Chapter two you guys! Sorry its so... Dialogue-y. I love writting the dialogue between these two, its hilarious.

Um. I feel like I should have a trigger warning right now. Just... warning. This chapter touches on it, but serious issues coming up soon.

I'm trying to write as from-the-heart as possible. Its kinda just... hard and I have a lot to say.

Anyway, enjoy.

I don't own Sherlock! -ACR

Telling Mrs. Hudson didn't exactly go as planned. She nearly fainted or had a heart attack or something, and then hugged Sherlock for nearly an hour. They explained the basics of what had happened to her; including her life having been in danger. She nodded as they spoke and then promised not to breathe a word of it to anyone. After a few minutes debating, they decided not to tell Lestrade. Not yet.

They talked for hours until the sun started to sink below the clouds, and John decided to go get food as long as Sherlock stayed there. Actually, John was worried he'd come back and Sherlock wouldn't be there, gone again forever. Though, as the hours passed, John was fairly certain this was all real. It felt real.

Sherlock, however, didn't really want to leave. Or for John to leave, but he needed time to think, talk to Mycroft and explain. He didn't really know what to do, he still felt like one breath of a word he was alive and everyone he knew was in danger. Though in his head he thought that Moriarty's assassins were all over it by now, he couldn't ever be sure. And the uncertainty was the scary part.

After John was gone, Sherlock leaned back into his chair and sat quietly, trying to just enjoy this. He could… smell John. He thought that was maybe weird, but he didn't care. John may have thought he was dead, but Sherlock thought his year away from John was even worse. Knowing he was out there, maybe hurting or worse; happy without him, and knowing he couldn't see him again. It was the worst year of his life. So smelling John, seeing him, it was everything Sherlock needed right now.

He wondered how long he could live with John under this roof, maybe they wouldn't ever have to leave.

He sighed and opened his phone. Several text messages he missed, all from Mycroft.

Sherlock, I just saw John go inside. –M

Sherlock, what's going on? Did you get out? –M

Did he see you? –M

Sherlock? –M

He rolled his blue eyes and dialed his worried brothers number. Mycroft almost immediately answered.

"Sherlock? Are you alright, what happened?" He sounded very concerned.

"No, Mycroft. I'm dead because John killed me."

"Sarcasm isn't becoming of you. What happened?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, "He walked in on me, what do you think happened?"

"I texted you, didn't you see it?"

"Maybe call next time Mycroft, I was busy."

"Doing what!"

"Playing my violin."

"Oh you," Mycroft put his face in his hands, "You got caught because you were playing an instrument!"

"Not any instrument, my violin. He's kept it."

"Sentimental, now, are we? What did you tell him, Sherlock?"

"What was I supposed to tell him? I told him the truth."

"All the truth?"

"Of course."

Mycroft sighed, "God you're such a little bitch."

Sherlock frowned, "Excuse me?"

"A love struck puppy. Can't go a year without breaking down for your boyfriend."

"I'm not afraid of human relations, Mycroft."

"Maybe you should be if it's going to get them killed." Sherlock was silent, "We both know how this ends, Sherlock, every time. Tell no one about this. When you're done with this little… thing, call me and we'll send you back to the countryside; where you belong. Where everyone stays safe." He hung up.

Sherlock sighed deeply and put the phone back in his pocket, keeping his eyes closed. He couldn't decided if Mycroft was right or not. He knew a year ago that he had to die, had to leave them all alone so they could be safe. But now things were… different. John obviously wasn't happy without Sherlock and Sherlock wasn't happy without John, so what was the point? Well, he knew the point. A sad John was better than a dead John.

And what if John did die? The thought actually wretched at Sherlocks stomach. If John just stopped existing…

"I'd stop existing." He said. Saying it out loud made him feel even worse. He sighed and closed his eyes and tried to think, but sleep soon took him over. He hadn't slept in days…

John had rushed out to get food, across town to the place where he and Sherlock had first staked out for a case. He felt a connection there, but he hadn't been there in a while. It used to bring back bad memories, things that he now would love to keep around forever, if he could.

He rushed back home, almost certain Sherlock wouldn't be there, and when he walked inside at first, he didn't see him. And then he did. How Sherlock could curl up and fall asleep in a chair still amazing John. He was like some… tall freaking puzzle and he could fit in anywhere. The sight made John grin though; he looked so innocent when he slept. You almost wouldn't know he was an annoying dick.

"Sherlock?" John nudged him, "Sheeerrlockkk, I brought food."

Sherlock grumbled, "I'm not hungry."

"Fine. I'll put it away for when you are hungry. Idiot." John walked to the kitchen and packed away the food. He liked being able to insult Sherlock again. Lovingly, of course.

Sherlock shuffled to the table, "Do you have a cigarette?"

"No."

"Liar."

John turned and looked at him, "What?"

"I can smell the nicotine on your furniture, a bit on your clothes. No one can blame you for taking up smoking, I just want one."

John glanced over at him, "Didn't you quit?"

"Yes, and then I was- well, never mind."

"What?"

"What?" Sherlock faked innocence.

"You did and then you were what?"

"I did… And then I lost my best friend." As Sherlock said it, he looked away, almost embarrassed. John felt himself get red in the cheeks as well. He had always considered Sherlock his best friend, but he didn't know he felt the same….

"You don't have to hide your emotions, Sherlock," John sat across from him at the table and pulled out a cigarette, handing it to him, "I know you're human. You cried on the phone with me."

Sherlock glared and him and chose to ignore that comment. He took the cigarette and lit it, "Why did you start smoking, anyway?"

"I didn't want to drink," John sighed, "But I wanted to feel better."

Sherlock watched him light up the cigarette and smoke, inhale, and let it out. It was interesting, them smoking together, like a sort of bonding without words.

"Is it still raining?" Sherlock asked, already knowing the answer.

"Yeah," John flicked ash into the tray.

"Too bad," Sherlock sighed, "I thought maybe I'd help you solve a case or something, like old days."

"Sherlock, how long are you gonna stay here?" John didn't look at him as he said it. Sherlocks stomach knotted. Did he already want him to leave?

"I can get Mycroft to come get me, any time, just say the word."

John glanced at him and saw genuine fear in Sherlocks eyes. He gulped, "That's not what I meant. I just… Are you gonna move back in? Are we going to tell Lestrade? Are you gonna start solving cases again? I have a lot of questions…"

"I don't really have the answers," Sherlock inhaled the last of his smoke and tossed the cigarette into the garbage. He turned and left the room, John following him.

"I just want things to go back to normal, Sherlock."

"Well, they can't, okay!" Sherlock found himself yelling. Calm down, he kept telling himself, don't fight right now.

John stared at him, his mouth slightly open, "Sherlock…"

"I- I know." Sherlock sat down, "I'm sorry, but I don't know what I'm doing right now. I just… I just don't know."

The burning sensation behind Sherlocks eyes threatened to cry, something Sherlock just didn't do. He held back.

"How long do you want to stay?"

Sherlock looked up at John, "As long as you'll take me."

"Look," John hesitated momentarily and sat down, "We'll figure it out. Together, okay? For now I think you're tired and you need to sleep."

Sherlock nodded, actually agreeing. He wasn't going to cry, it was his body objecting to the lack of sleep, mixed with frustration. "I'll sleep on the couch."

"God no, sleep in my bed. I'll sleep on the couch."

"No."

"Sherlock-"

"NO."

"Please?" John stared at him, "I feel like if I sleep there, I'll wake up. And you'll be gone."

Sherlock scowled, "I don't want to."

"Don't be a child about this."

"You can't make me." Sherlock curled his knees up.

"Are you five?"

"Shut up, go to sleep."

"I can't, you're on my couch."

Sherlock flashed his friend an amused smile, "We could always sleep in the same bed."

"If that would fix all your emotional problems."

"Sociopath, remember?" Sherlock stood up and went to Johns room, his old room. John smiled, laying down, triumphant.

Two seconds later the door opened, "Are you coming?"

"….That wasn't a legitimate suggestion."

"Maybe I'll leave then," Sherlock pouted.

John sat up and glared at Sherlock over the couch, "Let me get this straight, you want to sleep in the same bed?"

"There's nothing straight about it."

John actually laughed then, hard. Sherlock just smiled at him.

"Alright, I'm coming."

Neither of them really knew how to react to this sudden advancement. Sherlock was truly grateful to not have to be alone, oddly. And John felt maybe a tad weird, but really did just want to be close to Sherlock… maybe in a different way, this time.

"Are you sleeping in your clothes?" John stared at Sherlock, already under the covers on the far side of the big bed.

"Would you rather I sleep naked?"

"No. I have clothes you can bor-"

"No."

"Fine," John sighed, "I guess I'll sleep in mine too. Start a new pattern."

He laid down, on the opposite side from Sherlock, gave him one last look and closed his eyes.

It took Sherlock only five minutes before he was asleep. John took a little longer. There was something weird, in between the sheets with Sherlock. His heart kept beating fast, knowing that there was only maybe a foot in between them. He kept fighting the urges to reach out and touch him. After about twenty minutes of struggling and calming down, he finally fell asleep.

Sherlock was startled awake, too early in the morning for there to be light. Maybe 3.

John was tossing a bit, shining in sweat. His face looked completely shattered, a different broken then normal sadness. This was the face of someone in the coldest of nightmares, the most painful of lives. He jerked.

"John?" Sherlock reached over, and John jerked again, whimpering.

"St- stop," John muttered out.

"What…"

"Sherlock! STOP!" John screeched out in his sleep, "I- I- I can't-"

Sherlock took his hand in his, "John, it's okay, I'm here."

His friend seemed so small in that moment, so vulnerable. So broken, the perfect image of someone with deeper issues. John stopped thrashing, and his breath began to slow down until Sherlock was sure he was fast asleep, peacefully, again. That's when Sherlock saw them.

You wouldn't notice them if you didn't pay attention. The smallest of lines, not white, almost just like… little dents in Johns wrists, healed and gone. Hundreds of tiny, little scars.

Sherlock felt his heart drop. He held Johns hand tight and tried to go back to sleep.

I didn't want to drink but I wanted to feel better.

Sherlock knew he'd never leave again.