A/N: Oh my god. You guys. A massive, massive thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed!

Sherlock's first 'death' is naturally a plotbunny for a resuscitation kiss – but once more, the fandom is joint and powerful, and this has been accomplished in the lovely fanfiction 'Breathe' by Feralious. It's in my favourites too. (Credit if it's been done elsewhere too that I haven't read) Thank you, however, to those that prompted me to write it! I have also gathered from various fanfiction places that the CPR we know with 'kisses of life' looks to be, unfortunately, historically inaccurate for that time (obviously with no accounting for artistic licence in the fandom). Correct me if I'm wrong – I've sort of…played with that a bit.

So this plotbunny is set as an extension in the aftermath of the film scene, with my own take on how it could work out. And hence we commence…Homoerotic Deleted Scenes: PalindromeIsntOne's Cut, Scene Three. There's one back reference to Plotbunny One here, if you're reading out of order.

In my head, RDJ!Holmes is just a little bit flirty with Watson. You know, almost in a secret way.

As an after-note, I currently have two plotbunnies remaining as things stand.

Plotbunny Three: Death Scene

Sherlock shifted to lean back against John as the train rattled onwards towards Switzerland. John sighed, knowing this was unnecessary contact as Sherlock had only injured his ankle and was now perfectly alive to complain about it. But then he supposed Sherlock was justified in seeking comfort after being so close to death, and John was partly glad of the contact himself. It reassured him that this was real; Sherlock was alive, Sherlock was here. He reached towards Sherlock's neck with the premise of pushing Sherlock's head off his shoulder, but in reality so that he could press two quick fingers to Sherlock's pulse as he did so. He wasn't dreaming or hallucinating. Sherlock was alive. And John felt ridiculously, overwhelmingly grateful for the fact.

"Still beating is it Old Boy?" Sherlock asked lightly, not missing a thing.

"Fortunately or unfortunately, yes." John sighed.

"When would my existence ever be unfortunate?" Sherlock retorted, indignant.

"Well it could be seen as unfortunate for Mary and Gladstone."

"Ridiculous. The world depends on me as its only consulting detective," Sherlock declared, as egotistical as ever.

"Then the rest of the world owes me its undying gratitude for your continued existence," John pointed out.

"Indeed." Sherlock looked up at him seriously. "Thank you, Watson."

John nodded, smiled and swallowed, wondering how justified he was to feel this emotional just to be reassured of his best friend's presence in his life a little longer. "You're welcome."

A minute or so lapsed in silence.

"It occurs to me though," Sherlock commented after some thought, "that you might have given me some air."

"Pardon?"

"I wasn't breathing, correct? Therefore I needed some air. As a medical man I'm sure you must have deduced this."

"What did you think I was trying to do?" John snapped back, insulted.

"I didn't mean it as a slight on your technique, Watson, not by any means. I'm just speculating that you might have…breathed for me, as it were."

"Oh?" John cut back sharply, his anger rising. The whole incident had been…too close…as it was, and to think that Sherlock was implying he could somehow have tried harder – well, he couldn't deal with that thought. He had damn well tried his best and Sherlock was alive now, and that was all there was to it. To even think of that alternative – in which he hadn't had the wedding gift, or hadn't thought of using it – that there might have been something else he could have tried but didn't…No, it was too much.

"Yes," Sherlock said simply, sounding slightly confused by John's anger.

"And how would I have done that?" John persisted as he clenched his fists slightly, his fury increasing at Sherlock's speculative nonchalance.

"By breathing air into me in the way that I normally would for myself when I'm alive, presumably," Sherlock concluded easily.

When I'm alive. How could he say that so casually moments after his own escape from death? John felt his own heart rate increasing, stressed. It took him a few moments to follow in his head what Sherlock had said. People normally breathed air in through their nose or mouth, so to breathe air into Sherlock would have meant… It would have had to be mouth to mouth, of course, to get the most air in the most efficiently.

"It could have been an accident," Sherlock said quietly.

That was it. John shoved him away forcefully, rage flooding him. "You selfish bastard!" he exploded. "Holmes – no! I hadn't even thought of what you just suggested and if I had I wouldn't be thinking –" He cut himself off and took a shaky breath, briefly raising one hand to his temples. "God, Holmes, you nearly died and here you are, uncaring, talking about other ways I might have attempted to save you and how I might have excused myself if that involved kissing you!" he yelled. Then he took a deep breath to calm himself, and sighed.

"Holmes," he began again, quieter this time, "Even if I had thought of such an idea, I wouldn't have needed an…excuse to do so. I wouldn't even have thought of it. If I knew it and if I could do it I would have done anything to save you." The last sentence came out as only a hoarse whisper and he watched as expressions of shock, realisation and touched apology passed over Sherlock's face in turn. He wondered if he'd overreacted, if he'd said too much.

"I'm sorry, Watson," Sherlock said at last, his tone warm and genuine. With an odd expression he shifted back closer to John and awkwardly slipped his arms around John's waist, leaning in against his shoulder.

"What are you doing, Holmes?" John asked after a moment.

"Hugging you. I believe it is a generally practised method of comforting people that have experienced distress."

"Really Holmes. Well that's just wonderful. Thank you, that's just what I needed."

Either Sherlock ignored his sarcasm or John hadn't managed to be quite as sarcastic as he'd intended, but Sherlock didn't move or reply. After a moment or two Sherlock even adjusted himself to get more comfortable, slowly relaxing against John's chest as if he would be content to fall asleep there. John looked down at him for a long moment, finding himself oddly unwilling to push the detective away. It was extremely unusual, for sure, but not entirely unpleasant. Perhaps he had even needed it a little bit. He felt too wearied to complain, and soon found himself accustoming to the peculiarity as the last pieces of tension and adrenaline left in him from Sherlock's momentary passing faded away. He sighed.

"Hugging is more usually used to comfort ladies in distress," John pointed out at length.

"Indeed," Sherlock acknowledged, "but right now I'm hugging you."