A/N Woot, passed the three-quarters mark! Only appropriate to celebrate with a bit more Reichenbach, right? Well, post-Reichenbach, or post-return. Whatever, same idea.

Thanks to hjohn302, Song of Grey Lemons, Motaku1235, DuShuZi, Hummingbird1759, johnsarmylady, and total-animal-lover

Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.

LXXVI. Broken Pieces

"You said it ripped you apart," Sherlock murmurs. John's eyes are evasive, flitting away as he pretends to focus on the neon-hued smiley face still adorning the wall, but the detective is far too quick to be fooled. "Ripped you apart… was it really that bad? Really so…"

He's cut off by a few brief, cold words. "It was horrible. The worst thing I've ever been through in my life… the war was bad, but this really…" Slowly, John shakes his head, squeezes his eyes shut for a long moment as if trying to push away the memories. "I didn't imagine that… anything could hurt that bad, to be honest. Just empty. So empty. I knew I was supposed to get over it, but… I really didn't… not for all three years. I was still waiting for you, somehow… just that stupid, I guess." A rough laugh. "In any case, it doesn't matter. You did come back, and that's what's important, right?"

"I… I suppose." Each of John's words are a physical stab to Sherlock's chest, like a dagger, penetrating his flesh and then twisting, shredding it. "But to put you through that much… it was unforgivable. And I'm sorry."

"You should be," the doctor mutters, reaching out for his teacup. Sherlock doesn't mention the way that the cup clatters against the saucer, a clear sign of a shaky hand, but he notices it. Oh, he notices it. "Of course it was unforgivable… sometimes I wonder why I even let you back into this stupid flat." A tentative smile turns his lips upwards, lighting up his eyes, and one touches Sherlock's features in return.

It's been easier to smile, really, ever since he came back. Much easier to smile. Not only does he have John, but John has him, neither of them has to be so destroyed anymore… it's amazing, really, just amazing. To wake up every morning, breathe in the smell of Baker Street… to know that John can do the same, be aware that he's alive… to have the opportunity to see John, himself, and not just watch him over grainy monochrome cameras, but rather speak with him, interact with him… to be home.

I'm home. That's what he thinks now, still gazing into John's hazel-blue eyes, unable to make himself turn away. Several seconds stretch by in silence, and neither of them blink, move, speak. I'm home, and I'm never going to have to leave again, ever.

What doesn't kill you makes you stronger. That must be true, because the two of them have never been closer than they are this instant, this fragment of a second that feels like it just might be magic.