A/N – I want to that Scopestastic on this one, well on all of them, but on this one in particular. She constantly listened to my complaints when I couldn't make it work and then threw ideas at me and made it all better. You are awesome, Thanks!

John turned onto his side and adjusted the pillow under his head. He deliberately didn't glance at the clock because he didn't want to know what time it was. He didn't want to know how long he'd been lying there thinking about the man who might or might not be asleep in his living room.

It had been well after 1 a.m. when John had cut Sherlock off and announced he'd needed to go to sleep. He'd spent hours listening to Sherlock recount every detail of the three years that he'd been gone – from tracking down the men who'd been going to kill Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade to infiltrating Moriarty's underworld and finally stumbling upon Moran, the worst of the group, the one who'd been hired to kill John.

"He was rather arrogant," Sherlock had said. "He didn't hesitate to speak about Moriarty or being hired to wait in a stairwell to kill you. I had it all recorded – along with his admitting to several other murders, included a rather prominent assassination. I was prepared to turn it over to Mycroft, Interpol, and the American authorities when he was killed." Sherlock had hesitated then and for a moment John was certain that Sherlock had killed Moran. John could clearly picture Sherlock throttling the man, but, as Sherlock continued, John could see the disappointment on the detective's face. He regretted that he hadn't been the one to kill Moran or bring him down.

"He was involved in a relationship with the wife of a Russian gangster linked to a number of organized crime syndicates in America. Moran often bragged about not being afraid of them, and it appears that was an unwise decision."

"You're sure he is dead?" John asked, feeling a chill down his spine. Sherlock had held his gaze for a long moment and nodded.

"I wouldn't have returned otherwise," he replied. "As I said, you're the reason that I did all of this."

Something had welled in John's chest at the words but he'd listened for a few more minutes before declaring he needed to sleep.

He'd offered Sherlock the bedroom but the detective had declined. "I'm not ready to sleep. It's less likely that I'll disturb you if you're in the bedroom." John had agreed and there was an awkward moment as they stood in the living room facing each other. John had finally reached a hand up and settled it on Sherlock's chest. The warmth of Sherlock's skin was palpable through the silk of his shirt and John curled his fingertips into the smooth material. He looked up, met the grey eyes and saw absolute want there. John reacted to it, the desire spreading through him as well.

He'd taken a deep breath and pulled his hand away. "Good night," John had whispered into the quiet space and walked into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. He'd done anything but sleep though.

He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. He could make out the faint pattern from a long ago water stain in the corner. He had paint under the counter in the kitchen to paint over it. He'd pulled it out to paint three days ago when Mary had called him.

"I told him. Greg came to me, and Mrs. Hudson said– it doesn't matter really. I told him. He knows where you are." John had been able to hear the fear in her voice. She was afraid he'd be angry, afraid he'd be unable to forgive her.

"It's okay," he'd whispered to her, hearing her gasping breath through the phone. She'd been on the verge of tears. "It– it doesn't matter. It's fine." And it was as he said it that he realized it was true. The feeling that swept over him in those quick seconds wasn't anger or annoyance, but relief. He was relieved.

He rolled on his side, getting lost in the mix of shadows on the far wall of the room. He closed his eyes and listened to the wind blow against the window, the glass rattling quietly. He thought of Sherlock in the living room, where windows were even older, and had a flash of guilt – he should have insisted Sherlock take the bedroom. Especially as it seemed John wasn't going to sleep anyway.

He shifted again, punching the pillow as he closed his eyes determined to find sleep soon. He'd slept in a hole in the sand in Afghanistan with bombs going off around him, surely he could sleep in a comfortable bed in Cornwall.

We both could have slept in the bedroom.

John opened his eyes. "No," he said into the silence. "No." He shook the thought away and shifted on the bed.

Counting sheep, he thought and closed his eyes. He tried to picture vague white fur balls jumping over a fence. Why do people always picture them going over a fence? Sherlock would know. Sherlock. John tried to shake away the image of him lying on that small single bed in Shadwell. It was about the same size as the couch he was sleeping on now. Although, he assumed that Sherlock was clothed this time.

John been unable to get the image out of his head: the long leg pressed against the wall, the knee poking out from under the blanket. John had stood in that dark room and watched Sherlock sleep for a long time. Each of Sherlock's quiet breaths stealing oxygen from the room. John had been suffocating, dying. He'd had to leave, had to.

Sherlock had lied, and not about what caused a stain on the carpet or what happened to John's black silk tie. He'd lied about dying. He'd gone away and left John alone. John had been dying then, too, from the nothingness. Life had been so empty. He had been so empty.

Sherlock had been on his back as John had stood in the doorway, his head resting on the pillow where John's would have been had he not climbed out. The light blanket formed nicely over the slim body. John had easily traced the outline of long legs and the slight bulge where the flaccid cock had rested against slim thigh. He'd taken a deep breath and walked out of the room, walked away from Sherlock, but the image had never left him.

He'd thought of that body every single day. He'd thought about Sherlock every single minute.

John sighed and sat up, pushing the blankets down and tossing one of his pillows onto the floor.

He wondered what it had felt like to wake up in that small flat all alone. Sherlock had gone to bed thinking things were the same as before – better than before actually – and he'd awaken to John gone.

It must have been horrible.

It was Sherlock's own fault though; he'd brought the misery on himself. John had been miserable for three long and horrible years. He'd married woman and ruined her life, been unable to feel settled or safe or at home. It was all Sherlock's fault. Every single second of it had been Sherlock's fault.

But he'd saved John's life, and Mrs. Hudson's, and Lestrade's. Sherlock had walked away from his life, his friends. He'd watched from a distance as everyone moved on. John wondered which was worse, thinking your best friend was dead, or watching your best friend think you were dead and move on without you.

John thought his plight was the worst but he was willing to acknowledge that Sherlock's hadn't been easy. He'd been all alone.

John had been alone all those years ago when he ran into Mike Stamford in the park. The memory of that day was so clear to John – it always had been. You don't forget the day that changed your life forever; you don't forget the day that saved your life.

Sherlock had saved his life theday of the fall, too. John closed his eyes and watched the fall. He'd watched it thousands, tens of thousands of times over the last three years. He saw it when he was awake, when he slept, when he travelled past Bart's in a cab. Every day. He'd watched Sherlock not die every single day.

"He should have told me," John whispered. He looked towards the door that hid the living room that Sherlock currently occupied. "You should have told me," he said, just a fraction louder. Sherlock couldn't hear him, even if he'd been standing at the door the words would get lost in the air between John's mouth and any listening ear. Still John said it; he said what he couldn't get past. "You left me," he added, closing his eyes against the oppressive darkness.

And he had left Sherlock, he realized. It was different entirely – he knew that. He'd left that man, that wonderfully beautiful man, alone in a bed because he was scared, because the emotions were too strong. Sherlock had left John to save his life. Sherlock had left because he'd valued John's life more than his own. John sat up again looking around the room before rubbing his palms into his eyes and letting out a quiet groan.

"What do you want?" he asked himself. And the answer appeared in his head as easily as anything.

Sherlock. He wanted Sherlock. He shook the idea away. It had been too much, entirely too much hurt. He couldn't move on. He couldn't just forget it. He couldn't. It wasn't possible.

But it wasn't about forgetting, it was about forgiving. He looked up at the ceiling. It was about forgiving. Could he forgive Sherlock? He shook his head – no of course not, not for this.

John took a deep breath and looked at the clock. 4:49. He groaned and looked at the window.

Sherlock had left, but so had John. The circumstances were entirely different, the seriousness of each hardly comparable. But Sherlock had acted out of compassion; John had acted out of fear.

And Sherlock was alive. How often had John wished for just that? How often had that been his only desire?

He turned towards the door again and nodded firmly, pushed the blanket off of his legs and climbed out of bed.

He'd expected Sherlock to be awake because Sherlock was always awake. There was a small lamp in the corner casting odd shadows about the room. John could see the outline of everything, including the body obviously sound asleep on the sofa.

Sherlock couldn't be comfortable. He was still dressed, minus his shoes, which were placed neatly next to the door. The pillow John had given him had slipped to the floor and the detective's head was hanging off the sofa, his long neck stretched back as quiet snores escaped slightly parted lips. John smiled, stepping carefully over the arm that was resting on the floor, and sat down on the coffee table. He let his eyes trace over Sherlock's other arm, resting above his head and draped over the arm of the sofa. His fingers were curled slightly, the tension gone from all the muscles. John reached over traced his index finger across the visible tendons in the wrist. Sherlock's fingers closed reflexively and his head shifted. John smiled as he stilled his finger and Sherlock moved slowly back into the previous position.

When the snores returned, John pulled his hand away and stared at the sleeping form. His heart ached and his lungs constricted. He felt like he was drowning again. John took a deep breath and held it, released it quickly and then gasped in another one. He closed his eyes and forcefully calmed himself.

So beautiful, he thought opening his eyes to look over the long body stretched out on his couch.

John pushed a dark curl away from Sherlock's eye, took a final deep breath, and made up his mind. His chest ached again and he calmed his breathing before it became frantic. He stared at Sherlock's sleeping form another second before standing and heading to the kitchen to get a pad of paper.

A dull throb in Sherlock's neck pushed him to wakefulness. He lifted his head back to the sofa and blinked his eyes open. The sun was starting to creep across the carpet towards him as the day began. It was still relatively early though. He grabbed the pillow and pushed it under his head again. Sleeping had felt good – even after Mary had relayed the information on John, Sherlock had not slept well. He'd slept some, but not well.

He shifted onto his back, annoyed that his trousers were twisted around his waist and becoming uncomfortable and even more annoyed that he hadn't bothered to remove his clothing before falling asleep. He pushed the thoughts away; he'd deal with his discomfort when he was feeling more inclined to be awake.

He turned his head towards the sofa cushions, his brain quickly processing what it had seen in the few seconds his eyes had been opened. The majority of these thoughts were immediately deleted, but the image of the piece of paper on the coffee table caused his eyes to snap open. He turned his head and looked at the table.

The sheet was folded in half and he could make out his name written clearly. He stopped breathing for a moment, panic filling his chest. He tried to listen to the house, tried to hear John. But the only thing he could hear was his heartbeat slamming in his ear. He tried to look around but his mind saw nothing but the paper.

John was gone again. The thought swelled in Sherlock's throat as he reached out a tentative hand and touched the cool page. He traced his name before bringing his thumb around to lift the sheet up so that he could see the note's contents.

Sherlock,

I'm going to have a lie in. Join me.

Love, John

"Love, John," he said into the silent room. Sherlock glanced towards the bedroom door and then back at the note. "Love, John" he whispered again as he set the page aside and stood up.

John was curled on the far side of the bed. Sherlock stared at him a moment before quietly pushing his trousers down and quickly following them with his shirt. He looked at his briefs for a second before kicking them aside. There was a pair of dark pyjama bottoms sitting on the bed. He stared that them a moment before recognizing them as his own. He looked around the room and spotted his suitcase in the corner. At some point John had walked to the car and retrieved it. The closet door was open and Sherlock could spot some of his clothes hanging neatly beside John's. The sight caused and odd stirring in his body that he couldn't identify. He smiled at them before grabbing his pyjamas and pulling them on.

Sherlock moved to the side of the bed and froze. He felt a well of something unfamiliar in the back of his throat and reached down to touch the sheet in front of him. The thread count was very high and the dark blue material made John's skin glow in the faint morning light. It was momentarily perfect and it terrified him. He hadn't done or felt any of it before, not really.

Sherlock took a deep breath and stared at John's back. "You think so loud," came the familiar voice and Sherlock jumped back, startled. John turned his head and pushed the blanket back. He tapped his hand on the mattress and met Sherlock's eyes. "Get in," he said easily before settling back into his pillow.

Sherlock paused just a moment more before climbing in and rolling so that he was facing John. Long fingers stretched out and rested on John's hip. The doctor's skin was warm through the material Sherlock pressed his fingertips against the bone. He wasn't pushed away, so Sherlock slide his arm forward letting it fall across John's body. When that was accepted, Sherlock shuffled forward and pressed his chest against the smaller man's back, burying his face into the space between John's neck and the pillow, and John wove their fingers together against his stomach.