Thank you so much to Firenze Fox, Sherlock'sLisbeth, and all those who followed/favorited this story! I am so sorry I left you hanging on the ending for over a year, but I do hope this chapter makes up for that. Your support makes me smile! ^_^


Chapter 9: Home

Consciousness returned, but slowly. John worked a tongue that felt too think for his mouth through his lips, blinking away the cotton that seemed to fill his mind. His vision was blurry at first. He tried to raise his fingers to his eyes and wipe them clear, but his hands were bound to...something. Unable to lift his hands more than a few inches jolted John's adrenal system, flooding his bloodstream with enough adrenaline that he was able to lift his head, furiously blinking his vision into focus.

"You have a remarkable constitution, Dr. Watson."

"Mycroft," John spat, his face twisting into a sneer as he tugged at his bonds.

The elder Holmes brother shook his head, and put a concerned expression on his face. "Dear me, Dr. Watson, you will do yourself some damage if you continue in that fashion. Really, you've only been down for thirty minutes; you've hardly lost any time at all.

"Fuck you!" John hissed, wrenching his wrists in their bonds. If he jerked the right way, a way that resulted in the dislocation of his thumb joint, he might be able to get his hands free. It would hurt like hell, but he was beyond caring. It would get him that much closer to breaking Mycroft's perfectly healed nose.

Cool, smooth fingers fell gently over John's wrist to still his movements. It was the softness of the touch that brought John to a temporary stand-still. Mycroft was many things, but John would never really call him soft.

John glared up into a face pulled taunt with regret. "Your friends were already on their way to you, John, when I intercepted them. I apologize for your mental anguish, truly. It was the fastest way to get you here."

Mycroft, for the first time that John could remember, looked...uncomfortable. He combed his fingers though his hair, and met John's furious gaze with his open one. "I used to worry about my little brother constantly, as you well know. ... I found, quite to my surprise, that once you were in the picture, I did not have too. Still, old habits are quite hard to break... I should not be surprised that your loyalty endures, even now. I cannot think of anyone I would trust more with my brother's safety...or his heart."

John sucked in a breath to make a lengthy retort when a familiar, crinkled letter with a calligraphy J emblazoned on the seal, the one that John had opened over a month ago (probably) crept into his vision. John snarled, "What the hell-"

"He's home, John, and he's waiting for you."

John let out a shocked huff of air as his heart stuttered in his chest.

"He-" John couldn't form the words, could barely form the thought as emotions twisted around inside his chest. He was angry, fucking livid at Mycroft...but even John had seen the writing on the walls about his friends taking action... Fuck. He could deal with that later.

"Let me go, Mycroft," John insisted, and instantly his hands were free; his feet followed soon after. Getting upright was more of a production than John wanted it to be, but he managed it. When he looked up, Mycroft was reserved and collected once more. "Where is he?" John demanded.

"He's in a bad way at present," Mycroft began, "but I assure you, he will recover." The hint of a smirk ghosted over Mycroft's lips. "I believe you made requests to meet him once he was returned? I even remember an offer to provide medical services, should they be required."

A thousand questions formed and died in John's throat. He had to know, and yet he couldn't ask. Was Alexander... was he really? He had to be...didn't he?

Mycroft arched a thoughtful eyebrow in John's direction. "If you will follow me, I will take you to him."

The elder Holmes turned and slipped out of the door to John's room, into the hallway beyond.

Having his feet under him once more, John followed Mycroft with the sure, steady steps of a soldier, uncertain if heartache, disappointment devastation, or...or hope waited at the end of that long narrow hallway. It was an answer he couldn't turn away from. Not now. Not after...everything. It had to be...him...it just had to be.

Mycroft had said he was injured...how badly? John's fingers twitched as he fought the urge to move them to his damaged shoulder in sympathy.

After an endless series of doors, Mycroft finally stopped in front of an unmarked one. He glanced over his shoulder at John before opening the door for him, and letting John pass through unhindered. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving John alone in a room with a gossamer curtain separating him from the man in the bed. A near translucent piece of fabric separating him from...

John drew the fabric aside, and lost all his composure.

"Sh-Sherlock!" he gasped, fresh tears springing to his eyes. After all this time, they were not ones of sorrow, just of overwhelming emotion. John was a soldier, and reserved, but that didn't mean he was afraid to cry, it just depended on the company.

"John," came a raspy reply as Sherlock parted his chapped lips and raised his hands to embrace his doctor.

John wanted to crush Sherlock to his chest, to lie down on top of him and tie the arrogant bastard to the bed so that he could never get away again, but he was still a doctor, and Sherlock's injuries did not escape him.

Mottled bruising covered his beautiful face, the bandages and stuttered breathing indicated broken ribs on his right side, his left leg was in a cast up to his knee, and his left wrist was wrapped tightly in an ace bandage-if it wasn't broken it was very badly sprained.

Raising his eyes to meet Sherlock's once more, John stepped forward, pulling Sherlock gently, but fiercely, into his arms, settling himself on the edge of the bed, so that he could be as close to him as physically possible. "I love you," John breathed into Sherlock's ear, "I love you so much."

Sherlock's arms had come around John with a strength that had always surprised the good doctor. "I love you too, John," Sherlock's baritone voice rumbled in John's ear, no longer a figment of his imagination.

He was more pale than John remembered, thinner, and trembling in his arms, but it really was him. "Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock." The name fell from his lips like a chant as John nestled himself against the world's only consulting detective, breathing him in.

They were both shaking now and both, in some ways, scarred, and broken, but they were together, finally, together again.

"John," Sherlock murmured, turning his head to look into his doctor's eyes. His voice shook. "I'm sorry, John. I am so sorry."

John gently, but insistently, peppered Sherlock's face with kisses. "Git. Idiot. Tosser. I am so fucking cross with you right now."

A satisfied smile curved on Sherlock's elegant lips. "You're doing a brilliant job of showing it."

John laughed, and leaned in to kiss Sherlock properly. His lips were plush and firm beneath John's, and they opened to him like an embrace. The kiss, like John's previous touches, was gentle and passionate. Breath mingled, tongues explored, and very close smiles were exchanged in the small spaces of time when John attempted to pull back, only to press into Sherlock once more.

"I love you," John breathed again knowing he would never be able to say it enough.

Sherlock smiled brightly, cupped John's face and whispered, "I love you too. Let's go home, John."

"If you think I'm letting you out of my sight, ever again, you are fucking mental ."

Sherlock baritone laugh filled the room as they embraced once more.


John lounged in his chair at 221 B, perfectly happy for the first time in over three years. Sherlock was home, and everything was right with his world, or getting there anyway.

Sherlock had to stay in hospital for a week before the staff, Mycroft, or John would even think about letting him go back to Baker Street. As much as John wanted him there, he wanted to do what was best for Sherlock's recovery. Sherlock had grumbled, but he hadn't been in the mood to deny John anything.

Mycroft had been kind enough to arrange it that Sherlock and John would be left alone for two months at 221B. He'd sent Mrs. Hudson on Holiday, and sternly informed John's friends that visits of any kind would interrupt John's "therapy."

It was almost enough that John didn't want to punch the elder Holmes brother anymore...almost. While he had not yet realigned Mycroft's perfectly healed nose, John had often verbalized the threat. Mycroft's only reply's had wry smirks.

Mycroft was still an ass, but John wasn't so angry that he couldn't see Mycroft had tried to make Sherlock's painful absence and return as easy as he was able to. Their meeting at the cemetery had been traumatic, but John did believe Mycroft when he'd said it was to prevent an actual hospitalization, and quicken his reunion with Sherlock. That didn't mean he couldn't threaten the British Government.

One month of their two month reprieve had already elapsed, and they were both recovering nicely. Sherlock needed the cane now, legitimately, but it was only temporary. His capacity for healing defied the odds, much like everything else about him.

Sherlock, for the moment, seemed quite content to be confined with John. They had spent a great deal of time talking this past month, catching up, and establishing the relationship they always should have had. This 'death' had left them both scarred in more ways than one.

John had made his affection for Sherlock very clear, as well as his anger. He understood Sherlock's bravery, and the impossibility of the situation he had been placed in, but he was only human. During one of their talks, spent holding each other on the couch, John had softly said, "I'm still very pissed off at you, and it will come out, now and then."

"I know," Sherlock had replied, tucking his head in the crook of John's shoulder and letting out a contented sigh, "I know."

And he did know. Love, and the work involved in growing love, making it last, had never been a mystery to Sherlock. He'd just never seen the point in trusting someone like that. People are flawed, and they will disappoint you. He was a prime example. He disappointed everyone. He was sarcastic, rude, and as blunt as a falling tree. And he'd hurt John...

He'd hurt John worse than any bullet ever could, and still John forgave him, because he loved and trusted him. With John, Sherlock had finally seen love as something with more joys than sorrows. Now that he had a second chance to do things properly, Sherlock intended to take full advantage of it.

He could not comfort John with promises that he would never leave, because they lived dangerous lives, and there was no telling what could happen next. There was one thing, however, that he could promise, because despite the hurt and the domestics, Sherlock had absolute faith in their enduring partnership.

Letting go of his cane, Sherlock draped himself across John's lap. Although the good doctor grumbled, it was belied by his warm smile and encircling hands. Sherlock held John's face in his hands and kissed him slowly. John's hands tightened at Sherlock's waist as he responded to the kiss, opening his mouth to Sherlock's eager explorations.

When Sherlock eventually pulled back, he whispered, "I will love you, John, always."

John's eyes searched his, and he smiled. "I was a goner for you the moment I saw you."

Sherlock smirked and murmured, "Naturally."

John chuckled as Sherlock lowered his head once more, planting soft kisses along his doctor's neck. John worked his fingers at the buttons of Sherlock's oxford shirt, breathing in the warmth and energy of his lover...

Several hours later found them sprawled lazily across Sherlock's bed, John's head on Sherlock's shoulder. It was late and a perfectly decent hour for most people to sleep. John, however, had trouble letting go these days. Sherlock had never slept particularly well because of his busy mind, always seeking stimulation. John's problem was not his mind, however, but the past. He had been quite literal about not letting Sherlock out of his sight.

Sherlock had striven to find a solution which would let them both rest easy. His solution resulted in Sherlock reading aloud from whatever book John was reading, until his blogger finally released his grip on wakefulness. It had become a soothing rhythm with which they ended their days. Sherlock tended to pick apart the books like he picked apart crap telly, but John appeared to consider that part of the fun.

Feeling John's breathing slip into the steady, comforting patterns of sleep, Sherlock gently closed the book, placed it on the nightstand, turned out the light, and nestled in close. His mind was still a busy one, but he found John's presence greatly soothing. He did not doubt he too would be asleep before long. They would not be this peaceful forever. Tomorrow would bring another adventure, and the truth would come out to the world at large eventually, but right now, everything was perfect; they were both home.


Shameless self promotion: Thank you for taking the time to read my story, and I hope you enjoyed it. I will be working on the "This Doesn't Feel Like Falling." I hope you will consider giving them a look as well. ^_^