A/N: Because I didn't give you enough angst in the last chapter, I reward you with more. I actually hadn't intended to do a chapter about this, but I found the word and the rest followed.

Tangible

tangible – adjective – 1. perceptible by touch; having material form. 2. clearly intelligible; that can be grasped by the mind, not elusive or visionary 3. substantial, definite; that may be clearly viewed, evaluated, or calculated. – noun – a tangible thing, esp. an asset.

Sherlock leaned against the wall and let the water flow over him, the heat and steam worked against tired and sore muscles. He closed his eyes and simply existed in a state of mental and physical fatigue.

He'd been home for only a few days and he was still not recovered from the ordeal.

The water started to cool. He must have been standing there, lost in thought longer than he realized.

Time shifts and jumps seemed to be a common occurrence in his life. Since he'd left that is. He lost whole stretches of instances, trying to stay alive.

Trying to stay alive to get back to John.

John.

John who would not look at him let alone talk to him.

He turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, reached for a towel. He pulled it around behind and toweled off, trying not to wince when it rubbed against half healed cuts and bruises.

He wrapped the towel around his middle and made his way back to the bedroom. Their bedroom, although they had yet to share it since Sherlock's return.

The first night, when he had knocked on the door and John had opened it, he had seen the look of stunned disbelief and denial on John's face. He knew the other man would be angry. He hoped he'd punch him and get it out of his system, but he had not anticipated the pain, grief and sense of betrayal that floated behind the older man's eyes.

John talked to him that night and hadn't since.

Just little things. How he'd moved back to his old room shortly after…

He had said it was too difficult sleeping in Sherlock's room.

He'd called it Sherlock's room. Not theirs.

He hadn't said much else. He was happy he wasn't dead, glad he had come back.

And then John had just shut down, closed off. A shutter had blocked the view into those expressive blue eyes. He wandered the flat like a ghost, elusive, barely eating, not talking. Not sleeping. He treated Sherlock as if he were insubstantial as well.

And he had never once touched Sherlock.

Sherlock was beginning to wonder if either of them existed, if they hadn't both died and this was some sort of purgatory.

The day after he'd returned, John had left the flat for a few hours. Sherlock didn't know where and hadn't wanted to follow him, wanted John to come back in his own time. He had sat on the couch and stared into nothing, wondering if it had been worth it to lose the connection to the only person he'd loved as much as he loved the ex-soldier. He sat there lost in a tempest of doubt and fear.

Mrs. Hudson came up with a cup of tea, sat beside him and placed her arm around the far too thin shoulders. She had forgiven him much faster.

"But then I am not in love with you, my dear. And you have to know no matter how hard it's been for you, you at least knew he was alive. John had nothing. He mourned you and buried you and a good part of him followed you into that grave."

She patted his knee.

"Give it time."

But Sherlock didn't think there would ever be enough time for John to forgive him. And he knew no matter the cost, he'd do it again. Do it again to save Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, but mostly to save John.

These dark thoughts flowed behind him as he left the bathroom only to be stopped by the sight of John standing there, transfixed.

John hadn't seen his body yet, hadn't seen all the new scars and had only guessed at the weight loss. The detective had been thin before. Now he was gaunt, his ribs showing under the pallid skin.

John took a hesitant step forward, a frown on his face. He stretched his hand out to touch Sherlock's chest, but stopped, glanced up at the taller man, a small glance, enough to disclose the bewilderment and hurt still defined in his eyes, palpable and profound.

Sherlock had to close his own at the overwhelming feelings present there, feelings that were going to pull him in and drown him if he let them.

A touch like a rumour brushed his ribs and tickled along a healed knife wound placed there by one of Moriarty's underlings. A physical scar to sit side by side, hand in hand with all the emotional ones.

His eyes snapped open and he studied John.

John was not looking at him, however. He was cataloguing every new scar and bruise and half healed cut, as well as counting Sherlock's ribs. There was a shaky inhalation of breath and a shudder went through the other man's frame.

And those beautiful, soulful, storm tossed eyes looked straight at him, but turned outward, not internally consuming as they had been. He was finally acknowledging Sherlock was here, physical and material and not a revenant to be exercised.

He was greatly afraid of seeing the acknowledgement in John's eyes dim and fade and the two of them return to haunting the flat.

"I hadn't realized," John croaked, his voice rusty from disuse the last few days. "I didn't know." And the infinite sadness was still present, but perhaps there was a small glimmer of light trying to shine through the mire of darkness confined there.

He closed his eyes as he laid his hand flat on Sherlock's chest, over his heart, to feel it beating, the shudder returned. As a slow tear tracked down his cheek and Sherlock raised his hand and brushed it gently, reverently away, he could feel the ties that bound them twist and wrap around and through the two. It felt like a tangible entity, an acknowledgement of the relationship they had built together. And they were, if possible, stronger and fiercer than they had been.

John opened his eyes again and while they remained agony filled, they were not as glaringly wounded looking.

"I need time, Sherlock. You have to understand that."

Sherlock cupped the beloved face, "That's what Mrs. Hudson said."

A small, tired smile, reminiscent and missed pulled at the corner of John's mouth, "A wise woman is Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock let hope build in his chest and was finally, finally allowed to pull John into his arms.

He was home at last.

They were both home at last.