Chapter 2

For John, the next 93 days passed in an almost indistinguishable blur. If he slept, it was only ever for short periods of time in order to keep the dreams of Sherlock away. He only ate once every two or three days, and only then to keep Mrs. Hudson from worrying too much. Mycroft and Lestrade each called once a week to check in and make sure that John was coping, and each call was cut short in an almost rhythmic pattern, with John assuring them (rather unconvincingly) in as few words as possible that he would be fine. He worked his shifts at the surgery, occasionally having brief conversations with Sarah or one of the other doctors, usually about the weather or how slow the shift was going, and always avoiding the topic of Sherlock Holmes like the plague. Every day he would don a smile and attempt to convince Mrs. Hudson that yes, he had eaten that day, and pretend to be interested in the crap telly. But not one second passed that his mind was not invested in Sherlock.

For Sherlock, those three months were also indistinguishable, as he was so fully occupied. In the previous year-and-a-half, Sherlock had managed to compile sufficient evidence to have every major player and most of the associates of Moriarty's 'web' imprisoned for the rest of their natural lives. The last thing that he had to do was track down the assassins tracking Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and, most importantly, John, and wipe them from existence. After that, he could simply hand the rest of the files to Lestrade, as Mycroft had made all the present evidence indisputable, and then, finally, he could go home to John. Sherlock had been counting the days since he had jumped, and he was certain that John was doing the same. It had been 515 days since that last conversation with his Blogger, and he was sorely missing John. It was a curious feeling, being without John. It was like returning to dry land after a full day of swimming in the ocean. He knew, in his head, that nothing had changed from before he had met the doctor, but he still felt the aftershock. It hurt, this feeling, though he could find no physical defect, and Sherlock Holmes, the proper genius, was unable to fathom what it could possibly be. He made a note to ask John about it when he got back.

Seventeen days later, on the 532nd day, John woke to a shuffling sound in the kitchen. "Mrs. Hudson? Is that you?" he called, still too stiff to see into the kitchen from where he sat. "Good morning, John, how did you sleep?" came a shockingly familiar baritone as Sherlock Holmes brought two steaming mugs of Earl Grey into the living room. John groaned and fell hard against the arm of the couch, covering his face with a pillow. "Go away," came his muffled voice a few seconds later as a bemused Sherlock sipped his tea, "You might as well, I'll wake up in a few moments anyway and you'll still be dead and I'll be alone again. Besides, the only way that Sherlock would make me tea would be if he had insulted my intelligence and was trying to make up for it." Sherlock sat in his armchair after having removed his coat and scarf. "All right, then, John, you go back to sleep, I'll wait."

Several hours later, John woke again, this time to a soft concerto on violin floating in from his flatmate's room. He rolled over, got up, grabbing his cane, and stalked down the hall, bracing himself as if for impact as he opened the door to Sherlock's room for the first time since he had seen him jump. However well he had braced himself, he was still winded as he drank in the scene before him. Standing among the hundreds of sheaves of paper of composition, in an otherwise spotless room, was Sherlock Holmes, who had stopped playing his grandfather's violin only when he heard the door open. He set his violin on the bed, and not a moment too soon as John stormed up to him and punched him, hard, square in the jaw. "GOD FUCKING DAMN IT! CAN'T YOU JUST LEAVE ME ALONE? THIS IS TWICE TODAY! STOP IT RIGHT NOW, YOU'RE MAKING ME HOPEFUL THAT YOU AREN'T FUCKING DEAD!" and, once again, John Watson fell to the floor in a crumpled heap, sobbing. "John? What are you on about, John?" asked the consulting detective, suddenly crouched beside John, his arms wrapping around the smaller man's shoulders. "You're dead, I saw you jump, this isn't real! It's just another dream, just like every other night since..." the doctor cried, his entire frame shaking as Sherlock sat, pulling him to his chest, calculating how much weight John had lost... 42.5 lbs. A bit not good. "Shhh, John, it's okay, I'm here now, I'm back. I won't ever leave you again, I promise," he whispered, as tears formed silently in his eyes. "I had to make you safe, but I promise now, I'm here, I'm staying, I won't ever hurt you again," Sherlock whispered, soft sobs beginning to rack his chest.

It took several similar hours, but eventually John could be convinced, and the second he was, he whispered, "How could you just do that? How could you let me believe for a year and a half that you were never coming back? That you were dead?" This soft question hit Sherlock harder than any of John's punches could have, and he was not glad that John had opted out of violence. This hurt far worse. He clutched John close to his chest, pressing his face into the sandy blonde hair, and whispered, "I'm so sorry, John. I should have been quicker. I deserve whatever you choose as punishment, in fact, you would be justified in leaving right now and never speaking to me again, but believe me when I say that there was really, truly no other way for me to protect you. Moriarty had paid three snipers in advance to kill you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson if I didn't jump that day. I couldn't let you know that I was alive for your own safety, so I spent the last year-and-a-half collecting evidence against anyone and everyone that Moriarty's ever done his business with. I expect that he isn't dead either, but he's done a Hell of a job concealing himself so far. If there was any possible way that I could have stayed with you, I would have used it. I'm so, so sorry, John, please, please believe me when I say that it was the worst 16 months of my life, hearing Mycroft's 'reports' on your well-being and having no way of letting you know that I was alive, and that you really should have eaten something." he brushed John's hair from his forehead and pressed his lips against his skin, his tears falling into John's hair. "I needed to protect you."

Sherlock and John stayed collapsed on the floor a while longer, until Mrs. Hudson came upstairs to remind John that he was half-an-hour late for his shift at the surgery, and saw them curled together on the floor of Sherlock's room. she shared a knowing smile with Sherlock, who was holding John, comforting him as he slept peacefully for the first time in nearly 16 months. Mrs. Hudson nodded, a grin spreading across her face, before returning to 221 A to fetch tea and cookies for the three of them. "John. John, wake up, please. Sorry, but we really should move to the living room. You can sleep, I'll put on some crap telly for us. Mrs. Hudson's coming up shortly with tea, but I'm sure she'll understand if you want to sleep. You obviously haven't much lately. Come on, I'll help you up." Sherlock helped John to his feet and continued to support John as the still half-sleeping doctor was moved into the living room. They sat on the couch, John falling back to sleep almost instantly, and Sherlock pulled him close and turned the telly on to watch Dr. Who, though he found the premise idiotic and the writing inaccurate. Mrs. Hudson returned four-and-a-half minutes later with a tray of biscuits and a pot of tea. Mrs. Hudson gasped several times throughout Sherlock's overly dramatic recounting of the past 516 days, and John woke up about halfway through, sighing at the expression on his flatmate's face. After Sherlock had caught the both of them up on what had happened, Mrs Hudson said, "Well, that's lovely, deary, thank-you. Now the both of you, come downstairs, you need to eat. I'll make a casserole, how does that sound?" "That sounds lovely, Mrs. Hudson," said Sherlock, at the same time as John said, "Not particularly hungry, but I'd be glad for the company." Sherlock turned and scowled at John. "No. You are going to eat second helpings until I deem that you're back to a halfway-healthy weight. Even I'm going to eat, you've no excuse." John opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it, nodded, and smiled at Mrs. Hudson. "I guess that settles it, then. We'll be down in half an hour, Mrs. Hudson, I have to speak with John."

Sherlock smiled as Mrs. Hudson left, closing the door behind her, then he sat on the couch and turned to face John, speaking rapidly. "John, I think I'm sick. Ever since I... left, I've had this terrible... heavy feeling inside my chest, as though my lungs are missing and somebody's replaced them with sandbags, and yet, when Mycroft's physician examined me, he could find nothing wrong. John, what if it's fatal? What would happen to you and Mrs. Hudson if-" But he never got to finish his thought, because at that moment, John's lips collided with his, and his carefully constructed thoughts fell to shit. It was a soft, gentle kiss, not begging for anything except contact, not desperate, just wonderful. John started to pull away almost as soon as it had started, but Sherlock kissed him back, savoring the feeling, attempting to catalog this glorious sensation in the Mind Palace, but somehow failing. How odd. But for the moment, he didn't care. He simply wanted to continue this feeling for as long as he possibly could. John started to cry softly, so Sherlock pulled away gently, and asked, "John? John, I'm so sorry! John, did I hurt you? Please, I'm so sorry, please, please forgive me! What did I do wrong, I promise I won't let it happen again!" all the while looking John in the eyes and brushing away each new tear with the pad of his thumb. "Sherlock, you haven't done anything wrong, I promise. It's just... You're really... here. With me. Allowing me to kiss you. It's just that... I thought that you wouldn't want something like this. You're usually so distant, and relationships and physical affection always seemed to disgust you, so I thought maybe you just weren't interested." Sherlock smiled sadly at John and whispered, "Well, you're partially right. I wasn't ever looking for romantic attachment, until you limped into my life. And even then, I don't think I realized that I was until after I left. John, I am so sincerely sorry that I had to leave you, but I think that we can agree that we'll be that much closer now that we've realized these feelings. I'll admit that I checked in on you with Mycroft's surveillance once, and believe me when I say that I will never allow myself to let you feel that way ever again. John, if it would help, I would even eat on a regular basis. I really care for you, more deeply than I have ever allowed myself to care for another human being. You were right, friends do protect people, but I want to protect you more than anybody else. Please let me, John. Please." John simply nodded, smiling and at a loss for words, and let Sherlock hold him close again. After 15 minutes, they went downstairs for dinner with Mrs. Hudson, after which they called Mycroft and Harry with this happy announcement.