They both arrived at Baker Street out of breath and giddy.
Neither one spoke until they were firmly behind the front door.
"That was-"
Sherlock nodded.
"Yes."
A pause before both men dissolved into a it of giggles.
John doubled over, leaning against the wall, while Sherlock wrapped an arm across his mid section.
"Bloody hell Sherlock, what a mess we are."
The detective nodded, taking deep calming breaths, his head thrown back and his eyes shut.
"I know. I return from the dead, you give me a very mixed welcome home. We both end up lost only to meet, make out, and return home giggling."
John smiled broadly his hand finding Sherlock's shoulder, his eyes suddenly dark in the dim light.
"You know what wold be a great way to cap of this completely mad day."
Sherlock's breath caught in his throat.
"Sleep."
There was no innuendo there.
No indication of amorous activities filling the night.
Sherlock quickly rearranged his features, trying not to let his lust or disappointment show.
"Right, yes. It is-"
He glanced down at his blogger's watch.
"Nearly three AM. Sleep is a good option."
He gestured up the staircase.
"Shall we?"
John nodded, his steps uneven as fatigue began to overcome the adrenaline.
He reached the top of the stairs with a huff, the urge to collapse nearly overwhelming.
He groaned, contemplating the steps to his room, before going to take refuge in his usual place on the couch.
It was only as stepped forward to pull back the blanket that he noticed the body already occupying the piece of furniture.
John umped back, startled at the sight of Molly sound asleep on the couch.
Warm hands suddenly gripped his shoulders, as Sherlock pulled him back towards the kitchen.
He leaned in lose, warm breath puffing against John's ear.
"Take my bed. There's no point in you navigating the stairs in your state."
The former doctor opened his mouth to protest, which resulted in a damning yawn.
"It's settled then."
Sherlock pushed his blogger to his bedroom door, turning on the bedside lamp and smiling at him softly.
"Good night John."
The door closed gently behind him, leaving an exhausted and confused John Watson behind.
Sherlock ignored Molly on his way up the steps to John's room, his own stamina depleting the longer he remained on his feet.
By the time that he had managed to strip out of his clothes he was to the point of collapsing.
He crawled under the covers, a prolonged sigh escaping his lips as he was assaulted by the warm and spicy scent of John Watson.
His John.
He was home.
These were the last thoughts that floated through the genius's mind before he fell back to sleep.
The waver, the way his words felt wrong.
Forced.
"Goodbye, John."
The sickness, the bile rising in his throat as his eyes misted over with tears.
" No. Don't—"
The fall of his stomach matching the falling of his best friend.
"Sherlock!"
His head colliding with the pavement.
The blurring of his vision as he scrambled forward.
"I'm his friend."
The body, HIS body, bloodied, still warm.
No pulse.
"Oh god no."
"John!"
The doctor bolted upright, his body shaking and tears streaming down his cheeks.
"John. Shh John I'm here."
Warm arms wrapped around him, holding him.
His arms.
The smell of Sherlock so close.
The feel of him pressed against him.
The beating of his pulse against the doctor's skin.
"Sherlock."
The word was weak, a whisper in the air.
"Yes. Yes John. I'm here, You're alright. We're alright."
That voice, deep, soothing.
Something was wrong with it.
"Sherlock?"
The former doctor turned in the dark, his fingers reaching out to find the detective's face.
They collided with soft curls before trailing down to defined cheekbones, the smooth skin damp to the touch.
Further investigation revealed a trebling lip letting loose shaky puffs of breath.
John wanted to mention it, but decided against it, considering he was in exactly the same shape.
He simply wrapped his own arms around Sherlock, burying his face in the other man's shoulder while laying back down in his arms.
There are a few moments of wriggling around to get comfortable,John ending up curled against Sherlock's chest, the detective running his fingers through his bloggers short, silver-blonde hair.
They simply rest like this for a few moment,s neither one wanting to break the spell that surrounded them.
Finally, John let out an exhausted sigh.
"Sherlock, what are you dong in here?"
The detective's fingers paused, his chest rising as he drew in a long breath.
"I, had a nightmare."
There.
Short, to the point.
Honest.
"Me too."
Sherlock chuckled, the motion jostling his blogger slightly.
"Obviously."
John smiled, despite the sarcasm lacing the tone.
"You'd think I'd be used to them by now."
Sherlock frowned down at John, his face contorting in an effort to get a glimpse at John in the pitch black of the room.
"John-"
the former doctor shook his head.
"It's not your fault. I mean, it is you, but you had to do it and I-"
The image of Sherlock laying in a pool of blood filled his senses once more and he shuddered, Sherlock's arms gripping him tighter.
"I am sorry, John. So very sorry."
The waver had returned to the detective's voice.
John buried his ace in the sot curls on Sherlock's chest, his cheek resting there.
"What was yours about? I mean if you don't want to talk about it-"
Sherlock shook his head, the motion carrying through his body.
"No, it's alright. Funnily enough they were about you. They are always about you."
John glanced up, squinting in vain to see his detective's expression.
"How are they about me?"
"The what ifs and cold have beens John. What if you'd said no at Barts. What if you hadn't shot that cabby, or knocked over that bow. What if Moriarty had set that bomb off at the pool, or I had shot it."
His voice was getting progressively rougher, emotion flooding it.
"What if you stepped on a mine at Baskerville, or I hadn't taken the fall. Those were what they used to be."
John ran a and over Sherlock shoulder, his fingers tracing the fresh scars he found there.
"Used to be?"
The detective sighed.
"After the fall they turned a bit more, well, domestic. What if you moved on? Settled down with some beautiful woman in a nice home with your own practice in the country. You with your 2.5 kids and your perfect life without me. Or not. What if you never moved on?"
Another sigh.
"And then there were nights where I thought, 'What if you didn't take me back?'"
John stopped running his fingers over Sherlock's skin, shuffling forward to place his lips upon the detective's.
"You can let those go Sherlock. I'm here, now. I'm with you, and we will be fine. We will always be fine."
Sherlock laughed again his lips finding John's cheek before he nuzzled their cheeks together.
"It's good to hear that John."
John sighed, the smell and feel of Sherlock lulling his exhausted body slowly to sleep.
"Promise me that you'll be here when I wake up."
Sherlock nodded, his hands rubbing John's T-shirt clad back soothingly.
John fell asleep nearly instantly, his face slack against Sherlock's shoulder.
The detective tilted his head back, his eyes brimming with tears at the injustice of it all.
He did not deserve this man.
He did not deserve his kindness, or his love.
He did not deserve his forgiveness.
So he would earn it.
He would become worthy.