Sherlock tried to catch his breathe, he leant back on the wall John had been previously pushing him up against but now John's arms where at his sides, the cap and hair half way down the corridor from them.
A silence neither of them needed or wanted hung over them like a bad smell. John couldn't talk and Sherlock didn't talk.
He truly didn't know what he should say. 'Sorry', 'John', 'I'm alive', 'sorry' it all looped back to that moment and Sherlock hadn't really got his head around it yet.
The two men stared at each other for what felt like hours but was most likely mere seconds.
"Sherlock?" John repeated, louder this time as he found his voice that had voluntarily left his mind when John needed it the most.
John wanted to shout at Sherlock, he wanted to hit him until he bled out of his 'perfect' cheekbones and fell to the floor like John's legs was threatening to get him to do.
He wanted to shout so much, but he couldn't. Because with the anger came relief like a tide upon seeing Sherlock's face looking back at him with his very alive eyes. The tide lapped over him so suddenly when he pulled off the cap that he felt dizzy and sick but remained staring back at the taller man, the tide had winded him and when it pulled back it left John with happiness that didn't seem to know what to do with itself, with the relief came love.
He was okay.
"You bastard." Was all he could muster out of the tornado of emotion
"John I can-"
"I know you can. You will but someone's coming."
John shot his eyes to his left where a limping, old man was coming their way.
Sherlock shrugged but John was already picking up the cap from the floor, dusting it off and discarding the hair clump onto the floor with an apologetic look and pushing it gently onto Sherlock's head.
They hurried, in silence to the cupboard along the corridor and shut the door tightly behind them.
The cupboard was small and held a hoover, some shelves with multiple cleaning products on, a small window covered by Sherlock with the pure white blind.
The room was big enough for the to stand arm length apart but instead John felt a pull to Sherlock, who was taking the cap back off and smoothing his short dark curls out with his hand.
"What are you doing?- I don't even know what I… I wasn't trained for this" John sighed in frustration and lent on the wall behind him.
"I am sorry John but I had to it was unavoidable"
"You better have a good excuse for leaving me the way you did" John let out, the anger building back over the tide like the foam in the water trying to get to the air.
"I do, I really do but we can't stay here, we need to go to Mycroft's I need to be there I told them all to meet and they'll leave if I'm not there."
"Okay" John let out gently stepping forward and laying a hand on the taller mans shoulder, "…Just making sure."
He explained when the detective looked at John with a questioning brow.
"Oh… Okay I thought, why aren't you mad?"
"Oh I am" John smiled sliding his hand off from his friends shoulder, "I am, you made me watch you die, Sherlock. I went to a funeral and spoke about you, I still have nightmares." He added in a whisper as if he wanted Sherlock to know, to hurt him, but h was to ashamed to say it out loud… It worked though. Sherlock had been assured that john would be and was okay, he was happy and had a girl but know images of john waking with a start in a cold sweat, just like Sherlock had done, filled his mind like a computer virus and made him feel dizzy.
"I'm sorry John. It's just that-"
Sherlock froze and so did John. Their trained senses going crazy as two pairs of foot steps echoed through the corridor to them, Sherlock nodded permission for john to go up to the door and listen for voices, which he did and made sure he didn't black the dim light form the cracks of the cupboard on Sherlock gesture.
"He was here, I know it." An angry voice, hushed and panicked reached John.
"I don't think he did, sir. The soldier was seen but the detective was restricted by his brother"
"And why would he listen to him" the other voice was growing angrier and more familiar the closer it came.
"I want him dead" The angry voice stated.
The other voice was stretched and worried, sounded scared to John.
"But sir they could be of use-"
"Only in death my dear friend, only in death."
And the voices and steps faded into silence, when john turned to see Sherlock he was tense and had his eyes fixed on the door in pure anger and John knew who it had been; Moran.
"Moran had a friend," John whispered, not sure if it was safe yet.
"Not for long" Sherlock growled.
John frowned at his friend, Sherlock had been angry around john before, but not like this. He wondered what had happened while he was gone and knew he would get an answer, Sherlock liked to boast and explain. It was one of the things he had missed.
They left the cupboard minutes later and headed out the front door in a hurry, john had forgotten about his limp, and his walking stick, which he had seemed to have abandoned in the hospital, much to Sherlock's delight.