The arms around him warmed his skin, he wanted it to warm so much more. It was all too much and not enough and everything at once. He barely could exhale without a hitch to his breath. He did not deserve this, any of it, not Mary then, nor Sherlock now. If he hadn't... then Mary might...

But Hamish.

Hamish.

Fucking idiot he was, wallowing, not able to control his own damnable emotions, his reactions. Sherlock here, spooned against his back, held him as he drifted against a sea of desperate anger at himself, hopelessness for their situation, for Mary's death. It was on his hands, no one elses... just as Sherlock's false suicide. That too, that was because of John, he could have taken out Mrs. Hudson's sniper. He was there... could have alerted Lestrade so very easily with a text... then gone to Sherlock's side to face Moriarty. But no, he had been too slow, not put it all together. Not even until close to when Sherlock was able to come back, the reports in the news, the things that began to give John validity to his fragile hope.

Mary had been so very kind, resourceful helping him scour back further, but tempered his blind faith gentling it into a singular purpose. Helped re-hone it towards finally clearing Sherlock's name. She, herself, finding glee in taking down Ms. Reilly a peg or two personally handing over all of the evidence to the woman's editor and announcing she had given the exact same to the other three lead publications and have fun trying to bury what a lying slag the woman was.

Then he was indeed back, John so grateful to have both people he loved in his life. But now, now he had two, but it wasn't the same. He couldn't get his heart to work right, it wanted to feel everything, and God, how wrong that was. Mourn for Mary while coveting Sherlock's form in his bed. He wanted to shag him to the fucking ground... it wasn't right. It wasn't fair. He'd waited, should still wait, it was just ridiculous pent up ephemerial... he'd not bed him. Not for a long while... it wasn't normal. He'd just be taking advantage, Sherlock would probably do anything to soothe him. He was just frustrated, needed a release.

Not a harmful one.

Just something, more. He wouldn't though... John refused until he could give freely, without the deep husked out portion of his heart still broken. He knew better than that... just Sherlock being here should be enough. It would have to be... wouldn't it? He felt like he had whiplash, his emotions were too damn chaotic. He needed solace from his own internal noise now, how wonderful. His knees came tight against his chest, he needed... as compact as possible... close it all away. Better to bleed on the inside anyway, right John?

Sherlock was here, sharing the exact same air, inhaling their own particulates. Should be enough, he's whole and warm and alive. Willing to work with a widower just as he had been an invalidated officer. He took in the broken because they were the outsiders, whether or not he admitted it, like Sherlock himself was on the edge of society. Then he came, broken, suicidal, therapist... PTSD, psychosomatic issues. A present wrapped in a shiny bright bow for the man. And how that man unwrapped him, tugged at each loop with singular purpose until it was loosed... fixed. Reintroduced the feeling of camaraderie, of tribe. The battlefield of London their playground. John remade, without thanks to his friend... he never had... and here the same man was here again to pick up the parts of John that were the most brittle. The ones close to shattered, barely useable, but still Sherlock saw something.

Why was none of this enough to pull him from the gnawed-to-the-bone depths?

It was, it should get better, not worse.

He needed Sherlock, his strength to lean on... it wasn't enough... how, when would it be enough? Christ, what John needed he had no right to, not to ask, not to demand, none of it was in his right... none of it. Instead all he felt was the build-up that had never left, he needed to, wanted to forget the world for a while, just for a blip. It was so wrong... was it wrong? To look for comfort... to demand it... to be resuscitated using someone else's moist breath to fill your desperately dry lungs? to feel someone take over, to make you feel again... something other than this... this God forsaken agony. He'd done it before to relieve stress, he fucking needed it.

Sherlock had to understand, he himself used to be an addict, still was in a way. The need for the high of a proper case, the silky sweet feel of the chilled wind across their skin as they were in pursuit, warm buzz after it was over. He'd have to understand, to see that John needed this like he needed gravity to hold him together in one place otherwise he'd be fettered to the four winds or dust at his friends feet. He rolled himself to face Sherlock's chest, held tight. The skin to skin was something his numb crackling mind needed focus, he felt the shared heat and placed his cheek to Sherlock's chest... his friend's heart as tumultuous as John's own.

He wondered if this was how Sherlock felt.

His heart felt fickle... weak... battered. How could he do this?

Falling was like flying right?