~xXx~

Finding John hadn't been hard. It hadn't been anything even resembling hard. Sherlock knew he wouldn't be staying at the flat—John was too sentimental for that—and of course, he didn't really have any close friends in the city. So that left hotels. As far as Sherlock understood, spending time away from home wasn't uncommon amongst people who'd suffered a significant loss. Why they would want to distance themselves from the comfort of familiarity though, was a mystery the detective had never bothered to solve.

Now however, standing outside of room 417 at the hotel just down the street from Baker Street, Sherlock wished he had given it more thought. He stared at the ugly burnt-red door; a ring of lock picks clinking together as he flicked them between his fingers. There was an odd sort of foreboding in the air, as if what lay on the other side of that door would determine the entire rest of his—possibly abbreviated—life. It was a ridiculous notion, he knew. He would've almost considered it base had he thought himself capable of being such.

Sherlock slid two of the picks into the lock, stubbornly ignoring the fact that his hands were shaking. He listened as the latch slid from the bolt. Really, why did the hotel bother even installing these sorts of locks? Pushing out a shallow breath, Sherlock turned the knob and opened the door.

A dense and eerily quiet darkness was awaiting him on the other side. Sherlock slipped through the threshold, the carpet crackling lightly beneath his feet. It was a quaint, sparse sort of room, with nothing to furnish it but an old dresser and a queen bed. There was, what Sherlock could only assume to be a loo, through the door to his right and there was a drip in the faucet that John had attempted to muffle by placing towels in the drain. The picture in his mind's eye was achingly vivid—John, grumbling under his breath about how 'things really aren't made like they used to be' while he poked and prodded at the plumbing. With a frustrated snort John grabbed a towel from the rack and shoved it into the sink, and with a final huff he turned towards Sherlock and—no. Stop. Focus. Sherlock stepped forward. Then he heard it—the familiar soft sound of John's breathing. And suddenly his mind was gone again: back on Baker Street, sitting by the fire reading through case files while John lay passed out on the sofa. It seemed so clear to him—John's hair catching the golden light of the fire, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his hand was draped so delicately over his forehead…

"John?" The word seemed to leap from Sherlock's mouth, unbidden. It sounded cracked, like something had broken his voice halfway through.

John's breathing changed and Sherlock was distantly aware of the door swinging shut behind him, cutting off the light from the hall. Now the only source of light was a pale moonbeam pouring in from a small window on the far side of the room, coloring everything it touched in hues of white and blue. The light shifted as John stirred beneath the sheets.

The doctor groaned softly, stretching his limbs like a cat. "Sherlock?" he muttered groggily. "Is that you?"

Sherlock swallowed and stepped farther into the room. "It is."

John groaned again and pushed himself up into a sitting position. Sherlock saw him blink several times. "It's so dark. I can't—" he looked around, "—where are we?"

There was a befuddled pause. "The Milton Hotel. Why?"

"We're…well we're usually at the flat, aren't we? And you're—I can usually see you better."

"John…" And then the realization hit him, like a freight train running at full speed. "John, this isn't a dream."

John hummed as if Sherlock had just commented on the weather. "So what's the plan for tonight? Kidnapped children? Peculiar murder? Corporate scandal? Jesus, it really is dark in here isn't it?"

Sherlock blinked. Was this really what John dreamed about? Solving mysteries with him? After everything he'd been though…?

I said dangerous, and here you are.

The detective closed the final space between him and the bed. John looked up at him, part of his hair sticking up, and wearing that small, slanted grin that he seemed to reserve just for Sherlock. This time, for some reason, it made the detective's heart stutter. But then he noticed how the sheets were tangled around John's legs, and how the front of his shirt was drenched with sweat. Whatever dream John had been having before he thought he'd wandered into this one hadn't been pleasant.

"John," Sherlock said, as gently as he could manage. "I need you to listen to me very closely."

"Alright," John reached his hand out and placed it on Sherlock's arm as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Sherlock felt his entire body go stiff as John stroked his coat with his thumb. He grabbed John's wrist to stifle the action. "John," he repeated, more sternly this time. "You're not dreaming."

John laughed, shaking his head. "Sherlock, it's alright. We don't have to hash this out again. I went to see Ella and I think she really—ow! OW! Jesus Christ!" John flinched back as Sherlock dug his nails into the tender skin beneath his palm.

There was a moment then where they just stared at each other. Then Sherlock saw it—the flicker of comprehension that changed John's expression. He saw the thought form and burst behind his eyes, and he felt the doctor's pulse spike. John jerked back, with such magnificent force and speed that Sherlock was nearly pitched forward onto the bed, but somehow he managed to maintain his hold on the doctor's wrist.

"No!" John shook his head vigorously. "No! You're not him! I saw him die! What the hell is this? You're not him!"

"John, calm down! Look at me for God's sake! I'll explain everything, but—" Sherlock was cut off as John pulled him forward onto the bed. There was a mad scramble of limbs that somehow ended with John pinning him to the mattress. He didn't fight it though. If John needed to feel like he was physically in control of the situation, then Sherlock would give him that. As long as John wasn't running for the door, the detective would let him have anything he wanted.

John's eyes flitted wildly over his face, dissecting every minute detail. He was trying to find something wrong—a telltale flaw that would expose Sherlock as an impostor…but he wouldn't find one, no matter how long he searched. Sherlock met his gaze, determined to hold it for as long as John needed him to. "I—I'm dreaming." John's grip on Sherlock's arms tightened painfully.

"You're not," Sherlock insisted patiently. "You wouldn't have felt me hurt your wrist if you were."

John's head was shaking again, and the moonlight would occasionally betray a shimmering in his eyes. "No. No…I saw you fall, Sherlock. I saw you—Jesus…." He looked down, his gaze focusing on the space just below Sherlock's chin. "I saw you…jump off that roof. I saw your body after—your head busted open, all your blood spilling out onto the pavement…"

"John…what you saw was a hallucination induced by the Baskerville chemical. It wasn't real."

It took a moment for the words to permeate the emotional fog of John's mind, but once they did, it was like watching the sun rise. John's main strength may have been in biology, but he'd had enough training in chemistry to know the potent potential of the concoction they'd found in Baskerville. His eyes snapped back to Sherlock's. "…The Baskerville chemical?"

"It had to be done, John. It was the only way to ensure your safety once I'd figured out—" John's fist slammed into his jaw. Pain rocketed along Sherlock's bone as stars burst across his vision.

"What the hell do you mean ensure my safety?" John roared. "Why didn't you just tell me? You thought—after all we've been through—that I couldn't handle a little danger? You selfish son of a bitch, you could've let me know something! It's been weeks, Sherlock! Weeks! Do you have any idea what it's been like for me? For Christ's sake, didn't you even think of me once? Didn't you…" John broke off as a sob choked his words. His hands moved to cup Sherlock's face as he sank down lower, pressing their foreheads together.

Sherlock couldn't remember ever being so still in his life. If only John knew—if only he could fathom just how much Sherlock had thought of him. If only he could understand the acute pangs of longing he'd felt for the doctor in his absence. If only John knew just how much Sherlock had missed him.

"God, Sherlock," John whispered. "I thought you were dead. I thought you were dead…"

And maybe it was the effect of having John so close to him now. Maybe it was something about the warm gentleness of his hands, or the hard readiness of his body. Maybe it was the fact that he could feel John's tears falling onto his cheeks. Maybe it was the way John's breath tasted as it pooled against his lips. Or maybe…maybe it was just because John smelled so much like home. There were things that still needed to be said, and there were things that still needed to be done, but not a single one of those things crossed Sherlock's mind as he curled his right hand around the back of John's neck. The slightest bit of pressure brought the other man in closer, and ever so gently Sherlock raised his head to press their lips together.

It was the barest touch of skin on skin, but even so the detective felt a shiver race down John's spine. The tingling behind Sherlock's ears returned with a fury, as if an electric current was running through is system and magnetizing his cells. It felt like taking a hit of heroin, snorting a line of cocaine, and getting shot all rolled up into a single moment. His brain seemed to be stuck in high gear—processing every last detail and tearing it apart from the inside out. John—the way his lips felt. Soft. Warm. Wet. His face soaked with tears. The rough scrape of his stubble against Sherlock's jaw. His heart pounding against Sherlock's sternum. The way he smelled—like tea and musty sheets and something else that Sherlock had always identified as distinctly John. His skin. Heat. Everywhere. Surrounding him—enveloping him. Swallowing him whole.

It was spectacular.

Sherlock pulled back, panting as if he'd just sprinted five blocks. John stared down at him, unmoving. It took a moment for the detective to realize that this wasn't exactly the response he'd been hoping for. "Did I not do it correctly?" he asked.

"Correctly?" John swallowed. "Sherlock…you just kissed me. You know that, right?" He said the word 'kissed' as if it was a secret he wasn't sure he should be revealing.

"Do I look like Anderson? Of course I know that I kissed you."

John continued to look at him with an annoyingly unhelpful stare.

"Well?" Sherlock urged impatiently.

"Well what?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I asked if I did it correctly, and you still haven't given me an answer."

"Well you'll have to forgive me if it's a bloody lot to take in! You just came back from the grave for Christ's sake!"

"I was never dead, John."

"You know what the hell I meant—Jesus, never mind." John sighed heavily against him. "I can't believe I actually missed you. Missed this—arguing."

For some reason, hearing those words spill over John's lips made Sherlock's heart swell. It was sentiment, he knew, but for once he didn't care.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock hummed. John's hands were still on his face, and they were as warm as down. They seemed to remind him that he hadn't slept in three days.

"What just happened?"

"I kissed you. Didn't we just cover this?"

"Yes but…why'd you kiss me?" There it was again—that soft secret word.

"Does it matter why?"

"It matters to me."

Of course it mattered why. Why always mattered to John. The problem was, Sherlock didn't know if he had an adequate response. All he knew was, "I wanted to." And that was it. He didn't want to think about it beyond that. Beyond that crept into dangerous territory he wasn't prepared to breach. Not without knowing. He had to know. And he wished he could just see it in John's face—look at him and see everything just like he always had. But this was hidden somewhere beyond his sight. It was somewhere behind the veil, buried in a place that only a question could reach.

John rolled off of him, falling onto his back and resting his head on Sherlock's bicep. The fingers of his left hand curled around the detective's coat, gripping it tight. "I think I'm having a panic attack."

"You're just in shock. It'll pass."

If it was possible—and apparently it was—John squeezed his coat even harder. "I don't want it to," he whispered. "If feeling this way means that you're really here then I never want it to go away. You don't know what it was like, Sherlock. You don't."

Sherlock's hand slid down to cover John's. "I think I have an idea."

Silence filled the air as they both stared up at the stained ceiling. John's breathing was by far the loudest thing in the room, and Sherlock tried to match the rhythm of it, only to find that he couldn't. After some time, John's voice broke through the unsteady quiet. "Bill Murray is dead. He was shot. I saw the body."

Sherlock took in a deep breath and held it. He pressed his eyes shut, his thumb stroking the back of John's hand soothingly. The words 'I know' were on the tip of his tongue, but he managed to hold them back. It was too soon for that.

"I thought…" he trailed off for a moment. "Someone brought me there, and I thought—afterwards—I thought that it was meant to be a case for me to solve. But without you there…" John's voice shuddered and fell, his thoughts broken and scattered.

A long time passed before John spoke again. Or maybe it just seemed like a long time—Sherlock couldn't really tell. "There was a reason you faked your death, wasn't there?" John asked softly. "A reason that I could probably never understand or forgive you for, but was somehow big enough to make you do what you did?"

"You're cross with me?" Sherlock asked, ignoring the other facets of John's question. The rest of it didn't matter at the moment.

"I don't want to talk about being angry at you."

"Is that why you didn't respond when I kissed you?"

"Sherlock," John warned.

Sherlock pursed his lips together. Then he turned his head, trying to read something in John's profile. "I remember what happened in Baskerville," he said, watching the other man intently.

John tensed beside him. "What're you talking about?"

"That night in the hotel room."

"Sherlock…nothing happ—"

"I remember how you walked in on me after I had just taken a hit of heroin. I remember arguing with you, and pressing my lips against your neck so that I could feel the vibrations of your voice when you said my name." Sherlock brought his hand across his body to stroke the smooth line of John's neck. And the detective wasn't as blind to the subtleties of sex as the everyone thought him to be. He could feel John's shiver, hear the tremor in his breath, see the flutter of his eyelashes, and he knew exactly what they all meant. "I remember massaging your shoulder, and the way you sounded when—"

"Alright enough!" John snapped, batting away Sherlock's hand. "That's not how it happened and you know it! What's gotten into you that you suddenly think—"

"Is that why you didn't tell me?"

Something in Sherlock's voice made John freeze. He looked over at him, his brows coming together to create a deep groove in the skin between. "Didn't tell you what?"

"That you're in love with me."

Neither of them moved. Then, suddenly, John's head wasn't on his shoulder anymore. Sherlock could feel the doctor slipping away from him—shrinking back behind the walls and the rigid brave façade.

"You didn't tell me because you knew about Moriarty's plan, isn't that right?" Sherlock pressed, refusing to let John retreat any farther. "You knew?"

John's eyes went wide. "Moriarty's plan to what—to kill you?"

"No. No!" John tried to jerk away, but Sherlock held him fast. The moment was here. The moment was now, and he had to know that there was some kind of reason for it all. "Moriarty's plan to put you in my life. How could he have done is all so perfectly without you ever finding out? Without me ever finding out? If you loved me then how did you hide it—"

"Stop, Sherlock! For God's sake, stop!" John shouted, fresh tears blooming in his eyes and spilling over his cheeks. "You want me to tell you? Is that what you want? Fine! I bloody love you! I love you so much it hurts! I love you so much I can't fucking stand it! You think I haven't tried not to? You think I don't understand that you wouldn't want anything to do with it?" The muscle in John's jaw began to tense, so that the words had to be ground out. "So I've lived with you in this perpetual hell—ignoring the rumors, and pretending the things people say don't bother me, and I've endured it, because the only thing worse than being with you is not being with you! Does it make you happy to hear that?"

Sherlock stared at him, taking in every fraction of movement and every possible meaning of expression. His eyes traced John's features, scanning them like a document. Brow tight. Eyes slightly widened. Pupils dilated. Nostrils flared. Cheeks flushed. Then he saw it. John's mouth. His mouth—the shape of it, how it curved and how his lips were pressed together just so. Sherlock could see it then, as clearly as looking at a cell through a microscope. The look. His memory hadn't done it justice. Everything in encompassed. Everything it meant. It was so much more than he'd ever dreamed possible.

John didn't know about Moriarty's plan. He didn't know.

Pulse suddenly pounding against the base of his throat, Sherlock sat up. "We need to go."

John, still too grounded in his previous emotion to escape it, goggled up at him. "What?"

Sherlock leapt off the bed, straitening the collar of his coat. "We have things we need to get done before dawn. Come on, John." He extended a hand out to his partner. "We have to go back to the flat."

John looked at Sherlock's hand, appearing hopelessly confused, but after a moment, he took it.