Begin Again
John was dreaming. He dreamed that Sherlock had come home, come home to him, finally, after all these years. He dreamed that his best friend had come back from the dead. He dreamed that the man he had longed for every day, every moment, was holding him, his, Sherlock's, strong and wiry arms wrapped around him, his breath warm on the crown of his head, on his cheek. The dream was perfect, and real, and lovely. He wanted to slip deeper into sleep, to never wake up again. He wanted to keep feeling the softest curls of hair on his face as he burrowed deeper into the sweet-smelling curve of Sherlock's neck and shoulder. He wanted to curl up smaller, like a child, and tighten his arms around that slim torso. John was dreaming.
John was awake.
And he opened his eyes.
And he was not dreaming.
"Sherlock?" He tried to lift his head, but a strong slim hand pressed it down again.
"Not yet," that voice said. "Don't move quite yet. Please."
John was not averse to following this instruction. He was warm, and held, and safe. "You're home."
He felt the muscles in Sherlock's throat move as the man smiled. "I am home. I'm surprised you haven't started yelling at me yet-well you did, but then you fainted, so it hardly counts." A kiss, on his head, barely there, but a kiss nonetheless. "I missed you, you know," Sherlock said. "Every day. I thought about you every day. I wondered what you were doing and who you were seeing, and I wanted so much for you to be all right. You wouldn't answer Mycroft's texts, and all the things Greg told him-they sounded, how would you say it?-less than good."
John sat up, against the resistance of the arms that held him. He slid off Sherlock's lap onto the floor and turned to face his best friend, whose voice and words carried things that he hadn't ever expected to hear, things John hadn't even known he wanted to hear. He mirrored Sherlock's position on the floor, and sat looking at him, their knees touching lightly. He reached up his hand to stroke the cheek of the man he had never expected to see again. "I am so angry," he said. "So bloody angry that you lied to me, that you put me through that. I almost died of it, Sherlock. I almost died of missing you." John took a deep breath. "And right now, I don't know if I want to kill you or kiss you."
There was a pause.
"Kiss me?" said Sherlock, his eyes on his hands. "Does that seem to be a viable option?"
"Three years ago, I don't know," John's hand wandered up into dark curls, feeling how soft they were, wrapped around his fingers. "I don't know if this is a place I would have got to. Honestly. But it stripped me bare, Sherlock. Even the damn war didn't hit me so hard-losing you was losing everything."
He rose to his knees, his fingers tightening just a bit in Sherlock's hair, just enough so John could tilt his head back, could see those grey-blue eyes. "But now, really, I think it is. Quite viable."
"I concur." Sherlock reached up both hands and pulled John's face closer, until their mouths were almost touching. For one brief moment the world stood still, and John felt Sherlock's breath quick and hot on his lips, then his best friend, his dead friend, his heart and soul, closed the gap between them.