Note: I'm terribly sorry about the long hiatus – I got unexpectedly busy, but things are back on track so here you go. Also, extra thanks to the ever wonderful Kat (Hamish-and-holmes on tumblr if you want to check her out!) for being the greatest beta/britpick/friend.

Chapter Three:

The streetlamp outside 221B was broken. John stared at it, trying to remember if it had been like that the night before. Then he tried to remember if he'd even been home the previous evening, but he couldn't recall. He screwed his eyes up, staring intently at the dark lamp as if it might conjure up a clear recollection at any moment. The wrought iron was shadowy and hard to make it out, and he felt his vision slowly blurring as his mind took leave of his body and floated off, wandering lazily backwards through his vast network of accumulated thoughts. Moments later he was no longer in the flat, wasn't anywhere near it. His fingers balled up and his lips hardened into a taught line. He opened his mouth, soundlessly forming the first syllable of Sherlock's name when –

"He's dead. There's no reason to be worried anymore."

The words were uncharacteristically soft, gently redirecting his apparently masochistic brain safely back into his skull, on his body, very much in his flat.

He wasn't quite sure what Sherlock meant. A new case? Good, then. They hadn't had one for a while now. A few weeks? A month? Memory can be such an elusive aide to accurate chronology.

"Dead? Well, they usually are, aren't they, since you tend to turn your nose up at anything short of serial killings. Not that a living person would scare me, in fact, I sort of prefer it when the victim survives."

Sherlock's disapproving tone sliced through the stale night air.

"Don't be simple John, there's no victim. Just Moriarty. Dead. Your expression, subconscious as it were, nonetheless indicated anxiety of the variety generally reserved for that repellent spider preceding his death." His voice softened. Deepened? Couldn't have been, it was probably just the unparalleled acoustics of 221B. "And I – I don't like seeing you so upset."

John looked up, locking his surprised eyes on Sherlock's steady ones. "Well, I, uh – thank you, I suppose. And I know he'd dead, don't think there's a person left in London who doesn't – suicide bombings, even the ones that don't manage to do in the proper targets, do make headlines."

"Obviously. And yet, the fact remains that you are a soldier with post traumatic stress disorder, no matter how unusual a form it takes. Mortiarty's demise, though not a war in the literal sense, was still a highly significant trauma and comparatively a quite recent one. Those facts, coupled with my comprehensive cataloguing of your every facial detail, enable me to deduce with childish ease that a persisting fear of Moriarty still plagues you, thus acting as the seed of your emotions only moments ago. And as I have already stated, it concerns me. As I have already stated – do try to keep up - I would infinitely prefer it if you weren't distressed. I would like to…help you."

Well, that was a bit unexpected. It seemed to have become an unspoken rule between them that Moriarty's manic-bomb-plot-gone-wrong was not to be discussed. They'd both lived, certainly, and with hardly a scratch, but it had been far too close for either of their liking. The emotions there were too complex for John to discuss without betraying his stiff upper lip, and evidently Sherlock felt the same. Or had.

"Listen, Sherlock, I'm alright. Yeah, it's been a bit weird, sort of scary at times when I forget he's blasted to bits. But it's not as if I actually forget, I more just, well, don't remember. But it's good of you to offer. Well, not that you were offering anything specific – blast. Just, well, thank –"

The stammered gratitude caught in his throat as his entire body constricted with shock. Something very warm had wrapped itself around his shoulders, and if his 20/20 vision was anything to go by, that something was Sherlock's lanky, well-dressed arm.

He gulped. "Sherlock? I said I was fine, you don't have to…"

He shut up, because of course Sherlock didn't have to. He never did a damn thing he didn't want to, as he constantly reminded John when the subject of dishes of groceries made it's cumbersome way into conversation. His muscles loosened ever so slightly at the realization, and he found himself relaxing into his flat mate's comforting embrace. Some very small and very honest but of his brain was upping the dopamine levels in his system, and he found himself openly grinning.

We should probably hug more. Hugging is lovely. Hugging is better than therapy. Jesus Christ, did I say that aloud? Nope, thank God. Then again…no. Absolutely not going to even think that. Nope, nope, nope.

By the time his brain had finished chasing its bloody tail round in circles, Sherlock had detached himself and wandered off towards the kitchen, probably to remove the incisors from whatever loathsome chemicals he had them marinating in this time. The loss of pressure on his shoulders left him feeling uncomfortably light, and he briefly regretted spending the rare moment of physical contact having a minor panic attack before he remembered that touching Sherlock was not something he coveted The process of blatant denial, however, was made somewhat less effective by the unconscious creeping of his fingers up towards the spot where Sherlock's had been moment's before. Damn.

He really needed to start lying to himself better.

When he finally managed to work his eyes open, it was only to examine the source of the dull ache in his lower back. Instead, he found himself being rather attentively stared at. Or whatever it was that empty eye sockets do, perhaps staring wasn't the proper verb, but he wasn't fully awake and vocabulary wasn't his top priority when a dead thing was carefully scrutinizing him. He blinked slowly, trying to rationalize the skull that was grinning broadly at him. When had he decided sleeping with a damn head in his room was a good idea?

As the rest of his surroundings solidified around him, he saw that the skull was, in fact, sitting in his usual spot on the mantle. Or hers, Sherlock had never confirmed the gender, simply referring to it as 'an old friend'. His proximity to said mantle and skull suggested that John was, for some unknown reason, not in his bed. Looking down and seeing the faded fabric of the sitting room couch confirmed his hypothesis.

Brilliant deduction. Now, how the bloody hell did I end up on the couch?

Still half asleep, John tried to remember the events of the previous night. He remembered an arm –Sherlock's? – and a conversation about, fuck, about what? But then, if it had been Sherlock's arm, where was Sherlock now? Kitchen? Finally torn himself away from his microscope and gone to sleep?

But wasn't Sherlock dead?

His stomach clenched and he fought the urge to vomit.

Yes, definitely dead. Stupid, sodding fucker.

But his arm, it had been on John, hadn't it?

Not dead then.

Dead.

Not dead.

Dead.

The thoughts crashed into each other, there simply wasn't enough space in his brain, and he felt himself pressing his hands to his ears, trying to block it all out. The technique, unsurprisingly, was completely ineffective.

His face was suddenly wet, which was odd because he certainly wasn't crying. Little beads of water trickling out of his eyes, what a strange phenomenon, why hadn't anyone explained it at medical school?

So he was crying. Why was he be crying?

A single drop of liquid trickled into his mouth; he instinctively swept it up with his tongue. The unwelcome saltiness broke open the confused cacophony in his head, and for a moment there was nothing.

Dead.

Not dead?

No, dead.

Fuck.

He stood up, limping rather badly, and made his way to the stove to put the kettle on. Another morning like this one and he was going to go mad. The salt dried in tracks across his cheeks, he barely noticed. Hours later, waiting in line at Tesco, he would feel it cracking on his skin, and his leg would momentarily buckle. A kind woman with a tired face would rush over to help him up, and the shame would be nothing like he'd ever felt. The cane would be pressed back into his hand. Pairs of concerned eyes would track his laborious steps past the check out and through the doors. He would leave his groceries, because another moment of human pity wasted on him would be so much worse than the pangs of hunger he would endure later. Anything – hunger, thirst, even a blow to the back of his skull – would be more welcome to him than another sympathetic stranger. Refusing to take a cab on the way back home, John forced himself to move forwards, silently thankful for the sharp pain that coursed through his leg and temporarily numbed his constant, far deeper ache.