Shit.
Sherlock's worry returned tenfold in an instant. John was straight, and Sherlock had kissed him. Fuck. Sherlock's verbose vocabulary didn't usually include profanity, but this was an exception to every rule. He stiffened and almost pulled back until John's arms wound tighter around him, holding him in place. Relaxing into the kiss, with the assurance of John's reciprocation, Sherlock began to catalogue everything he could about John. How his face felt drawn and bony. How he'd lost so much weight. How he winced at the pressure on his arms and thighs. As the kiss came to what Sherlock assumed was a natural end, both men drew back and stared at each other. John really did look ill. His newly-developed eating disorder was etching into the once-rugged frame, the insomnia weakening him, until he was nothing but a shadow of the John Sherlock had known and loved.
It was then that Sherlock got a real shock. John's fist connected with Sherlock's cheekbones with surprising vigour. The soldier in John hadn't entirely disappeared then.
"You left me" The accusatory tone stung Sherlock more than he thought words ever could. The self-proclaimed sociopath felt, and it hurt. It hurt terribly.
"I'm sorry, I know, and I- I will explain everything, I promise you, and it hurt to leave you and I'm sorry and I know I hurt you too but I had to and I..." Sherlock's blathering tailed off as he saw the look in John's eyes. He'd nearly killed this man.
"I'm... I'm glad you're back. You are back, aren't you? Not going to up and leave again?"
"No. I'm back. For good."
The relief in John's face was immense. He'd not forgiven Sherlock for what he did, not by a long shot, but he couldn't deny the joy at Sherlock's return.
"Why did you come back?" And here came the sting again, cutting into Sherlock's heart like a knife. John doubted him. Words suddenly seemed to leave Sherlock's mind, the incredible brain for once failing him. Every confession he wanted to say, every declamation of love and affection and care balancing on the tip of his tongue, but refusing to jump off. John shuffled over to the kitchen, switching on the kettle and Sherlock noted the return of the psychosomatic limp. Pouring the tea, John again blinked back tears as Sherlock stood in the doorway, looking at a loss for what to do. And he was. He didn't know what he could do or say to make everything better for this poor shell of a man. Collapsing onto the couch, Sherlock thought of everything he could have said, everything he should have said, and said quicker. John returned with the brews and added a "Hmm?", indicating that he wanted his question answering.
"Because I love you".
It was out in the open before Sherlock even realised his mouth was moving. John froze, the cup still half-way to his mouth, and the doctor's jaw dropped. A man who was previously proud to declare that he didn't have a heart loved John. What?
"I... What I mean is, I had to take out Moriarty's network, that's where I was, he was going to kill you if I didn't jump so I had to fake my death and you couldn't know because they'd kill you if they thought something was wrong so I spent this year killing all of Moriarty's network so that you could be safe and I love you and I've always loved you and I didn't want to at first because I always did think it was a disadvantage but I need you to know and I need you and..." Again, Sherlock's words failed him mid-flow. John still looked in shock. It took him a minute to comprehend Sherlock's rapid babbling; the man had been going at quite a pace.
"I thought you weren't interested in people. 'Married to your work' and all that".John had finally regained his senses, testing the waters before reciprocating anything. This could all be an experiment, John really wouldn't put it past the man.
"Until you, I was. I convinced that I was. I didn't need anything. I could use people, but they were pawns. Not like you. You were... different, and I'm not entirely sure how or why. But you fascinate me. I don't need to tolerate living with you, I like it. I like you fussing and I like how you care and I didn't realise it until I was gone but I need you with me."
Sherlock fell silent, frantic with worry that he had said too much. This had to be a shock for John, going from cold-hearted to dead to alive and emotional. This wasn't going to be easy on the man, but leaving it any longer would only let John self-destruct more, and that couldn't happen. He stayed silent, watching the smaller man struggle for words. Lexical fluency was never John's strong point, but he could usually get something out under pressure. Not now. Opening his arms, John hoped that a cuddle could express everything he couldn't. He knew just how to put words into motions, how a kiss could be an "I love you" and a hug could be an "I'm so glad you're safe but you're an absolute dick sometimes". Sherlock perked up immediately, almost running into John's embrace. Settling himself on the older man's lap, the detective again wound one arm around his blogger's back, using the other to stroke away the tears John couldn't remember shedding. Remembering the scarred thighs from the video, Sherlock shifted to his knees, cupping John's face, and murmured sweet nothings. John pressed his lips to Sherlock's, a chaste kiss, but conveying so much emotion that even Sherlock was a little overwhelmed.
"I love you too".
Four words. One wouldn't think that such a short sentence could have such an impact, but Sherlock sobbed with relief, holding his blogger close and apologizing over and over again for leaving and promising to make it up to him, punctuated regularly by kisses plastered all over the doctor's face. Sherlock surprised himself. He had never been this affectionate, even as a young boy, with an ambivalent attachment type. But something in John made him want to re-enact clichéd romantic film scenes and declare love and grow old in a cottage by the sea with honeysuckle climbing the walls. The self-harming was an issue that needed addressing, but not yet. Not while he was basking in the glow of his lover. Love was still an unfamiliar concept to Sherlock, and relationships were entirely new to him, but for John, he knew that he wanted them. Still whispering assents of his affection, Sherlock caressed John's face and catalogued everything. The "John" room in his mind palace was expanding as he took in the illness that raged inside John. He needed taking care of.
"Let me look after you". The surprise in John's face was evident; Sherlock could barely look after himself, often refusing to, but he was offering to care for another person. John wasn't even sure he knew what this entailed, but found himself nodding anyway. Without another word, Sherlock sprinted to the bathroom to draw a bath, readying the first aid kit and some Lush products that one girlfriend or another of John's had left in the cabinet. The bath full and the temperature perfect, Sherlock retrieved John and led him to the bath, undressing him before hissing at the deep wounds John had carved all over his body. His arms were the worst. Angry red scars that should have been stitched littered the still-tanned skin, with barely any skin left untouched. Sherlock kissed the scars gently, looking up at his doctor. John looked embarrassed; his skin was flushed and he looked down, avoiding eye contact. Feeling the kisses, John looked at Sherlock inquisitively, opening his mouth noiselessly, trying to find some explanation other than the truth. "I know" was all Sherlock needed to say, as the tears threatened to fall yet again. Spraying nearly every inch of John's skin with antiseptic, Sherlock began to clean and dress the cuts; an act the doctor had seemingly neglected. Plastered with dressings, Sherlock finally helped John lower into the bath, shutting the door behind him as he went to fix a second cup of tea.
The meeting had gone surprisingly well, and though John had been a little more silent than Sherlock had hoped, he was optimistic. Maybe this would be the beginning of more adventures together, more running around crime scenes giggling inappropriately, more scaling fences in handcuffs, more of everything they'd enjoyed previously.
It was getting dark outside; Sherlock had arrived later than he'd like, and John was probably ready for bed soon. Switching on the lights and drawing the curtains, Sherlock fetched John's pyjamas from his bedroom and took the drink in to his doctor. John looked up as Sherlock walked in, trying to use his skinny, wasted arms to raise himself out of the bathtub, and failing dismally. The strength was all but gone in the once-taught body; the punch had most certainly been a fluke. The lasagne left on the kitchen table was definitely needed; John looked as if he hadn't had a decent meal in months. Truth be told, he hadn't.
Sherlock led John, now dry and dressed, to the kitchen, and took the eyeballs out of the microwave to accommodate the lasagne. So John hadn't moved them. Probably hadn't cooked either, judging by the look of him. Dumping a child-size portion on the plate, trying not to intimidate the man, Sherlock locked eyes with John. "Eat." It was a command, a request and a plea all at once. John begrudgingly took the plate and cut at the food, chatting with Sherlock amicably. It wasn't for a few minutes that Sherlock noticed that none of the food John was cutting up had entered his mouth. Laying a hand on John's empty one, Sherlock looked concerned. "Please eat. Please". John looked disheartened; this trick usually worked. "Should've known this wouldn't get past you", John joked, but he did look downcast as the first forkful made its way upwards. It took a long while, but eventually most of the lasagne was gone. Even the bit that John tried to hide in a napkin. Stifling a yawn, John began to ask more questions of Sherlock. Where had he been? How big was Moriarty's network? Sherlock's "death" didn't come into scrutiny; John still found it too painful to think about, even with Sherlock back. They talked long into the night, Sherlock telling John how Mycroft had been keeping tabs on him, and how it was going to be arranged so that they could solve crimes again, he could officially return to the public eye, John talking, after much pushing from Sherlock, about his attempts at suicide and the beginnings of an eating disorder and self-harming. The clock struck five, an hour before John would have, before, been getting up for work, before John finally admitted he needed some sleep.
Sherlock tucked him into bed, insisting that he would be taking care of him properly, and chanced a look at John before leaving the room. Fear was prevalent in his face. Why? Sherlock, whilst happily admitting to having emotions now, was still not particularly good at understanding them. Had he done something wrong?
"You're afraid". John nodded. "Why?". The doctor rolled on to his side, facing Sherlock properly, before beginning to mumble. "When I wake up, you'll still be dead and this will all have been a hallucination. You won't really be back, and I'm afraid to go to sleep because I want this to be true." Sherlock's heart bled at the stark reality of John's words; he had given this man some major trust issues, and he would need to work a hell of a lot to undo his damage.
"What if I was here when you woke up? I can... I mean, if you'd like, if you're amenable, I can... stay here..." Words, Holmes. Use them. And coherently.
Nodding, John shuffled over in the bed to accommodate Sherlock, curling up in the 'little spoon' position, inviting Sherlock's embrace. Both men drifted to sleep with a hope for a better life.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Sorry for soppiness. There's going to be definite smut in the next chapter, just a forewarning, and they return to Scotland Yard. I'd really appreciate any reviews if you have the chance, I want to improve as much as I can.