looks as though he fell asleep quite by accident, half sitting, head lolling on the arm rest. The slump of his body suggests exhaustion, as though he has gone days, weeks even without sleep, and his clothes are rumpled and partially undone. John moves a few steps closer, now standing at the foot of the sofa. The soft light from the kitchen catches the man's face, and it is in this moment that John's heart fully stops beating, because there is no mistaking the lopsided cupid's bow and untidy curls and ridiculously long eyelashes as anything except the impossible.

John cannot even say his name, afraid that saying it will make him disappear and just evaporate through the cushions. John's knees have abruptly stopped functioning so he gives into their fatigue, crumpling onto the floor and closing his eyes to stop the room from spinning. When he opens them he expects the sofa to be empty, but it's not, and somehow the fact that Sherlock is hogging the sofa becomes the most beautiful fact his mind has ever registered. With one trembling hand, John reaches out and traces one of those cheekbones. It seems sharper than before, like the months they have spent apart have chiseled away some of the rosy flesh that once framed that impeccable face, but it doesn't matter. All that matters is that John can feel it with his hand, with his fingertips, and that beneath it is a heartbeat that is strong and endless and real.

This is real.

Sherlock stirs, brow creasing as he surfaces from the depths of slumber and breaks the surface of reality. Eyelashes flutter upward, revealing a pair of eyes which are clouded with exhaustion and hunger. They blink once, twice, struggling to piece together their surroundings. Then his gaze meets John's, and everything falls into place. John can practically see the realization, as though Sherlock's skull has been made of glass, translucent, and through it he can see the maze of cogs and wires of that great mind, and suddenly everything just clicks. Sherlock bolts upright, still lethargic from sleep, but opens his mouth, an expression halfway between pain and circumspection flashing across those grey orbs.

Sherlock opens his mouth, unsure of what will come out. "John, I-"

John stops him with a hand, palm flattened as though to push him away. He can't deal with any explanations right now. He finally tries out his voice, testing to see if his linguistic abilities are still in any functioning capacity. "You were dead..." His voice cracks and he turns, embarrassed, slowly breathing as the surreality of it all crashes over him. In, out. In, out. Sherlock does not comment on John's obvious statement as he would have in the past, and somehow it's the lack of scorn that resonates most with John. The quiet acceptance of a mundane observation, so out of character, can only be the result of unspoken apologies and forcefully contained guilt. The passage of time which has so long separated them suddenly seems like eons, decades of private history to fill in the endless blank pages in the other's life.

Sherlock shifts on the sofa, and when he speaks it is very soft and careful, as though approaching a frightened animal. "John-"

John makes a sort of shushing noise, but it catches in his swollen throat and comes out as more of a whimper. He slowly stands onto shaking legs, bridging the final step to the sofa and extending a hand. Without taking his gaze away from Sherlock, John takes his hand in his own, thumb brushing the fragile skin of a wrist.

"John, what...?" Sherlock is met with another shush. The two look down at their clumsily twined hands, and Sherlock realizes what John was looking for.

Wordlessly, he guides John's hand to his pulse, and watches intently as they listen together to its gentle hum.

"It's alright." John is so close he can feel the rumble of Sherlock's rich baritone resonate in his chest. They pause again. Over and over and over again John feels the little pulse of energy beneath his fingers, and even after minutes of feeling it, rhythmic and certain against his own skin, he is certain he will never get enough. Sherlock moves ever so slightly closer toward him, silently begging for an answer. When none comes, he nervously reaches out and places his other hand on top of John's. The skin is warm and supple and melts effortlessly onto the hand below it, and John feels some of the pain in his chest begin to recede. "I'm here." The last two words are almost whispered, so quiet that John is half-afraid he imagined them, but Sherlock's eyes tell all. Dark and sad and boring into his heart with such tenderness that John knows this is all real, it must be real.

John doesn't even realize that there are tears on his cheeks until they splatter onto his knee, their wetness yanking him from the peaceful epiphany that is Sherlock. He doesn't try to hide the tears, not even when they break into sobs, shaking his shoulders with a ferocity that he didn't know he possessed. He falls into Sherlock's arms, clutching him close, absorbing the scent and feel and weight of him all at once. Sherlock stiffens for a moment, unsure of how to proceed. John's sobs are silent, but continue to shake them both with their intensity, pain and loss drenching them to the bone. After a moment, Sherlock ventures out an arm, and then another, and then the two embrace. It is fierce and gentle simultaneously, and neither is sure how long it lasts before they break apart. Sherlock reaches out and gingerly wipes away some of John's tears, an extremely stoic look on his face. John chuckles weakly, and Sherlock gives him a perplexed look.

John smiles, swiping away at the rest of the tears. "I guess I never expected you to ... I don't know. Be so... humane." He continues to grin, but it quickly falters as he sees the serious look still on Sherlock's face. The detective is frowning, looking around as though he wants to say something but isn't quite sure how to express it.

"Sherlock?"

He opens and closes his mouth a few times before biting his lip, eyes down. He finally looks up at John, and it takes a moment for John to register the moisture in his eyes.

"I.." Sherlock pauses and swallows, taking a deep breath. "I really missed you, John."

John's own eyes begin to well up again, and he sits down on the sofa, close enough so that their thighs are touching.

"I missed you too, Sherlock."

They sit quite still for a long time, unsaid words fluttering around like leaves. The golden light of the street lamps shreds through the curtains, but other than that is remains dark, and neither man moves to turn on a light. The words continue to linger, yet it seems unnecessary to speak them aloud, for as their gaze locks, it becomes clear that nothing can be said. It's all there- the anguish, the grief, the mitigation. They both know. They can feel it. Taste it trailing in the air.

It is unclear at first who initiates it, weather it was a brush of a hand or the bump of a foot or a slight scoot which resulted in a further compression of their legs, but somehow they wind up spooning on the sofa, Sherlock curled behind John, shoes left discarded on the hardwood. John closes his eyes, taking comfort in Sherlock's deep breaths, the steady rise and fall of his body curled up tight behind him. He doesn't say anything when he finds Sherlock's fingers twined with his own, nor Sherlock when he feels the soft brush of John's lips on his knuckles. The street outside begins to adopt the pale pink hue of dawn. The days and weeks of sleep-depravation seem to catch up with him, and John closes his eyes, knowing that his miracle will remain when he wakes up. He is almost asleep when Sherlock's voice rumbles in his ear.

"John..."

"Hmm?"

He feels the sofa shift slightly behind him, before Sherlock's warm breath whispers across his earlobe. "I'm sorry."

John squeezes their hands tightly. "It's alright" He says, and in that moment, no words have ever seemed more true.

FIN