John was heavily laden with bags of groceries, both his and those of Mrs Hudson. He would not allow her to go out by herself anymore; not after that fall down the stairs left her with a much more severely injured hip. He stopped by Mrs Hudson's door and left her sacks by the frame. It was a long trudge for John up the stairs to 221B. He made it to the landing and had to halt for breath before leaning his cane against the wall and fishing his keys from his pocket. He opened the door to the flat and clutched his cane before wobbling into the sitting room. "Hello, John."
"Oh, hi, Sherlock. I got those biscuits you—" John was interrupted by the clatter of groceries hitting the floor, followed by his cane landing over the top of them.
"Now, John, the eggs are surely broken," came Sherlock's drawl from somewhere in the vicinity of the sofa. And then John heard it. The first draw of Sherlock's bow over his violin strings and he was sprinting, eyes wide as saucers, across the kitchen and into the sitting room. John's eyes fell on him, his Sherlock, and his heart stopped. Really, it must have, because in the next second John had fallen to his knees, was gripping the short fibres of the carpet in his fingers and trying not to cry. He could not cry in his own dream, after all. John heard Sherlock set his violin and bow in their case. John heard the other man's soft footsteps as he drew near. John felt Sherlock's long, elegant fingers in his hair and down the back of his neck. Sherlock cupped the back of John's head in his hands and tipped the smaller man's head back so that he could look him in the face.
"Oh, that is not at all a good look for you. Up you get. Come now, John, you're stronger than this." At Sherlock's coaxing, John pushed himself up from the floor and straightened into a standing position.
"Much better," Sherlock muttered as he drew John to himself and hugged the doctor to his chest like he would rather die than be pulled away. John stood there for a moment and just breathed before loosely wrapping his arms around Sherlock's narrow waist. His heart had resumed beating, perhaps with a bit of a frightened stutter. I was strange, the things that registered while one was coming down from shock. Sherlock was wearing that shirt, his favourite shirt. In that moment, John almost found it in himself to push Sherlock away and punch the back-to-life consulting prat in the face. He didn't.
After what could have been seconds or may have been hours, John was not sure, Sherlock pulled away. He kept a grip on John's shoulders and looked down at that smaller man. John looked up at him, a small smile on his face, and Sherlock grinned. A genuine grin; his first in ages. Six years, maybe. Sherlock took John's face in his hands and said, "Never again… I have made sure that I will never have to leave again." John decided that he must not have been dreaming because at that point in his dreams Sherlock always kissed him but now Sherlock just backed away, breaking John's loosely clasped hands apart, and asked if he ought to put the kettle on.
"Mrs Hudson did send me up with a lovely plate of little iced biscuits I'm sure you'll like. I think I'll open the others, if you don't mind, as well." John nodded numbly and made his shaky legs carry him to the nearest available armchair, blind to whether it was his or Sherlock's. He felt like tearing his beating heart out of his chest and handing it to Sherlock. He wanted to say, "Here it is. It's yours. Always has been. All along. You can experiment on it if you want. But you already have been, for six years, and you haven't even had to touch it."