Shift

by mylittlemindpalace

John's gaze turned icy. "Don't call me an idiot, Sherlock. Not for this, not for caring about you." Sherlock averted his eyes, defeated. "I'm sorry," he said honestly, the hurt in John's voice cutting into his heart like a very blunt knife.

When Sherlock received the phone call from Hong Kong, he was standing on an unbelievably packed beach in Florida, the sun was burning down on his neck, and deducing the people lying on their loungers was becoming increasingly boring. Half of the ones in his immediate surroundings were going to have a sunburn by the end of the day, ten couples would probably get a divorce by the time they got home and two out of those ten were expecting a child. Not that they knew about that yet.

There was nothing strange about this phone call. Actually, Sherlock had been expecting it for days. The caller wasn't unknown to him either; he wasn't a threat or a liability. He had become one of Sherlock's most important allies over the past three years.

What made Sherlock's blood go cold inside his veins was only one word. It made his heart skip a beat and then start drumming inside his chest faster than it had in a long time.

London.

He took a shaky breath, thanked his informant and hung up. Then he quickly strode away from the beach, away from the people who were completely oblivious of what had just happened. The information Sherlock had received might mean little to them but it meant the world to Sherlock. He waved at a cab driver and told him the name and address of his motel.

London.

Everything would be so much easier there. He knew the streets of London better than any other city in the world. No one could hide from him there. There was no way he couldn't succeed. Yes, he might require help, but that hardly mattered now. No more people would get hurt.

And then, then he could finally stop this masquerade.

He'd go home.

At that thought a face flashed through his mind, the face of a man he had forbidden himself to think of, but now he could not help it any longer. John's face was burning itself back into his mind palace, no longer banned from its halls, because he could finally allow himself to think about him without feeling only regret and pain, but also hope.

His eyes shining with anticipation, he took out his phone and sent two texts; one to a woman and one to a man.

Molly Hooper did not hear her phone chime because she was in the middle of working through the torso of a middle-aged businessman whose business had finally taken the toll and rewarded him with a heart attack at fifty-two.

When she was done and had finished her report, she looked at the old, very much not-smart, phone and froze completely. Then a grin broke across her face and she rushed home, already planning which sheets to put on her couch and which groceries to buy.

Mycroft Holmes was sitting in a conference room in Berlin surrounded seven other manned chairs when he received a text. He looked at the screen of his phone for about 2.5 seconds longer than average and then forwarded it to Anthea with some simple instructions.

Then he looked up, apologised to his colleagues and let the meeting continue.

"What do you mean, he's in danger? He's dead, Molly, for fuck's sake!"

"I know it sounds weird, I really do! But you have to trust me on this."

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Look, John... Sherlock anticipated this. He said to tell you 'friends protect people'. He said you'd understand."

John's heart skipped a beat and his blood went cold. Ignoring the sensible part of his brain screaming at him that it wasn't possible, that someone must be playing a trick on him, he grabbed his gun and shrugged into his jacket.

"Where is he?"

When John got out of the cab and raced to the address Molly had given him, he felt a rush of adrenaline surging through him that he hadn't felt in years. Three years to be precise. But when he reached the alley, it was empty. He felt the panic he had held at bay until now slowly rise to the surface. He closed his eyes and calmly counted to ten. When he opened them again, determination had replaced the hysteria. If Sherlock had told Molly to call him when something went wrong he wouldn't just leave. No, he would have left clues for John, breadcrumbs, something only John would understand. John narrowed his eyes and started to observe. And sure enough, after a minute or so he noticed a small sign on the wall, close to the floor, written with chalk. John recognized it immediately. It was a number, written in ancient Chinese. If John recalled correctly, it stood for '1'. He didn't particularly care at the moment. He turned right, and sure enough, at the next intersection he found the next clue. He was following them for about twenty minutes when he finally skidded around a corner and saw Sherlock lying on the pavement, bleeding from a head wound. He hadn't thought it was possible for his body to produce more adrenaline than it already had.

John forcibly ignored the panic rising inside him at the all too familiar picture, replayed a thousand times in his nightmares, and started doing what he did best.

Sherlock was struggling to stay awake while the throbbing in his head shot uncontrollable waves of pain through his body.

This was not what was supposed to happen, Moran was supposed to be dead or captured and he was supposed to be rushing to Baker Street.
In some peripheral part of his brain he knew that he wouldn't be able to remain conscious for long but ignored the little voice in his head, calmly telling him to let go, so his body could start working on his recovery.

Or not. If Sherlock was right, the punches his head had received would most probably result in a severe concussion, and if he fell asleep… He tried to move his right hand closer to his pocket where he knew his phone would be, and flinched when he twisted his torso uncomfortably. Two broken ribs, maybe three? It took several minutes for him to get the phone into his weak grip, the task giving him a much needed distraction from his ever growing weakness, but before he could dial the number he hadn't dialled in three years, the number he still knew by heart, even in his current state, he heard fast footsteps approaching.

They were footsteps he knew, footsteps he recognised, and although he couldn't consciously identify the person, his body knew better and relaxed on the damp pavement. Just before he faded into unconsciousness, he felt strong hands on him and a panicked voice shouting something at him. It might have been his name but he couldn't tell because he finally let the blackness swallow him up. He felt completely, unreasonably warm and safe.
Almost immediately, he felt cold water being splashed into his face and was abruptly pulled back into the world of the waking.

"No, Sherlock, no! You are not doing this to me twice! Stay with me, don't fall asleep!"

Sherlock tried to oblige and it wasn't as hard as he would have thought. He fixed his clouded gaze on John's face and drank in his appearance.

His face wore a fearful expression but there was also the calmness of the army doctor he knew so well, who loved danger, who thrived in it, and his hands were rock-steady as they skimmed Sherlock's face and skull to assess the damage.

"Molly is on her way. We'll fix you, you just have to stay with me, okay?"

Sherlock tried to nod, but every movement hurt.

"You moron," John muttered under his breath as he took in Sherlock's whole body for further injuries. "Does anything else hurt? Ribs?"

Sherlock whispered a strained "Yes," and saw John's face fall a little.

Then, through the haze of his pain, he heard the engines of a car approaching and a door being thrown open and within seconds, Molly was by his side, quickly skimming her eyes over his body and handing John a bag of, presumably, medical equipment.

The next few hours passed in a blur of dreaming and waking, with John and Molly rousing him frequently to make sure he didn't slip away irrevocably.

He dimly noticed changes of location; Molly's car, the cold London air and then, finally, Baker Street.

"I'll put the kettle on," Molly said as John sank down on a kitchen chair, burying his face in his hands. They didn't talk for the next five minutes. Sherlock was now lying on the couch and seemed to be peacefully sleeping, his chest rising and falling steadily, if a little bit shallow.

Molly sat down opposite John and waited for him to collect himself. When he finally looked up, Molly nearly flinched at all the conflicting emotions in John's eyes, but he didn't care.

"So you knew, all this time?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

Molly's voice was very quiet. "I'm... so sorry, John. Sherlock... we did it to protect you."

"Protect me?" John's anger began to rise to the surface, even though he rationally knew that none of this was Molly's fault. "From what?! And don't tell me I can't know, because it's too dangerous because I really DON'T CARE!"

Molly flinched slightly and her eyes shimmered when she answered. "I... I'm sorry John, I don't know. I swear, he never told me what was really going on. He said it was bad enough that I knew that he was alive. And he made me promise not to say a single word to you."

John closed his eyes again and rubbed at his temples. It all started to make sense now; Molly only talking to him after he initiated contact himself, Mycroft checking on him even more regularly than he had on Sherlock. "I apologise," he said after a moment. "I know none of this is your fault. I'm sorry I snapped at you."

"Oh, don't worry about it, John. I told him he needed to tell you, every time I saw him, I really did. He just wouldn't listen."

John snorted. "Of course he wouldn't."

Molly poured them their tea and handed John his cup.
"So, how did he do it?" John asked after a while.

"Survive, you mean?"

John nodded. So Molly explained. When she was done John leaned back in his chair. "Wow," he said.

"Mhm. It was pretty risky, too. But he said if I didn't help him he'd find some other way, so I really didn't have a choice."

"No, you didn't."

They were silent again. John had forgotten about his tea during Molly's explanation and he frowned when the unexpectedly cold liquid touched his tongue. He pushed his cup away.

"You know", he said then, a thoughtful expression on his face, "I actually remember that rubber ball. He played with it all day. I even remember thinking that it was weird. But then again, Sherlock being weird wasn't really anything out of the ordinary."

Molly smiled weakly. "You couldn't have stopped him, John. You know that."

John looked at her. "I know. I just... god, I'm so angry at him! He'd better have a damn good explanation for this."

"I'm sure he does," Molly said, "by his definition, anyway."

That made John smile, just a little bit, but he could see Molly relaxing at seeing it. She stood. "Do you think you'll be fine without me tonight? I'll drop off those antibiotics in the morning."

"Sure, go home, catch some sleep." He waved his hand in a manner he hoped was reassuring and stood to walk her to the door.

"Thank you," he said after she'd shrugged on her coat, and kissed her on the cheek.

"No, John, thank you." And with that she was out the door.

He woke up lying on the couch, blankets draped over him, with a more or less clear head, but briefly confused before it all came back to him in a rush; the tip-off, the chase, Moran. And then John.
John, he thought and he tried to open his eyes, tried to say something, but his body wouldn't obey. All that came out of his mouth was a violent cough and all of a sudden he was incredibly thirsty. Within seconds he felt the cushions give in to the weight of a body sitting down on the edge of the couch. Familiar hands pressed a glass of water against his lips and held his head in place as he gulped down some of the liquid. Then he sank back into the pillow before the dizziness could take over.
"How do you feel?"
But Sherlock didn't answer. He let his tired eyes roam over Johns figure, drinking in every detail. He had dark circles under his eyes and his face had an unhealthy grey colour. He looked ten years older than when Sherlock had last talked to him. Had he not slept since...?
"What happened? How long was I out?" His voice sounded strange. Hoarse. Something like amusement flickered over John's face. "About a day. Mycroft called. He said they got him. Whatever the hell that means."
Sherlock closed his eyes. It was over. Finally. When he opened them again, the half-worried, half-amused look on John's face had been replaced with resignation.

"You'll have some explaining to do when you're better," he said, and even Sherlock, who was usually so unperceptive about human emotion, noticed the strain in his voice. John wasn't just talking about Moran.

Sherlock felt a familiar ache in his chest when he thought about what he had put John through. Only now it was mingled with hope. Now, he could make it up to John. He'd never leave him again like this. Never.

"John, I..." He struggled to find the words. I'm sorry. I missed you. Please, don't hate me. But all that came out of his mouth was "Thank you." John's expression softened slightly.

"You know you don't need to thank me, Sherlock." They both knew how very true that was. John would follow Sherlock to the end of the world if he needed him to.

John sighed and stood up. "Try to sleep a little bit more. I'll wake you soon, though; we need to get some food into you. And I can't have you falling into a coma on me, now, can I?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but winced at the movement. "Sleeping is boring."

John let out a chocked sound that could have been laughter or a snort or both at the same time and Sherlock saw something shifting in his eyes. "I'm glad you're still your old self, but I'm afraid you have no other choice. You're not going to get very far on your own with those ribs. They probably still hurt like hell."

John was right, they did. His careful tending to his injuries triggered memories of South America. It had been hotter, naturally but he had been lying on a couch very similar to this one and recovering from a shot wound in his thigh. The person taking care of him had been an elderly nurse who had found him in front of her house, begging her not to take him to the hospital. The fact that she was a nurse had been pure coincidence and she had complied, after Sherlock had offered her a considerable amount of money. Her touch had been firm and efficient and he had been back on his feet in no time. It had been nothing comparable to John's though.

John was gentle, attempting to comfort him not just physically but emotionally, too, and it was only now that he realised how much he had been craving for this, missing this for the last three years.

Caring is not an advantage.

Perhaps not, Sherlock thought, but it might just be worth it.

John sat in his armchair and watched Sherlock's sleeping figure. Even after almost three days, he still felt his heart lurching at the sight of him.
All that time ago at Sherlock's grave, he had pleaded the impossible from him: a miracle. It seemed he had been heard after all.
John grabbed a bowl and filled it with the soup that had been silently bubbling on the stove, and carried it over to Sherlock. He put a hand on his shoulder and gently shook him. Sherlock blinked a few times before focusing on John's face. John was still surprised that he was able to look into these eyes again and he wasn't sure he would ever stop appreciating it now.

"Eat this." He put the bowl down on the coffee table and helped Sherlock sit up, wincing as Sherlock sucked in a harsh breath, as his broken ribs moved into places they weren't supposed to, before picking it up again and handing it to him. Sherlock took it and eyed it sceptically. He opened his mouth to say something, but John didn't let him. "Oh no, Sherlock, don't even think about it, you will eat every piece of chicken and every drop of fluid and whatever else you may find in there. I will force it into you if I must and I think you are aware that you are in no position to fend me off, so please just eat."

Sherlock stared at him for another two seconds and then slowly began to guide the spoon to his mouth. Satisfied, John stood up again, to get his bandage equipment. When he'd prepared everything Sherlock had finished eating and John took the bowl from his hands and carried it to the kitchen.

Then he was back at Sherlock's side, gently taking his head into his hands, so he could take a look at the wound. He cut open the old bandages and was positively surprised. The wound didn't look much better than yesterday, when he had last looked at it, but it also didn't look worse, which was a relief. He wouldn't need those antibiotics after all.

John set to work and within five minutes, Sherlock had new, clean bandages around his skull.

"John?" Sherlock asked weakly as John was packing up his tools. It was only then that John realised that Sherlock hadn't spoken since he'd woken up.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Why are you not angry?" He sounded like a child who was wondering why the sky was blue.

John snorted. "I'm furious, Sherlock," he said very quietly. "But screaming at you now won't do anyone any good."

"So, you're saving the screaming for later?"

John let out a choked laughing sound at that. "You could say that, yes."

In truth, John wasn't sure whether he was ready for what Sherlock had to say to him. Knowing Sherlock, it would do nothing short of turning his world upside down.

Again.

Sherlock was bored.

It had been five days since John had found him and while his brain was now able to think properly again, his limited mobility made it impossible to find other stimuli for it than his immediate surroundings. It wasn't as bad as the last few years had been - life without John was practically predestined to be boring - but it was close. The fact that John was exceptionally caring, but at the same time putting up a mental wall between himself and Sherlock wasn't helping. At all. Sherlock had expected some resistance on John's part. He hadn't expected to be bothered by it so much.

John was perfectly nice to him. Unsettlingly so, in fact. Sherlock had expected some shouting, possibly punching before the whole-pretending-nothing's-wrong-but-secretly-stea ling-glances-behind-his-back-act. And now his patience snapped.

"John, please talk to me." Sherlock could hear the tremor in his own voice. He hated it, but he couldn't help it.

John was sitting in his armchair, reading the papers, pointedly avoiding looking at Sherlock. "About what?"

"I don't care. I just... I can't stand you being so... quiet."

John looked up, fury beginning to spark in his gaze. "Oh really? I haven't heard you complaining about me being quite since… oh right! Three years!"

Sherlock closed his eyes. Angry John was good. Better than passive-aggressive John. The fire in his gaze was more familiar, more characteristic to the army doctor, and even though Sherlock was the one John's rage was directed towards, he felt oddly relieved at this display of emotion.

"Will you let me explain myself?" he asked quietly, not daring to raise his voice, in case that made him even angrier.

John sucked in a breath, probably preparing for a sharp retort, but the air rushed back out of his lungs, unused. He closed his eyes, swallowed, and nodded.

Sherlock jerked his head, indicating for John to sit down on the edge of the couch. He felt like John was too far away for the confessions he was about to make.

John hesitated, but then inched closer. He sat down a little further away than Sherlock would have liked, but it was a start.

Sherlock swallowed. Talking about his emotions had never come easy to him but he kept reminding himself that this was John, who almost always understood, and if not, at the very least accepted it.

"I went up on the roof to talk to Moriarty – "

"What?!" John grimaced, "Moriarty? I though you went up there to…" His voice trailed off, the blood draining from his face way too fast.

Sherlock reached out in an instinctive gesture to comfort but his hand hovered uselessly over John's before it was slowly pulled away.

"Not initially, no," he said softly, putting his own hand down. "When I talked to him, he told me that if I didn't kill myself, the essential component to his plan to ruin me, he would have Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and you-" he swallowed, "-shot."

John stared at him, a mask of shock covering his features, as Sherlock recounted Moriarty's suicide, the phone call, the need for John to be kept in the dark, for his performance to be painfully convincing.

"But they never found the… oh," John gave a resigned sigh. "We buried Moriarty's body in your grave, didn't we?"

Sherlock nodded. "With Molly's ability to change the records to her liking and Mycroft pulling some strings that was the least of our worries."

"But why were you still worried? Moriarty was dead, you could have come home," John whispered, bitterness replacing the shock on his face. "You could have told me instead of leaving me alone with my… grief." He spat out that last word as if he felt like Sherlock's supposed death wasn't worthy of that emotion and Sherlock physically flinched.

"No I couldn't, John. Don't pretend to be more of an idiot than you already are. As long as Moriarty's men were still out there you weren't safe." Sherlock tried to keep the emotion out of his voice, but the recollection of his own feelings back then rose unbidden from the darker edges of his mind. He had been desperate to see John, tell him it was fine, that he wasn't dead, that he didn't have to worry, but there had also been the paralysing fear of something happening to John that made his decision final and easier to bear.

John's gaze turned icy. "Don't call me an idiot, Sherlock. Not for this, not for caring about you."

Sherlock averted his eyes, defeated. "I'm sorry," he said honestly, the hurt in John's voice cutting into his heart like a very blunt knife.

Sherlock continued with his story then; he told John about uncovering Moriarty's network step by step and slowly taking it down, up until today, when Mycroft had been able to take Moran, Moriarty's successor, into custody.

John stayed silent for a long time after Sherlock had finished. He wasn't looking directly at Sherlock but he didn't miss the treacherous glimmer of John's eyes. After a while, John took a deep breath and met his gaze. "So you jumped down that bloody building to save us." His voice sounded hoarse. "Moron," he muttered under his breath and Sherlock let out a chocked laugh. "What, no screaming?"

John smiled, the real John-smile – worn out, but at least it reached his eyes – and Sherlock, who hadn't seen it for a long time, felt an unfamiliar warmth spreading through his chest.

"No. I mean… don't get me wrong, I'm still furious at you for keeping me in the dark, but at the same time I know that I would have done the same in your position."

Sherlock relaxed a little bit. He hadn't realised how much he had been dreading John's response.

"I'm sorry, John. I really am."

John's expression became serious again.

"Thank you. I... appreciate that."

Sherlock raised his hand involuntarily, reaching out to touch his friend but John turned away, a new guardedness coming over his expression. Sherlock let his hand sink back down on the duvet.

"Sherlock, I… I need time to process this. Okay?"

Sherlock nodded. "Of course."

That was what his mouth said. Inside, he felt the frighteningly strong urge to reach out and pull John, his John, tight against his chest to show him that he really was sorry and that he wasn't ever going to do this to him again. He cursed himself for his inability to express sentiment and he cursed the sentiment for even existing.

John must have seen something in his eyes because he reached out, despite his earlier retreat, and gently squeezed his hand before getting up.

"John, could you-"

John flinched violently, causing the teacup he had held in his hand to slip to the floor, bursting to pieces, the tea staining the carpet.

"John, what-"

John's heart was beating fast and he took a shaky breath before he sank to the floor, missing the shards of the teacup out of sheer luck, as he put his palm over his eyes.

"Sorry, I... you startled me."

Sherlock stared down at him for a few seconds and John practically saw the wheels turning behind his eyes as he tried to deduce what had caused his distress.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said sincerely, with that gentle voice he had taken to using whenever he was talking to John and stretched out his hand.

John let out a breath, took it and slowly got up.

"Sorry... I'll clean up this mess."

"Don't worry, I'll do it."

John silently watched as Sherlock got a piece of cloth, a broomstick, and a hand shovel.

"Would you stop staring? It's putting me off."

John snorted.

"I'm just surprised. You never clean up."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't think it's becoming a habit. You obviously didn't glance in the direction of the table because you completely failed to notice my presence until I made it known. Still half asleep - really John, it's been at least 8 hours - your mind hadn't fully grasped the fact that I am... back, so, naturally my voice scared you, because you were used to living alone, before your memory caught up with you. Now your hands are trembling from the shock and you would definitely cut yourself trying to tidy this up. So I'm doing it. Simple practicality."

John felt his anxiousness being eased away by a peculiar kind of warmth rising up in his chest. That was the first real deduction John had heard him make in three years. And… Sherlock may be trying to pretend it was pure logic hat motivated his actions, but John knew better. He was actually trying to take care of John, even if he couldn't admit it. These little gestures meant more than his voiced apologies did and John found himself oddly touched.

He tried to hold back his smile but failed miserably. Sherlock just scowled at him.

It was two weeks after the incident, when John found fingers in the fridge. He stared at them for a solid thirty seconds, before he burst into laughter and leaned against the fridge, his feet unable to support his weight because he was overwhelmed by the absurdity of the situation.

He heard Sherlock's footsteps approach before he walked into his vision and looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

"Is everything alright, John?" He tried to sound nonchalant but John heard the faint ring of genuine concern lacing his voice.

He had been like this ever since his confession, hovering closer to John than he had before, asking after his well-being. It was quite nice actually, but also a little bit unsettling. This was a different Sherlock than the one whose name he had desperately called out when he'd been standing on the sidewalk in front of St. Bart's.

"I'm fine," John said, still chuckling to himself as he closed the door of the fridge. "I just found the fingers."

Sherlock furrowed his brows. "You don't usually laugh when you find fingers in the fridge."

At that, John started giggling again and the confusion in Sherlock's face was replaced by frustration.

"No," John finally said. "I don't."

And with that he strode back into the living room, leaving a baffled Sherlock behind in the kitchen.

They had never actually talked about Sherlock moving back in; it was just something that went without saying. They still weren't completely accustomed to each other's presence but, despite the distance they still kept from each other, neither of them could imagine it being any other way. Mycroft had started to set the bureaucratic steps in motion that enabled Sherlock to be a living person again, even if just on paper and slowly; life in Baker Street returned back to something more or less resembling normality.

Well, not entirely.

Sherlock was caught in a mess of emotions he didn't know how to deal with.

He started to notice changes in his own behaviour towards John. At first he brushed it of as a simple reaction to having his best friend back but with time he began to suspect it was something else, something much more profound.

More than once, he caught himself absentmindedly brushing against John's shoulders when he walked past his chair, unnecessarily touching him just to reassure himself that he was still there. Normally, Sherlock wouldn't even have noticed, the action was too intuitive for that, but what he did notice was John tensing all over when it happened. But he never flinched away or said anything. Maybe those little moments of contact didn't just reassure Sherlock of John's presence, but also the other way around. Sherlock would never admit it, but secretly he had been terrified that his return would be too much for John, that he would just get up, walk out the door, and never come back.

But, him being John, wonderful John, he hadn't and Sherlock helplessly watched his feelings towards him turn into something more. Surely this mess of happiness and yearning and worrying and desperation couldn't be something as trivial as… love. Could it?

A month had gone by when Lestrade came to visit them for the first time. Sherlock stood up from where he had been lounging on the couch to greet him, but he didn't make a move to approach him. He looked at him with hard tired eyes, taking in his appearance. Sherlock quickly scanned him for any signs of injury or harm, but also for more subtle things, like the tension in his shoulders, the now more prominent lines of his cheekbones and his forehead and the way his hands curled into fists at his side.

He knew what was coming, but didn't move away.

"You're a bastard," Lestrade growled and his fist connected with Sherlock's jaw.

Sherlock stumbled back, pain coursing through the left side of his face, and steadied himself, clutching the armchair.

"What-?" came John's startled voice from the kitchen but when he walked into the living room and took in the scene, he stopped dead in his tracks.

"Greg, what are you doing?" He sounded surprised, not angry though, Sherlock noted dryly, clutching his hand to his cheek and moving his jaw experimentally.

"What you should have done weeks ago," Lestrade muttered unapologetically.

Sherlock's lips twitched. He knew that John and the DI had been out for a pint a couple of times since he was back and he had assumed that they had talked about him. The fact that their conversation had revolved around punching Sherlock at some point amused him to no end.

"Well, Greg, he /did/ have a concussion," John said dryly and tried to reach out to Sherlock to check his jaw but Sherlock turned away stubbornly.

John sighed and turned back to the DI. "Tea, Greg?"

Lestrade rubbed his hand over his eyes and then nodded. "Thank you."

While John went to the kitchen to put the kettle on, Sherlock gestured for Lestrade to sit down. He did so reluctantly and then locked eyes with Sherlock.

"I'm sorry I punched you."

"No, you're not."

"No, you're right, I'm not."

They looked each other in the eye for a few seconds but then both started to grin.

"Thank you," said Lestrade then, his expression sobering up quickly. "From what John has told me, I guess I wouldn't be sitting here without you."

Sherlock looked down at his hands, slightly uncomfortable. "I've… I've always considered you a- a friend, Lestrade. After all you've done for me…" He trailed off, not knowing how to put his thoughts into words.

Lestrade looked at him thoughtfully. "I see what he meant now," he said quietly, more to himself than anything else. Sherlock wanted to ask what he meant but then John came back into the living room and set down mugs of tea in front of them and the conversation turned into a different direction. Lestrade left an hour later with the promise to send cases over as soon as John "cleared" Sherlock for work again. Sherlock rolled his eyes at that but miraculously didn't object.

When Lestrade had left John sat down next to Sherlock on the couch and trailed his fingers over the quickly forming bruise. "Nothing's broken, is it?" he asked calmly, not particularly worried.

Sherlock sighed. "No. I'm fine John."

John furrowed his brows and looked at the bruise for another second or two, before he was satisfied and his eyes went up to Sherlock's face.

His mouth went dry when he saw his expression. Sherlock's gaze was completely focused on John's face, almost like he was deducing something very complicated from his expression, but the moment of realisation never came. John had been staring at Sherlock's face for more than thirty seconds when he realised he was still holding his palm against Sherlock's cheek. He let it sink into his lap reluctantly, but couldn't tear his eyes away from Sherlock's and his heart skipped a beat at the disappointment he saw in his eyes at his movement.

"What is it, Sherlock? Tell me," he said softly and tilted his head slightly, trying to make sense of what the detective was thinking.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut and he furrowed his brows in frustration. "I...," he started but closed his mouth again, only to open his eyes. They were still full of confusion. Then the words started flowing out of his mouth, almost as if he wanted to say them all at the same time so he wouldn't forget any of it.

"I am currently experiencing a very strong and horribly distracting emotional reaction to everything that involves your physical and emotional well-being, as well as the relative distance between us, making my distress rise in proportion to the increasing amount of space between us."

John blinked at him a couple of times, replaying what Sherlock had said in his mind to make sure he had understood. "Uhm...," he started intelligently but then trailed off.

Sherlock looked down into his lap, caught off guard by the one thing he didn't excel in – sentiment – and John's heart constricted painfully at the thought of how helpless he must have been feeling. He battled down his own confusion and fear and gently turned Sherlock's face towards him so he could look him in the eye.

"Don't be scared," he said softly and was amazed at how calm his voice sounded. Inside, his emotions were in mayhem. Feelings he hadn't allowed himself to feel were persistently rising to the surface and he didn't know whether to be happy, terrified, confused or all at the same time. But that was nothing compared to the emotional chaos he saw in Sherlock's eyes. And once again, because that was just what John Watson did, he pushed his own doubts and fears aside and made the world's only consulting detective his priority.

He leaned in slowly, giving Sherlock enough time to turn his head away if he wanted to but he didn't move at all, staring at John like a deer caught in the headlights. "Close your eyes," John whispered and Sherlock blindly obeyed as if John's command was all he had been waiting for.

When he felt Sherlock's lips brush over his, it felt like a missing puzzle piece slid back into place and he felt more whole than he had done since Sherlock had left. He was not okay and he did not think he would ever be able to completely heal from the experience of losing him but it felt like a previously open wound had finally been closed. If he was lucky, the only thing that would remain was a scar to remind him.

Sherlock was kissing him back cautiously, like a child learning to walk, and John carefully slid his hand into Sherlock's curls holding him close without trapping him. Feeling him like this was the final assurance he had needed to realise that Sherlock was really back and the fear of losing him was starting to recede. It would never be completely gone but his subconscious was finally beginning to accept that Sherlock Holmes was a part of his life again. His reality had once again shifted to include him, and John could not bring himself to regret anything.

What followed were lazy days on the couch with Sherlock's head in John's lap and his hand in his curls while he told him about Sweden, Hong Kong, Peru and all the other places he'd been to during the last three years. Sometimes, his eyes would light up when he talked about a certain place and occasionally even a person, and John made a mental promise to visit each and every one of them with Sherlock. They stole chaste kisses from each other at crime scenes, when they thought no one was looking - it took Lestrade less than a week to notice - and not-so-chaste ones at home. They were getting to know each other all over again, in a way that they never thought possible. It felt like they had been walking a path a thousand times in the winter and now it was still the same path, only the season had changed and that made the oh-so-familiar path look completely different.

When Sherlock discovered a scar on John's upper arm that he hadn't known about he stopped to examine it thoroughly, with his fingers, lips and tongue and he found it unacceptable that something had caused John bodily harm without him being present. He felt a stab of guilt at the realisation that it had been his own choice. He didn't know if he was ever going to be able to forgive himself but when John took his face into his hands and told him it was okay, he relaxed a bit. If John was able to, maybe he could manage someday himself.

Mycroft sent a basket full of chocolate and tea and a new microscope for Sherlock, which he, naturally, refused to touch, and a note attached:

Took you long enough.

MH