A/N: When I originally wrote the last chapter I wanted to do a comparison between the two men, showing how much they were connected even if they were so far apart. It has kind of influenced the set up of this chapter. I tried to make it a little different. This one is more of a comparison of two events that happen on the same day. Just to see what I could do with it. Hope you don't mind some similarities. I guess I just didn't get it out of my system yet:) The part in italics happens earlier during the same day. The part in regular type is the present.

Impact

Impact – noun & verb – 1. the action of one body coming forcibly into contact with another. 2. an effect or influence, esp. when strong.

The thud of a body as it hit the ground.

The weight of two people as they landed on the bed.

The figure standing there had been hit by a force, whose hand reached up, instinctively, to cradle and protect the back of his head from the effect of impacting with the ground.

John had been tackled by Sherlock, who wrapped his arms around the shorter man in what amounted to a bear hug. There was a wicked smile and a certain gleam in the Sherlock's eyes as he took John by surprise.

The sound of the gun had disappeared in the sound of the body hitting the ground.

In hitting the bed all other sounds were muted, except for the surprised exclamation that left John's lips.

He wasn't exactly sure what had happened as he suddenly found himself looking up at the sky rather than at the man holding the gun. It took his brain a few microseconds to realize the man they'd been trailing had indeed shot at him, something he'd been prepared for, but for some reason still took him by surprise. He had been thinking of his doctor.

John knew precisely what had hit him. 6'1'' of lanky detective. The case was closed. Their phones were shut off and in the other room. Sherlock had even had something to eat, earlier.

The reason why he wasn't dead was due to the fact that a smaller object had crashed into him sending him hurtling to the ground. His breath had puffed out of him with the impact of the smaller body and from the force of striking the ground. It took him another few microseconds – an exceedingly long time for someone like him – to realize the object/body that had pushed him down and out of the way was his other half.

John was anticipating an evening such as this. It took him no time at all to be aroused by the other man's…enthusiasm.

He was always there and always ensuring his safety.

He didn't think it strange that his first thoughts weren't of the man they were following but of his other. There was appropriateness in thinking of him first. His other had changed everything about how he viewed someone, another beside himself. He did notice on a peripheral level that Lestrade was busy forcing the shooter to the ground.

John was once again awed by the way Sherlock could set aside his usual 'me first' attitude when they were in bed. Outside of this haven, there were still instances of snarkiness and a self-centered personality, there always would be to some degree. It was part of who Sherlock was. But in the bedroom it was a balanced relationship. There was give and take, pleasure received and reciprocated. More of an equal footing.

"Are you alright?" the smaller man breathed as he sat up a bit and quickly assessed his partner, running his capable doctor's hands carefully over the detective's body, checking for hidden injuries.

John shuddered as Sherlock ran his long musician's fingers over John's chest. He felt his skin tingling in the wake of those long fingers and sensitive hands. Anticipation was building with an urgent heat in his groin. Sherlock's face revealed that look he would get when whatever he was regarding fascinated him, with complete attention and obsession, almost as if he didn't commit it to his memory, it would disappear.

The doctor's face divulged intense relief as he concluded that his partner had suffered no lasting effects from his tumble to the ground. He lowered his head until he was leaning it on the detective's chest, waiting until his breathing slowed and he could contain the anger coursing through him as he remembered how the detective had once again acted foolishly and put his life needlessly on the line.

He could hear the shift in Sherlock's breathing as John exchanged touches, caresses and strokes. Intense feelings flowed through both their bodies. He drank in the sight of emotions beginning to overwhelm Sherlock, as he began to become unguarded, in the one place, with the one person, he could let go and feel totally uninhibited.

"Please."

John had been waiting for this whispered entreaty.

"You Idiot! You did it again! Don't you ever think about safety?" His other was yelling at him. He didn't like it when he was yelled at.

"Oh John!" The way Sherlock breathed his name. "You're killing me! What are you doing to me? Oh god, yes!" His reaction to what John was doing left John shaking with an unrestrained desire, Sherlock's responses impacted his own.

The detective looked at the doctor quizzically. "You realize that statement is untrue? I always think about safety."

The other sputtered a vehement denial and the detective reached up and laid a hand across his mouth, stopping his outburst. The hand couldn't cover the accusations that were thrown from his doctor's eyes, as he raged silently at his detective "Let me rephrase. I always think about your safety. That's why I was standing where I was. So the man we were following would come after me. Not you."

The doctor's eyes widen as the significance of this statement reached through his jumble of emotions.

John locked eyes with Sherlock, telling him with just a glance how much Sherlock was loved, how essential he was, how much he had changed the course of John's life.

The detective looked, really looked at his other and tried his damnedest to tell him, without words, how much he meant, how much he was influenced by him, the reverberations of which were far reaching and significant. His doctor had changed the course of his life, all for the better.

John saw the moment in Sherlock's eyes where he tipped over the edge, jumped off the cliff and became totally committed to both the act and the need for love of John. It always occurred at this instant, where Sherlock could let go, the point where it touched the center of his soul and shone through his eyes. Any other time there was some part held back, guarded, protected. Not during this. It was when the two fused into one being, no longer unsure and hesitant, no longer able to consider themselves two separate entities but united and joined.

Something in the doctor's expression changed as he seem to realize that his partner may not always put him first in the business of everyday possibilities, but he would be first in the important facets of this life. The detective reached a tentative hand forward and brushed the fringe out of his doctor's eyes. "You need a hair cut," he said matter-of-factly. The doctor started to giggle, that insanely incongruous, but just about bloody perfect giggle, that always seemed a touch out of place with his otherwise serious persona. An answering chuckled rumbled through the taller man's long body. The two lay there longer than most would consider seemly, not particularly caring about the picture it made, delighted that they were both still existing and in one piece.

John waited until that moment and entered into Sherlock, moving together, joining bodies, fingers entwined. Combined, an amalgam, a fusion, an ouroboros of aching need and reverence. Never ending, a continuum.

They came as one and completed the cycle. John collapsed across Sherlock's chest, refusing to relinquish his hold of his love's hand, his breathing beginning to return to a normal rhythm. After a time he lifted his head and looked at Sherlock, lying there. His eyes were closed as he returned from wherever he had journeyed to this time, a small, sweet smile playing at the corner of his mouth. John tentatively touched his fingers to Sherlock's lips with his free hand and drank in the sight before him; a wonderfully, awful pain in his heart rose up and threatened to consume him.

Sherlock blinked and came back to John. He lifted a shaky hand, cradled John's head and pulled him down for a slow, lazy, sated kiss. John groaned in surrender, knowing he could never possibly feel as complete as he did at that moment. This was what he was meant to be.

This was the reason for existing.