I don't know how long I was out. I never worked up the nerve to ask John. Really, I just tried to pretend the whole incident didn't happen. I didn't delete it; no, if I did that, I could just make the mistake over again and I would be damned if that happened.

I woke up in my bed with a pounding headache. Immediately I recognized the extra weight on the mattress and opened my eyes blearily to see John sitting on the edge, fidgeting uncomfortably. I reached out and touched his arm gently. John jumped slightly, startled, but his expression changed like it was on a switch. He stood suddenly and stormed out the room, leaving me blinking in confusion after him.

Tenderly, I pulled myself to a sitting position and took a few deep breaths, realization of what had happened slowly sinking in. Had I really been idiotic enough to let it get to this point? Apparently so. I could only imagine how terrified John must have been.

Only a few moments later, John came back in, a plate with buttered toast in his hands. He shoved it in my face.

"Eat."

I blinked. "What?" I asked stupidly. His eyes flicked down to my lips briefly and his glare intensified.

"Eat," he repeated. I took the plate slowly, still staring at him. He was talking. Yes, he'd been saying my name for a while now, but he'd just said another word! My confusion had to have been showing very plainly for, as he sat back down on the edge of my bed, he explained.

"Mycroft. Your phone."

"Oh," I said simply, picking up the toast and nibbling on it. I could feel John watching me carefully. So I looked up to meet his eyes. Immediately, his expression hardened again.

"Never again," he said firmly. I swallowed thickly. It wasn't hard to figure that this anger was only masking how terrified he had been and probably still was.

"Never again," I agreed quietly with a small nod. And I meant it. Realizing even just the surface of John's fear was enough to ensure that.

That night John had a particularly bad PTSD attack. I had been sort of waiting for it all day, really. I ended up cradling him in my lap, sitting on the couch, as he came down from it. I thought over the consequences of my foolishness as he drifted to sleep and soon was just thinking about everything that had happened since I had come home to find John missing. I had stopped everything, given everything up, without a moment's hesitation, all for John.

...When had I started to care?

With a small sigh, I looked down at John. His breath had deepened: he must've fallen asleep. I realized I was perfectly all right with that. I leaned down and pressed my lips against his hair.

Suddenly John stilled. I pulled back, recognizing I'd been wrong. He was still awake. Slowly, he sat up and looked up to stare at me with wide, shocked eyes. I stared back, waiting. What else could I do? Blubber some excuse? No thank you.

We stared at each other for quite a long pause. Then his eyes flicked to my lips. Not unusual, no, but I hadn't said anything. And both of us knew that. Besides, there was some soft, tender emotion behind those blue eyes that wasn't there when he was trying to read my lips. Hesitantly, John leaned forward.

And he kissed me.

And I kissed him back.

I believe my brain shorted out at that point. I don't know how long the kiss lasted. It was sweet and chaste, though, I know that. But it wasn't the kiss that made my heart swell happily within my chest. It was afterwards, when John pulled back. And he simply smiled.

I am just so tired. There's really no other way to put it. Plain old, down to the bone tired. The whole ordeal had just been so taxing and now I am ready to just sleep. I'm scared, too, of course, like always. But after an attack like that... And Sherlock's just so comfortable...

I'm slipping into sleep. I'm trying to fight it, but I know I'm losing that battle.

And then Sherlock kisses me.

Well, okay, he kisses my hair. He probably thinks I'm asleep already, but I'm not. I can feel that. Sherlock Holmes just kissed me.

I sit up and stare at him, trying to figure out what just happened. He stares right back, not offering any explanation. But he looks wary, uncertain.

I start to realize how much Sherlock has been doing. Obviously he'd been doing so much he hadn't been eating or sleeping... And I never would have thought Sherlock would stop taking cases. I don't think he knows that I've realized that one yet. But he hasn't taken a single case since I came home. His whole life is revolving around me and helping me.

It frustrates the hell out of me. I hate being so helpless like this. But I've also accepted that I am just that: helpless. But Sherlock's helping me become less so. More and more everyday.

I think I should be surprised. But I'm not.

I lean forward and I press my lips against his. They're soft and warm. Just as every bit of perfect as the rest of this impossible man. Good heavens. I love him.

A/N: GUYS. GUYS. GUYSSSSSSSSSS. We finally got to the SLAAASSHHH. Heh heh heh heh... Isa happy.

Anywho, continuing love to all you amazing people reading this. You're all ridiculous and I still have no idea why you all love this so much. I mean, I do too, but I'm crazy. So. :D

I love reviewers and live for constructive criticism!