A/N: Sorry for the slight delay. I'm posting two chapters at the same time, so be sure to read this one before the next one. Also, sorry in advance for the bit of a cliffhanger - I hope it doesn't get your hopes up, but I guess we'll see, yeah?

...

...

John woke up the next morning, stretched out on the sofa. He could smell bacon and eggs and he smiled briefly before memories of the night before came back to him.

Had it been a dream?

Surely to god, it had been a dream. There was no other way.

It wasn't uncommon for him to have dreams about Sherlock being alive, but they always ended with him jumping off buildings or taking a damn pill that burned through his throat on the way down, and John always jolted awake, panting and crying – similar to dreams about the war, really. But here he was, waking up calmly. And Sherlock hadn't faced his grisly end this time.

Bloody hell. Maybe it wasn't a dream.

He took a deep breath. He tried to consider himself and his emotions, the way the AA members had taught him to identify feelings, but he came up confused. He felt... well, angry, but not anything like the rage from the night before. And it was tinted with something, something, that made it bittersweet. Relief, maybe. Like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Sherlock wasn't dead.

He sat up, shook his head a bit to help him wake up, and walked into the kitchen. Mary was at the stove, tipping bacon onto a paper towel-lined plate. He wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed the back of her neck. She swayed against him and smiled gently.

"Good morning," he said.

"Good morning. How are you?"

"Better."

"I hoped a good sleep would help."

"Figure I'll text Lestrade, see what he's up to. If he isn't busy, I might head over there to talk to him."

"That sounds like a good idea, love." She turned in his arms and pecked him on the lips. "I'm sure Greg will have it covered, but if you need me, call and I will drop everything, alright?"

He kissed her and then nodded. He took a deep breath. "And to be clear, I - don't know what will happen..." He trailed off awkwardly.

"Whatever you need, John." She locked eyes with him. "Whether it's with Greg or Sherlock, our relationship exists to help you thrive, not hold you back."

"Could you be more amazing?" His voice came across almost sad but she smiled at him.

"I'm amazing because I'm in love with you and you deserve nothing less. Remember that, my love." She pulled his phone out of her pocket and handed it to him.

He smiled his thanks but immediately felt nervous. His pulse increased as he sent a familiar text he hadn't sent to Lestrade in years.

"Are you busy?"

Despite himself he felt faintly, very faintly, aroused. He'd been conditioned those years ago to be turned on when sending or getting that text, since sex had followed ninety percent of the time, but he brushed off the feelings and went to the bathroom to take a quick shower. By the time he was finished, the answer had arrived.

"No."

That's all it used to take, four simple words, and then they'd be shagging. John wondered what Lestrade thought was going to happen.

He dressed, kissed Mary, and hailed a cab right outside that took him to Lestrade's flat. As he got out, he wondered if Sherlock was in there and he felt his face flush a bit. He took a few calming breaths and walked inside without knocking.

Lestrade was sitting alone in the living room, clearly waiting for him. John looked around carefully, making sure Sherlock wasn't lurking in a corner.

"I sent him out," said Lestrade.

"Why?"

Lestrade shrugged. "I honestly didn't want to risk you hitting him again. How are you?"

John sighed. "Better. I don't want to hit him again."

Lestrade smiled slightly. "Undoubtedly Mary's doing, yeah?"

"Of course. The logical one, balancing me out." John tried not to sound bitter – he loved how Mary could talk him down, but he wished he didn't need someone to reign in his emotions for him. "How are you doing?"

Lestrade nodded. "Pretty well, actually."

John felt a tinge of annoyance at that - Lestrade had been heartbroken by Sherlock's "death," so he should react the same way John did to his return. He tried to push aside those thoughts - they were irrational and wouldn't help anything. "Did he stay here last night?" he asked instead.

"Yes."

"Did you shag him?" Immediately, John regretted those words. They were far too bitter, said far too harshly. He mentally kicked himself and his lack of self-control.

Lestrade's eyes cut to him and John knew by the faint anger in them that he was hurt by the sarcastic question.

"I'm sorry," John muttered, ashamed.

"You're hurting, John, I understand," said Lestrade, though his maturity just made John feel worse. Lestrade stood up and stepped towards him. He touched John's arms. "What do you need from me?"

John leaned against him, rested his head on Lestrade's shoulder. He felt arms go around him and a hand run through his hair. Despite what he'd thought the day before, being in Lestrade's arms was still a safe, happy place. "I love you," John said, his lips brushing lightly against Lestrade's neck as he spoke. John immediately felt more relaxed, soothed by the nostalgia of their closeness and the phrase from years ago.

"I love you, too," said Lestrade slowly, his lips against John's ear. Without another thought, John pulled back and kissed him. Their lips moved perfectly together, John's eyes closed, and they pressed closely to each other. John's breath hitched and he started pushing Lestrade back toward the sofa. Lestrade sat down heavily and John straddled his hips, not breaking their kiss.

John unbuttoned Lestrade's shirt, stuck his hand inside to rub his chest. Lestrade's lips moved to John's neck and John moaned, grinding their hips together. Eventually, John moved to sit next to Lestrade and rubbed his crotch. John quickly undid his pants and dropped his mouth to Lestrade's erection, licking along the length before enveloping as much of it as he could. Lestrade massaged the back of John's neck, scratched his scalp, his breathing turned heavy. John lost himself in the movement, the bobbing of his head and the pressure from Lestrade's hand.

For a few minutes, nothing else existed.

Then Lestrade's phone beeped.

John looked up, brought back to the real world. The phone was on the table and he stared at it, his heart pounding so hard it hurt.

"John?" Lestrade breathed, concerned.

"Is that him?" John replied. "A text from him?"

"I - I don't know. We can ignore it if you want."

John was distinctly aware of Lestrade's cock inches from his face, close to a climax, but he sat back. Tears filled his eyes. "Check it, please."

Lestrade picked up the phone. "Yes. He wants to know if you're here." Lestrade typed for a moment and then tossed the phone to the other side of the sofa. He looked at John. "Are you okay?"

"Every time we shagged, back then," John said, his voice shaking, "I would have given anything, anything, to have been interrupted by a text from him."

Lestrade pulled him close and he started to cry. Lestrade kissed his face, his neck, his lips, comfortingly, and John managed to get control of himself.

"I - I want him, here. Can you tell him to come here?" John whispered.

"Of course." Lestrade kissed him again a few times before leaning over to get the phone. He sent a quick text and stood up, tucking himself back into his pants and zipping them up. He pulled John to his feet and embraced him.

"I shouldn't have hit him," John said, holding back a sob. "I wished, for three years, that he wouldn't be dead. Then it happened and I attacked him."

"He's okay, John, he understands." Lestrade rubbed his back. "And he'll be here soon, you can explain to him everything -"

The door to the flat opened and Sherlock Holmes stepped inside, looked rapidly around the room and froze with his eyes on the interlocking men.

They broke apart and Lestrade turned away from Sherlock to button his shirt. Sherlock glanced at the floor, embarrassed. His eye was dark and swollen, but the cut on his lip was barely noticeable.

"What, were you waiting on the front step?" asked Lestrade, annoyed, looking over his shoulder.

"Yes," said Sherlock, a bit of confusion in his voice. "You said I could come back."

"I wasn't expecting you to show up in a few seconds, was I?" snapped Lestrade, but he stopped as he looked at John and noticed the expression on his face. John was staring at Sherlock, pained.

John stumbled forward and collapsed in Sherlock's arms, sobbing. Mumbled apologies spilled from his lips and Sherlock was saying something too, something John couldn't shut up long enough to listen to but Sherlock didn't seem bothered by that. They held each other a long time, both clinging rather desperately together. When John finally managed to look up at his face, he saw tears shining in Sherlock's eyes. John sniffed, nodded bravely, and glanced back at where Lestrade had stood.

He wasn't there.

"He left," said Sherlock, his voice quiet. John looked back at him and they stared into each other's eyes. Then John kissed him.