AN: It's been a while since I last thanked you, you all my lovely readers! Know that I read all your lovely comments and I'm overly happy that you're enjoying this story until now! It makes my heart fill with happiness and joy! So...thank you from the deepest depth (does it have any logical sense?) of my heart for your constant support!

And...enjoy the chapter!

As they entered the flat, John smirked wryly.

"I suppose I have to introduce you to my flat. It's not big, but it's rather comfortable", he teased.

"May I remind you that I've already been in your flat?, grinned Sherlock.

"Uninvited.", replied John with an amused face "I was just making it official. This is the first time you enter my flat with my permission."

"No need to be that formal, John. I think we're well beyond it."

"And formalities are still boring, uh?"

"They have never been interesting. Not in the slightest. Especially with you."

"I still suppose that that was a compliment."

"Might have been, yes."

John smiled a soft smile. He was happy to see that, even after what had just happened, their conversations hadn't changed at all. That reassured him in a way he couldn't even express properly. Nevertheless he had to admit that what they were about to do was beyond the word 'ordinary' and overly close to the word 'awkward'. Or, at least, it seemed so. For what couple (and they were a couple, right? He still couldn't quite believe that everything was real) did sleep together after day one of their relationship? Yet he didn't feel extremely awkward to him. No matter how his brain tried to tell him that, he thought it was familiar, and intimate, and good. The only thing he wasn't really prepared for was being such close to Sherlock the whole night. And, oh, getting to see Sherlock in…in what? He didn't have a pyjama with him and John's ones weren't of his size. Now, that was a thing that made him think. And turn red. Still, it didn't feel awkward. Just different. Yet he swallowed hard at the idea.

"Ahem. May I offer you something to drink?", John said, waking towards the fridge.

Sherlock shook his head.

"No, thanks. I've had rather enough of that Soave."

"Oh. Ok."

"Plus I guess that the word sleeping", he smirked, but John noticed Sherlock's eyes turning away and his cheeks going slight pink "actually involves sleeping. And I remember, but you may contradict me, that sleeping usually involves a bed, of which presence in this flat I'm quite certain."

"You're clever!", answered John, grinning.

"You've been saying it a lot, lately. I might get overused to it. So…lead the way or do I have to find it by myself?", Sherlock grinned in response.

"Find it by yourself. I need to use the bathroom."

As he walked in the corridor to reach the bathroom, while Sherlock went to his bedroom, the thought that they sounded like a married couple crossed his mind. He giggled softly and drove the silly thought away. When he went back to the bedroom, the door was closed. Sherlock had probably heard him approaching, because a muffled voice came from behind it.

"Give me thirty seconds."

Good, thought John. At least he shouldn't have seen the young man's striptease. That was a relief. He wasn't that sure that he could have avoided to get an erection if he had seen that. And Sherlock had been specific: it was just sleeping. Because sleeping with John made him comfortable. And John, although he had considered it an ordinary task (like, dunno, doing shopping) until that moment, he found out that he wasn't really ready to see a half-naked Sherlock without getting excited somehow. And that would have made the things more than uncomfortable. Yet he still did want to sleep with Sherlock, feeling him near, knowing that it was real and not a crazy dream.

"You can enter.", the baritone voice interrupted his thoughts.

That was it. He inhaled and exhaled. Then entered. John immediately noticed that his black suit, his shoes and his socks were lying on the chair near the window, but he hadn't taken off his shirt. John wondered whether it was for he couldn't do it due to the wound or because he knew that John would have felt embarrassed if he did. The second option seemed the most probable.

Plus, the young man had chosen the left side of the double bed, his legs were completely under the duvet, but his upper body, clad with the shirt, was leaning on the pillow that Sherlock had placed against the headboard. Completely ordinary. John sighed in relief. Sherlock turned to him.

"I've chosen the left side because of my shoulder.", he patted it "And I still can't sleep fully lying on the mattress."

"Yes, I know.", John answered "I've been there myself."

Now there was another problem he hadn't quite considered. He needed to undress himself. In front of Sherlock. Oh, god. Why hadn't he thought about that? He froze on the spot. The young man seemed to read his mind.

"I can close my eyes while you put on your pyjama. I don't want you to feel ashamed."

John would have loved to answer that there was no problem, that Sherlock could keep his eyes open, that he was at ease with his body. The fact was that he wasn't. Therefore he found himself nodding and thanking Sherlock for his courtesy.

"Thanks."

Sherlock closed his eyes and turned the head to the window to make clear he wasn't looking at all. John started to undress.

"How did it happen?", the young man questioned, while John was taking off his jumper.

"Happened what?", he furrowed.

"The circumstances of your shooting. The wound in your left shoulder. How did it happen?"

John stayed in silence, thinking about it. It wasn't a topic he was really eager to talk about.

"No problem if you don't want to talk about it."

But he was Sherlock. The man and only one person in the world he was sure he was going to stay with for the rest of his life.

"No, sorry. I was just…thinking.", he took off his trousers "It happened…one year ago."

Damn. Had it really passed one year? With all those troubles in his mind he had forgot it. Completely. He had thought that he would have never forgot the day, but Sherlock had been kidnapped, tortured and almost killed, and he hadn't had the time to think about his wound.

"I was…", the memory appeared vivid in his mind "…patrolling a zone."

"Are doctors supposed to do that?", asked Sherlock, quite confused.

"Not really. But it's war. I had to look constantly for injured and wounded people. So one day I decided to serve my duty as a soldier more than only as a doctor. As you would put it: it was the danger."

He took off his shirt, Sherlock, still eyes closed, smirked.

"Anyway. I was patrolling a road in a small village near Kandahar, so small that it didn't even have a proper name. I was inside what was considered a 'safe zone' when I heard an explosion in the market nearby, a dozen of metres from where I was standing. I moved to check what had happened, to see how many injured people there were. Two comrades did the same. As soon as I stepped out of the safe zone, there came the bang. It still echoes in my ears. It's the only thing I remember vividly. I do remember the pain, obviously. But the bang, the sensation that that sound had almost ripped my arm off, that I will never forget. I ran back to the safe zone, blood on my uniform and almost managed to break a leg. The psychosomatic trauma you talked about. It didn't happen anything to the leg, just a small strain. But it remembered me of the shot, of the run, of the fear. And it hurt more than the actual wound."

John had put on the pyjama while he was talking and now, absent-mindedly, rolled himself under the duvet, only aware of Sherlock's presence when he was fully under it. He stiffened. He could feel the comfortable warmth of another human being beside him. It had been a long time since he last felt a similar sensation. And Sherlock's warmth, in his opinion, was soft and somehow graceful like the man himself. It smelt and felt like home. The young man turned his head to John and reopened his eyes. Aquamarine eyes in the dark light of the room. They glittered like stars. John gulped but his body slowly relaxed. There was no touch between the two bodies, just the warmth to join them under the duvet. A connection well sought. A connection that made John feel good.

"I'm sorry.", said Sherlock.

"About what?"

"The shot. The pain you had to suffer."

"You have been shot too. You know how does it feel."

"No. It's different. Mine was a gunshot. Yours was a rifle's. It hurt thousand times more."

"It has soothed since then. What hurt more was the long time I spent in the hospital, alone.", John's words slipped out of his mouth.

"I'm sorry about that too.", Sherlock replied, quite concerned.

John could see he wasn't faking his worry. In the darkness, half hidden by it, Sherlock could just be Sherlock, a human being with his feelings, his worries, his humanity. John stretched out his hand and cupped Sherlock's.

"It has passed.", he whispered, reassuringly.

Sherlock nodded.

"I think it's your turn now.", he said.

"Turn for what?", asked John puzzled

"Uncomfortable questions.", Sherlock smirked "I've asked you one, so it's your turn."

John had a question in his mind. The question that had been bugging him for months. The question he had wanted to ask forever. Yet he asked something else.

"The explosion at university.", he said "How did it happen?"

"That's not even near uncomfortable.", Sherlock furrowed.

"I'm curious."

"Mmmf. Ok.", replied the young man "I had a two hours break between an organic chemistry lesson and a biology one. I sneaked into the laboratory, which was locked. But let's say that I have got my ways to open it."

John grinned. Yes, he was sure that Sherlock had got his ways to do it.

"I had brought some material from home with me. There was a reaction I wanted to verify but couldn't do it at home because it wasn't safe enough. The experiment proceeded perfectly until the fourth stage, then I guess that the gunpowder badly reacted with the citric acid. Or maybe it was the lactic acid with the nitro-glycerine. I can't remember. I just had the time to exit from the room and it went…well, boom."

John gawked.

"So you're basically saying that you have blown up a laboratory with nitro-glycerine?"

"Might have, yes.", Sherlock innocently answered.

"I'm surprised they didn't expel you from the university."

"It's not surprise at all. Its name is Mycroft, not 'surprise'.", he huffed.

"Are you telling me that you were trying to be expelled?"

"With all my strength.", he mischievously smiled.

"But…why?"

The idea that someone brilliant as Sherlock could purposely try to get expelled made him rather furious.

"I was bored.", the young man replied "Two days in that place and it was already being boring as hell."

"How could you say that? Only two days had passed!"

"Well, for example, there wasn't you.", Sherlock grinned slyly "And the other teachers are a walking nightmare."

John couldn't help but roll his eyes and smile at the same time.

"So you consider me a good teacher? I'm rubbish at it."

"Quite the contrary. Your lessons are heartfelt and students have already praised you a lot for that. And your knowledge of the subject is rather remarkable, considering you're a doctor and not a chemistry professor."

It was, probably, the first sincere compliment that Sherlock had ever said to him. John flushed in the dark room.

"You think my lessons are boring, do not try to fool me with these flatteries!", he joked.

"I do think that almost everything on this planet is boring. And your lessons are less boring than whatever other lesson I have ever had the disgrace to attend."

"Oh.", John cleared his throat, flushing more "Nice."

Another thought appeared in John's mind. It hadn't really crossed his mind before, because it had been unlikely to happen, but now it was different.

"Speaking of which…", he said "I think I have to resign."

Sherlock's eyes blazed in the darkness.

"What? No!", he replied "Why on Earth would you do that?"

John gawked, astonished. Was Sherlock really that oblivious about how the world worked?

"Because, Sherlock,", he explained calmly "at the moment I'm in a bed with you. Because we have decided to stay…", he couldn't still quite believe it "…together. And a professor and a student officially together is not something that the university is looking forward to. So I guess that resigning is the best solution."

"Rules. Always rules.", Sherlock huffed, heavily annoyed.

"I don't want to cause troubles to Mike. He's been kind with me."

"Anyway I won't be back until the shoulder is fully recovered.", said Sherlock "I probably won't return before May, so you can stay."

"I will still have to resign in May.", John remarked.

"My brother could arrange a deal if you wish to stay."

"I do not, if that means hiding our relationship from everyone. Moreover I think it's time for me to find a proper job. And it's also time for you to graduate."

"I could do it in no time."

"Then do it."

"You know I get distracted."

"I'll personally verify that the distractions won't be many."

"Don't you dare! I know you liked the distractions I provided you with."

"Point and match.", John grinned "Still: you have to graduate. And I assure you that I'll put every single effort in that."

"Bossy, aren't we?"

"Look who's talking!"

Sherlock giggled and John started to giggle too. In the darkness of the room all one could see were two people in love and the sound of it echoing on the walls. John had never felt so happy in his whole life.

"Is it some sort of dream?", he asked smiling.

"Why do you say so?"

"Because I've never felt so much happiness in my heart. I think it's going to explode from happiness. And I'm scared that it's just a good dream. That tomorrow I'll wake up and it's gone. I'm here with the most gorgeous man I've ever known and it feel like a dream."

"Don't be stupid, John. Last time I've checked I can assure you I'm as real as you can see. Plus there's no such thing as a heart exploding from happiness."

"I love you too, Sherlock.", John smiled, rolling his eyes.

Sherlock squeezed his hand.

"I reciprocate the feeling.", he answered "But you're a liar."

"A…what? Why?", John's mouth fell open.

"You said that you like my arrogant, moody, lunatic character. And don't tell me it's the truth, because it's a pathetic lie.", he half-smiled.

"Oh, Sherlock!", John sighed "Are you really analysing every word I say? I said that I like you. Yes, with your arrogant behaviour."

Sherlock gawked.

"Mind you that it doesn't mean that I'll accept it every time. You know I already don't. But it's part of you and I like you. Yes, with your arrogant way of being. Because hadn't it been for how arrogantly, brilliantly you answered me the day we met, we wouldn't have been here now. Always remember that."

Sherlock furrowed and raised an inquiring eyebrow.

"Are you serious?"

"Of course I am! Hadn't you been the way you are, do you think we would have been here?"

"It goes the same for you. Hadn't you been that interesting that day, I would have never considered you. But there's a lot of other things I've learnt to like about you, that's for sure. And I will never stop asking myself how is it possible that you do like me."

"Will that brilliant brain of yours ever stop to overthink and accept the goddamn truth?", John threatened.

"Maybe.", the young man smiled "If you teach me. And don't tell me you aren't a good teacher. Look at what you've done to me! I'm all sentiment and such, thanks to your teaching."

John chuckled.

"What's that?"

"That's the second sincere compliment in one evening. I'm still not quite used to it. So slow down or I'll die of heart attack."

"You're too young and too fit to have an heart attack."

"Third compliment. I'm definitely dying.", he giggled louder, tears in his eyes.

He felt so good and so comfortable that he started to think he could have stayed in that bed forever.

When the giggles finished, silence fell in the room. John stayed still, eyes fixed in the aquamarine of Sherlock's, wanting the night to last. His slightly ruffled curls on the white of the pillow, his right hand intertwined with his, his rosy cupid bow lips standing out on his pale skin, the slight redness on his cheeks. John still thought it was a dream. The most beautiful dream, because it was real. They stayed in each other's contemplation for a while.

"John…", Sherlock said at a certain point.

"Yes?", asked John, feeling sleepy.

"You are a liar for another reason."

"What reason?"

"The uncomfortable question."

Yes, thought John. It was the truth, he had lied. He had asked another question, not the one he had in mind.

"You wanted to ask about the rehab.", Sherlock quietly said "I saw it in your eyes."

"Yes.", sighed John "I did. But I don't think it's time to talk about it now. I know it's not your favourite topic."

"I want to talk to you about it, John.", the young man continued "I want you to know about it."

John sensed the other man's body tense under the duvet. He held his hand stronger and slightly stroked it.

"My head, John, is noisy. There are thoughts that spin inside at a speed of light's pace. When I'm not busy with something, these thoughts haunt me. They make me feel bad and I can't silence them. It's like having a train at full speed that can't stop. You might remember in what condition I was when I came here during that night."

John nodded, Sherlock took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

"I tried to silence them. In every possible way. The violin, the writing, the painting, sports even. Nothing worked. I thought I was going mad. Then I fell. It was a slow fall: a bit of alcohol here and there. Not much. Then I've discovered cocaine. Don't ask me how, though. It stopped the noises for a while. It was good. It helped me focus on other matters. But they came back, more violently. I was twenty-one. I switched to heroine. It was perfect."

John made a disgusted face.

"Do not do that face, John. I know it isn't a good thing to say, I'm just trying to explain."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to be rude."

"I know you didn't. Anyway: it was perfect because all the noises in my head ceased. Every single one. My head was finally free from everything. From my fears, from my loneliness, from sentiments. Things didn't improve. I started to live a life that I despise now. Then a man called Lestrade came to arrest a good bunch of people on a drug bust. And he arrested me. Oh, I hated him back then! Mycroft came to Scotland Yard, threatened everyone and I got out. He sent me to the rehab."

Here Sherlock stopped. John could see his eyes bright with fought back tears.

"It was horrible, John! Everyone thought I was a freak, a schizophrenic, a psychopath! Everyone there didn't want me to recover, they wanted me to die! I spent two years there…I came home…different. I had to fight and push my feelings away. It has been the only way I survived in there! I loathed every doctor, every nurse, every single person who made me feel like useless junk, a reject of this society!"

Now Sherlock wasn't holding his tears anymore. They were flowing down his pale cheeks, rivers of sorrow falling on the linen below. John felt a grip in his heart. He slowly moved closed to Sherlock and embraced him with his arms.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock.", he softly whispered, caressing his hair and placing a kiss on his forehead "I'm sorry you had to go through all that. I'm sorry it hurts still."

Sherlock gave John a little smile.

"It doesn't hurt that much if there's you."

"Then I promise I will always be here. Whatever happens, I'll be here shielding you. I might not be the most perfect man on Earth, but knowing I can make you feel better is all I need."

"And you're a pretty good shooter too. In case of emergency.", Sherlock smiled amid the tears.

"I admit it can be a quite useful skill when it comes to you.", he smiled back.

In the blink of an eye, Sherlock softly pressed his lips on John's. It was a wet and soft kiss. Their lips slowly parted, giving space for the other's tongue to slide inside. It was different from the other they had shared. It was slow, warm, full of care. The tongues twisted, melted into each other. John could feel the salty taste of Sherlock's tears on his lips and he wanted to make it vanish with every movement of his lips, with every stroke of his tongue. He languidly captured Sherlock's tongue with his own, caressed it with his own, made love to it with his own. It was not just a kiss. It was a declaration. I will always be there for you, that was written in John's kiss. And I will never let you go, that was what Sherlock's tongue answered.

When the kiss broke, Sherlock's eyes were red, but dried and somehow alive. John had never seen that brightness in those supposed icy eyes.

"I love you, John.", he eventually said "So much."

John's heart filled with instant honey.

"I reciprocate the feeling.", he smirked teasingly, then placed his lips near Sherlock's ear "I love you too, Sherlock. And always will."

Sherlock slightly nodded and they fell in a dreamless sleep. For the dream was already their reality.