A/N: This is Post Reichenbach … Fluff? What? But yes, indeed, that's more or less what this is. Uh. Enjoy.

Word Count: 1,900-something

Ship(s): pre-John/Sherlock

Warning(s): Kind of weird. Cussing. Blood, references to violence, stitches. Probably not medically accurate at all. Also, Gingerbach/Gingerlock. I think that's it.

Blood and Sugar

Ginger.

Against all reason, this was the first thing John noticed. Gone were the dark curls that once framed Sherlock's pale face, replaced by a head of shirt, close-cut hair of startling orange hue. Oddly enough, it sort of brought out his eyes.

Far more reasonably, the second thing John noticed was the blood.

There was no time for shock. If John wanted to freak out, to scream and demand answers, to kiss him or punch him in the face or maybe faint, it would have to wait, because Sherlock stumbled forward and crumpled onto the floor in a limp, bleeding heap. John had to be in army doctor mode.

With a brief glance around the hallway for any (other) intruders – you never knew with Sherlock – John gathered the detective into his arms and pulled him into the living room, laying him carefully on the rug. As a doctor he knew he probably shouldn't move him, he should just call an ambulance. As a soldier, John knew he had to get Sherlock out of the open. And, as a friend and (former?) partner of Sherlock, John would not bring him to any hospital. Hospitals and Holmes do not mix and, considering everything, it probably wouldn't be safe regardless. Instead, he propped Sherlock's head up on a throw pillow and flew into his bedroom to fetch the first aid kit. When he rushed back again, Sherlock was conscious again, bleary blue eyes peering up at him.

"John." Sherlock lifted a hand as if to touch his face or perhaps hold his hand but he waved and it fell back to his side. His face twisted in pain. Had John not steeled himself, he might've croaked at the sight. Instead, he hushed him and quickly set to work unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt and exposing the wound. The amount of blood was unnerving, even more so when the black dress shirt was peeled away leaving only alabaster skin to contrast the sticky scarlet. Biting down on the inside of his cheek John grappled for a rag to put pressure on the wound. Sherlock sucked in a pained gasp, shuddering, and John winced.

"You got stabbed," John said, not a question. Sherlock nodded. "Whoever did this – they're taken care of?" Sherlock nodded again, a smirk tracing his lips before being wiped out by a grimace as John tore the rag away. John reached for the disinfectant.

"John," Sherlock said again, and his voice was just how John remembered. John scowled and swatted Sherlock's arm.

"No. Shut up. Don't try and speak." John uncapped the disinfectant, and Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the smell. John's eyes narrowed. "You can't die on me, you got that? Not of blood loss and not of infection. I won't have that bullshit again. Now hold your breath, this is going to hurt like Hell."

It did hurt like Hell. Sherlock hissed and grasped at the edge of the rug, fingernails digging into his palms; it took all of John's willpower to ignore the pained expression on Sherlock's face and keep working. It was all he could do not to just stare at him, to revel and realize that fuck he's alive he's alive oh shit – there would be time for all that later. Tomorrow, maybe; now, stitches.

As John slid the first stitch through Sherlock's skin Sherlock sighed, reaching up to touch John's side. John had to bite his lip to keep from releasing a sigh at the familiar touch, concentrating fully on stitching the wound. Sherlock smiled, eyes squeezed shut. "John, I… I'm sorry."

"Hush," John whispered. "I told you to hush."

"I did it all for you." Sherlock's voice was hard and desperate. "I had to. Believe me, I had to, I…"

"Hush," John repeated and this time Sherlock did. John worked in equal silence, stitching and sterilizing and bandaging until the only thing left was to clean the blood away and, then, to talk. And say what? John clenched his jaw and leaned back. He could feel pressure closing in on him – panic, confusion, euphoria, shock, and a rhythmic throbbing in his chest that threatened to spread to his skull and wet his cheeks. John swallowed hard. "Can you stand?" he asked. Sherlock hesitated, then shook his head. "Right, okay. I'll get a damp rag; don't move."

"I'm not going anywhere," Sherlock said.

John stood and hurried to the bathroom before his throat could close off, shutting the door behind him. He stumbled to a halt in front of the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot and baggy with loss of sleep and he looked skinner than he'd ever been, and not in a good way, jumper hanging loosely over his body. Just four hours ago, John wouldn't have cared. Hell, he was ready to die – it hardly mattered what he looked like. But, damn, he looked like shit. John raked his hands through his hair in frustration, then groaned; he had Sherlock's blood on his hands.

There was no time to be disgusted. Moving quickly, John washed of his hands, splashed water over his face, breathed deeply. Right. He could not have a breakdown. This was really happening. Sherlock was alive. Alive. Fuck, he couldn't cry. Don't fucking cry. John grabbed a rag, soaked it in water, and forced himself not to run back to the living room.

Half of John expected Sherlock to have vanished when he returned. Just a hallucination, one final bit of proof that John was off his rocker. But Sherlock was there, just as he'd left him, and he looked up at John like he was expecting him to throttle him. John swallowed hard and sat beside him again.

"Sit still, okay?"

John somehow managed not to feel awkward about peeling the shirt the rest of the way off of Sherlock. Sherlock let him do so without complaint, eyes following John's movements until he tossed the ruined garments aside. "You're thinner than before," John said.

Sherlock shrugged. "So are you. All transport, you know that. What's your excuse?"

"Yes, well." I was hoping I'd starve to death. "Hold still," John said.

John pressed the rag to Sherlock's side, dabbing gently at the red stained skin. Sherlock gasped – "Cold" – but remained still as instructed. John cleared the blood away as best he could given the circumstances, silently taking note of every unfamiliar scar. There were a lot of them, and almost all of them healed crudely; John did his best not to think about why that was.

He didn't take much notice of the hand not holding the rag until Sherlock reached out and snatched it, twining their fingers together. John stiffened for a moment, head jerking up to cast him a warning look only to falter.

John tried to be angry. He really did. He probably even should have; he had good reason to. But looking up at Sherlock and seeing him staring back with wide, almost childish eyes, hand clasping his as if expecting it to be ripped away at any moment, John couldn't do it. All resentments fled to the backburner, overtaken by disbelief and relief and wonder and love.

Love?

Basically, John melted.

"Damn it, you are such a dick."

Sherlock's eyes widened marginally but John didn't notice. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and pulled him into an embrace. Which of them was trembling John couldn't tell, but it might have been both. It didn't matter. Sherlock returned the hug immediately, slinging his arms around John's middle and hugging him with all his might. John could have sobbed. Maybe he did, a little, but it was muffled by Sherlock's shoulder and if Sherlock minded he didn't show it.

"I missed you," Sherlock said. He clutched at the loose material of John's jumper, pressed his nose to John's neck, and John could feel Sherlock's breath shuddering against his skin. "I missed you so much, John."

John tightened his grip, squeezed his eyes shut. Sherlock still felt the same, all elbows and edges in his arms. "I thought you were dead," he said. "Three years, Sherlock. Three bloody years, I thought… I thought I'd never..." Just like that and if Sherlock didn't notice John was crying before he certainly did now.

"I know," Sherlock said. "I know you did. You had to. I'm sorry, but I had to. I had to make sure you were safe. I had to destroy Moriarty's web. It was the only way. But I'm… I'm sorry, John. It wasn't easy for me either, and I wish I could have thought of a better solution, but… I couldn't." Sherlock shuddered. "I never imagined it would affect you this way."

For a moment John wanted to make him more sorry. Tell him he was a heartless bastard for not considering that. Scream at him that he was a traitor for not trusting him not to blow his cover. Admit just how bad it had gotten, about rooftops lingered upon and one man games of Russian roulette constantly on standby. He wanted to hit him with everything, to force him to feel, experience that same agony John had every day for the last three years.

Instead, he tightened his grip and he said, "You were my whole life, Sherlock." And then, quieter, "You still are." Because it was true and, honestly, John was tired of suffering.

Sherlock didn't have anything to say to that. For once, there was nothing to say. Sherlock just pressed his face to the crook of John's neck, his lips brushing the base of John's throat. John choked as he felt warm wetness against his skin; tears. Crying. Sherlock was crying. Fuck. John shuddered and pulled Sherlock ever closer, forgetting momentarily to be careful for the stitches, but Sherlock didn't seem to mind, winding his arms tighter around John and wiggling until he was as snug against John as one could get to a person without actually crawling inside of them. They fell into silence like that, pressed close and trembling, and John took the time to trace his fingers down Sherlock's spine and confirm, over and over, the existence of Sherlock Holmes.

Eventually, when necks grew kinked and muscles became tired John pulled away. Sherlock mumbled a complaint but it was clear that he was tired, from blood loss or simply not sleeping for weeks John couldn't be sure. Still, he reached out and touched John's face and John froze, casting Sherlock a questioning look. Sherlock just smiled. "Do we have tea?" he asked.

John smiled because he really couldn't help it. "We have tea," he said.

"Oh, good. Green, please." Sherlock stretched and, with a small grin, leaned over to kiss John's cheek before laying back on the pillow again. "Do we still have those big, striped mugs?"

"Uh, yeah." John blinked and stood, touching his cheek. Had that just happened? Hell, had this whole day just happened? He looked at Sherlock for confirmation, cheeks a surprised rosy hue, but the detective was busy reacquainting himself with the ceiling. Doing his best not to look too idiotic John hurried off to the kitchen to brew the tea and decided that, yeah, they would be okay. John might have to beat some explanations out of the mad man first, yes, but in the long run. They'd be okay. They'd go back to being just how they were, and they would be okay.

Well. A few more kisses might be nice, too.

More reviews would be amazing.