A/N: Merry Christmas, everyone! As always, I really love to hear your thoughts, especially after the last couple of chapters. We are finally on the road to recovery! So, I'm asking Santa to ask you guys to leave a comment behind :)

Chapter 13: Guiding Light

Well I know I had it all on the line
But don't just sit with folded hands and become blind
'Cause even when there is no star in sight
You'll always be my only guiding light

Guiding Light – Mumford & Sons

It was a cold and rainy day, but Sherlock didn't care. The moment he was wheeled outside the hospital felt like he was set free. He stood up from the wheelchair Mycroft had insisted on using to get him outside and breathed in deeply. He was finally going home.
He had intended to go home yesterday, but doctor Wilson insisted on keeping him one extra night just to be safe. He could've jumped high and low, but Mycroft and John stood firm, which did not benefit his already fickle mood and resulted in an evening full of bickering and arguing, just for the sake of arguing. But now the moment was finally here, he felt nervous.

He hadn't anticipated going home ever again. He hadn't dared to hope to come back to his apartment, to go back to his life like it was before. But now, he was given that opportunity for the second time in his life. And it was terrifying.

John came to stand next to him and Sherlock felt a light hand on his shoulder. "Ready?"

Sherlock could hear the smile on John's face, which was enough to let some of the fear fade away. He realized that it was all because of John. This man was the reason he was able to go home again and for a moment he hesitated to tell John everything. To tell him how he felt, to tell him about what he wanted to say when he had to leave him, to tell him about the letter. But Sherlock composed himself almost immediately. Now was not the time nor the place. Besides, it was too risky anyway.

Sherlock nodded, closed his new Belstaff coat he got Mycroft around his body, put his collar up and took his first steps outside towards the black car that waited for him and John to take them to Baker Street.

They were silent during the ride. Sherlock couldn't help it but to look outside the window and stare at the buildings and people. He was back in London, the city he knew from the inside out. And for the first time, he felt grateful to be back.

He looked over at John, who was looking at his phone and was typing. Sherlock wanted to ask who he was texting but hesitated. A year ago he would give John a smart-aleck comment about it, but somehow he didn't know if it was his place to say something about it. He continued to look out if the window instead.

After 20 minutes, they were almost at Baker Street. Sherlock sat up straight and started to unbuckle his seatbelt. "Stop the car," he ordered the driver, who stopped right away.

John immediately looked up from his phone. "What? Why? Are you feeling okay?" he asked with a hint of panic in his voice.

"I'd like to walk the last bit."

"What, in this rain? Are you insane?"

Sherlock turned to John and glared at him. "You don't have to come with me. I'll meet you at home."

John closed his jacked and huffed. "Of course I'm coming with you. I always do."

He thanked the driver and followed Sherlock, who had already stepped out of the car and was walking down the street. The familiar image struck John. Although the detective didn't walk as fast and confident as before, seeing him in his long, Belstaff coat striding towards 221b made that John couldn't stop smiling the whole time.

The night went on quite uneventful. Once they were home, they started to settle in. John let Sherlock do his own thing, which meant he was cataloging every corner of every room. John made some tea and once Sherlock was done roaming around the house, they sat down at the kitchen table together, just enjoying each other's company.
Mrs. Hudson was so glad 'her boys' were back that she insisted on cooking a proper meal and have dinner together. She had made a delicious pasta and chatted freely with John about nothing in particular over a good glass of wine. Sherlock didn't say much during the dinner but enjoyed listening to the stories Mrs. Hudson had to tell. It had almost felt like before.

Around 9, John and Sherlock excused themselves, thanked Mrs. Hudson and went upstairs. Sherlock told John he was tired from the day and went to bed early. John couldn't blame him. He wanted to go to bed as well but knew that If he would, he would just lay there and stare at the ceiling for hours.

But with Sherlock gone to bed, 221b Baker Street started to feel strange. Mycroft had taken John's request seriously and made sure the apartment was clean, well-stocked and completely the same as before, but it still felt like everything was different. John tried not to let his thoughts linger and started to read a book. But after an hour he couldn't focus anymore. He stood up and lit up the fireplace, walked to the cabinet and was pleased to see that Mycroft even had stocked the liquor department. He poured himself a glass of whiskey and walked back. He hesitated for a moment. He had been avoiding his old chair since he arrived back at Baker Street. Somehow it didn't feel right to sit in it anymore. He sat down on the couch instead.

If someone asked him two weeks ago if he thought he would ever return to Baker Street, he simply would've laughed and waved it away. Now, he sat in the middle of the living room of his old apartment with his old flatmate in the bedroom next door. His flatmate, who was supposed to be dead.

And for the first time, John allowed himself to feel the impact. Everything he had heard Sherlock tell the other day fell on him like a heavy weight. He felt the pain, he felt the sorrow. But most of all, he felt injustice.
John took a sip from his whiskey and looked into the fire, letting the thoughts about the last couple of weeks roam in his mind freely. And suddenly, another feeling struck him. Admiration. Because yet again, Sherlock started to manage to come back from this. John knew it cost him a lot this time but in the end, Sherlock would win again. And that was just the thing that John frightened the most.

"Are you all right?"

John looked up from his thoughts and saw Sherlock standing in the door opening. He was dressed in pajama pants, a navy blue t-shirt and a new dressing gown which looked a lot like the ones he had before. Another thing that almost looked the same as it did before, but wasn't.

John waited for Sherlock to walk towards him and sit in his chair. He didn't. He lowered himself to the couch to sit next to John with difficulty.

John didn't look at him. "I feel like I should be asking you," he said with a sad grin on his face.

"You've already asked plenty of times. I'm asking you now."

A moment passed. John knew Sherlock was trying to deduce what was going on and he let him. He was just too tired to explain his thoughts to his friend.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said softly.

This took John completely by surprise. He looked at Sherlock, who was avoiding his gaze and looked at his hands. "You don't have to apologize for anything?" he asked after a moment.

"I do. You are in this position because of me."

John shook his head. "You didn't put me into anything. I chose to be here."

Sherlock took a deep breath. "If things are getting too difficult, you can go. I can't ask you to stay. I'll manage."

"What makes you think I want to go?"

"I can see you struggling."

"That doesn't mean I would leave you and deal with this by yourself," John countered.

Sherlock didn't respond right away. He really didn't want John to go, but he had caused him enough pain already in the past. He couldn't do that to him anymore.

"You should," Sherlock said softly after a long moment. "This is hurting you."

"I'm perfectly capable of setting my own boundaries, Sherlock."

"John, just admit it."

John started to get frustrated. He turned his body to Sherlock stared at him for a moment in disbelief. "Where is this coming from?"

Sherlock just shrugged. "Since I told you what happened, you aren't talking to me like you did before. You are watching your words. That, and you are texting more often these last couple of days which means you don't want to be here. It's quite obvious."

"Okay, stop it right there," John exclaimed. Sherlock winced at the raise of his voice, but John didn't seem to notice. "How many times do I have to tell you? I'm not going anywhere unless you tell me you want me to."

John stopped for a moment and realized he was practically yelling. He tried to regain his composure. "Do you?" he asked after a long silence.

"No," Sherlock said quickly.

"Good. Listen," John continued. "Don't apologize for what happened. You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for. You didn't do anything. This wasn't a choice. This is something that happened to you. Am I making myself clear?"

Sherlock didn't respond. John took a breath and reached out to take Sherlock's hands in his. He felt Sherlock tense but he didn't let go.

"Please, look at me," John urged. After a moment of hesitation, Sherlock looked up into John's dark blue eyes. His heart skipped a beat. Their eyes locked onto each other and Sherlock relaxed a bit. He had missed those eyes. He had missed the look John gave him like nothing there was nothing else in the world. Even though everything pretended to be the same but felt completely different, this feeling he got when he looked into those eyes was the one thing that hadn't changed.

"I won't pretend everything's fine," John continued, his voice much kinder and softer. "It's not easy for me to see you like this, to hear what happened. It's damn hard. But please, don't hold back because of it. I'm so proud of you for telling and for asking and it would break my heart if I noticed you were holding back because you think I can't handle it. Mycroft asked me to come with him, he didn't force me to. I chose to. And I'm so glad I did because by some kind of miracle It got me here."

After a long silence, Sherlock spoke. "I thought I wouldn't be able to see you again."

His voice was barely audible and broke at the end, but John heard it loud and clear. He let go of Sherlock's hands and pulled him towards him. "Me neither," John whispered, closing his arms around Sherlock's back.

Sherlock raised his own arms and pulled John closer. "I'm happy you chose to come with Mycroft as well, John," he mumbled against his shoulder.

John pulled back for a moment, taking in the man opposite him. He took a deep breath and continued. "Did I ever tell you that you were the one who saved me? When I met you, I mean. You were the main reason I recovered after Afghanistan. Ella did a great job, but it was you who helped the most. Please, let me do the same for you."

"Okay," was all Sherlock managed to say.

John pulled him back in their embrace and didn't let go. And Sherlock didn't want him to. The feeling of John pressed against him was the most comforting feeling he could have right now. Knowing that John still was here after everything that had happened and everything he told him was something he couldn't wrap his mind around. But then again, John always managed to surprise him.

They sat there for what felt like minutes. John knew it longer than was appropriate, but it was what they needed at that moment.

When he did let go of Sherlock, it felt like a loss. Both men weren't able to look at each other and shifted their gaze to the burning fireplace.

After several minutes, Sherlock spoke again. "John? Can I confess something?"

"Of course."

"I'm afraid to sleep alone."

John nodded understandably. "That happens with PTSD," he simply answered. It all sounded too familiar. "You know I slept with the radio on the first couple of months when I returned from Afghanistan? The whole night I would listen to boring talk shows so that I got the feeling someone was there in case I would fall asleep. It made me feel a little less alone."

"I will keep that under advisement," Sherlock answered, his voice suddenly more distant. This clearly wasn't the thing he wanted to hear and John noticed it too.

"Don't be an idiot Sherlock, you aren't alone." he chuckled.

Sherlock raised one eyebrow and looked at him questionably. John stood up and reached out his hand towards the tall man. "Come on, let's get to bed. You must be tired. At least I am."