Bright lights, white and harsh and far too aggressive. Hospital. Every inch of him on fire. The sting of a catheter in need of changing. Damn. He tried to shift, remove it, and found he couldn't. A wave of panic washed over him. Paralysed? God, no. Please, God, no. But then how did he know he hurt? How did he know the nurse on duty was running behind? His eyes fluttered open and found eleven-odd stone of explanation pulled tight against his side and chest: dishevelled and sweaty and twitching in his sleep.
John.
His hand came up and carded through short, greying hair. How much of that grey was his fault by now? Most, he suspected, perhaps all. Still softer than imaginable, still thick and lovely and smelling vaguely like his own shampoo. John started, his dark eyes flying open. He stilled as Sherlock's face came into view. Sherlock turned his head and ignored the screaming of his back, kissing John's forehead with dry, cracking lips. John pulled himself closer, his head on Sherlock's intact right shoulder. Sherlock smoothed a cowlick in his hair.
'Three times.'
Sherlock swallowed.
'I've had to watch you die three times now.'
'I didn't mean to.'
'I know.' His shuddering breath was the worst sound in the world, far worse than gunshots or police sirens or their small and terrified son. Sherlock held him close, face buried in his hair, as John's tears stung and pooled against his skin. 'I swear- If you ever do that to me again, I swear to God I'll kill you.'
'I came back,' he whispered. John choked. He wrapped him closer. 'I've always come back to you.'
'I know, sweetheart.'
'And I always will.'
'I don't want to test that theory, alright? Never again.'
'Alright, John.'
'Fuck.' He sniffed and wiped at his face with his sleeve. 'Sherly, Jesus…' He shook his head, eyes still heavy with tears as he gazed down at Sherlock. 'Thank Christ-' Sherlock's hand found his hair once more and he valiantly fought back a whimper as John's mouth attacked his own. A laugh bubbled up in his chest. 'What? What is it?'
Thick giggles poured from him. John wiped at his streaming eyes. 'Gently!'
John choked on a laugh. He pressed a soft kiss to Sherlock's temple. 'That's all you can think to say at a time like this? Gently?' Sherlock grinned and snuffled. 'God…' He ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair. 'Daft bugger. I'm furious with you.'
'You should be.'
'Christ…' Sherlock butted against his hand. 'Leave me all alone with two boys, will you? Your mother has a lot to answer for.'
'Take it up with her at Christmas.' He noticed something over John's shoulder and squinted. 'John. There are little bunnies on the wallpaper.'
John glanced behind him. 'Indeed there are.'
'Are there supposed to be little bunnies on the wallpaper, John?'
'You're in children's. I wanted us all to be together.'
'The boys are next door.'
'They are.'
'Asleep.'
'Yes.'
He cupped John's cheek. 'You should go to them.'
'They'll be out 'til morning.'
Sherlock nodded. A sudden thought occurred to him. 'And Moran?'
'He's dead.' His eyes grew darker. 'Do you know what he did to them?' Sherlock shook his head. 'I don't believe-' His voice cracked. 'Sherlock-'
'I know, darling.' His thumb slid along John's cheekbone. He realised how close he had been to never doing that again. 'I'll find him.'
'No.' John caught his hand. His fingers slid into Sherlock's hair as he pressed their foreheads together. 'No, we'll find him. We'll find him and we'll take him down. Just like we should've done before.'
Sherlock swallowed. 'I always forget that bit.'
'I know you do. It's bloody obnoxious.' His grip tightened. 'It's you and me now, always together. No more splitting up, no more running off alone, no more bringing him down single-handedly. He's taken you away from me twice now and I swear to God it will never happen again. Do you understand me, you great prat?'
Sherlock was crying. He had no idea when that had happened. 'I understand. I do, John, I promise.'
'He will never hurt you again. He will never touch our boys. And if he's stupid enough to try, I will put a bullet between his eyes and sleep all the better for it. I don't care if that makes me bitter. He's not hurting my family again.'
Sherlock felt as though he was being strangled. He coughed and the pain in his lungs was blinding. John grabbed a pan wordlessly as Sherlock rolled to his side and held it as he wretched. It should have been disgusting, but Sherlock found he didn't care. He blinked and was on his back again, a cool flannel upon his forehead and John's furrowed face above him.
''S not.'
'What's that, love?'
Sherlock cleared his throat with some effort. ''S not bitter.'
John smiled a little and shook his head. 'It doesn't matter.'
'Yes, it does.' Sherlock grabbed his wrist, squeezing until John's eyes met his own once more. 'You're a good man, John Watson. The best and bravest man I have ever known.'
'Now I know you're buttering me up.'
'I'm not.' He wet his lips. Something trembled in his chest. 'I just- For a moment there, I thought I would never be able to tell you that again.'
John smoothed his hair with his free hand. How filthy it must be right now: tacky and tangled, full of grease from his own fingers and factory dust. And yet here was John, and his eyes seemed to say that he had never seen anything as beautiful or precious in his life.
'You've years left to say it now.' He thumbed a tear from Sherlock's cheek. 'We've got all the time in the world.'
