Cold.
That was the first thing that John noticed.
His entire left side was cold.
With the sigh of a man awakening a pleasant dream, he pulled himself upright, and ran his fingers through his hair.
It had all been a dream then.
A beautiful, wonderful, painfully realistic dream.
Figures.
The former doctor swung himself from the bed, and froze at the sight of his door ajar.
It wasn't his door.
Another quick look and he paled.
He had slept in Sherlock's room.
He hadn't done that in months.
It did ft that dream, however.
"No Watson. It wasn't really. He's dead, remember? Been dead three years. Don't loose it now."
Carefully, as if trying not to break whatever spell he had been caught in, the doctor krept from the room, to see none other than Molly Hooper sitting at his kitchen table reading from her Kindle while sipping a mug of tea.
"Molly?"
The woman glanced up. Smiling softly at the former doctor.
"Good Morning John."
He simply stared at her, trying to figure out why she was here, what could possibly be so good about the morning.
He makeup was minimal, her hair dampened slightly around her face, but otherwise dry.
Slept in her makeup, rinsed it of when she woke up, less then twenty minuets ago.
Her clothing was rumbled in places, but otherwise in tact.
Her neck looked stiff, her posture more rigid and pained the average.
She crashed the couch.
Just like John had dreamed of.
"What. Why are you here?"
She looked up at him, surprised by the broken and pained tone of voice.
Even more so the way his eyes were narrowed, every feature looking haggard and pained.
Oh.
"John. Sherlock is still here. He hasn't left you he's just_"
The man walked into the room, towel wrapped around his hips, another rubbing his wet curls.
"Just getting ready for the day. Morning John."
The detective's eyes took in the image before him, and he sighed, stepping forward slowly before placing a reassuring had n John's shoulder.
"It wasn't a dream."
His blogger shuddered, collapsing in on himself and wrapping his arms firmly around the detective.
Sherlock turned to look over his shoulder, looking Molly straight in the eye before nodding towards the door.
She nodded, setting her mug down before standing from her chair, leaving the pair alone.
"You know John, I was almost back. If you could have slept just seven more minuets, I would have been right there."
The doctor rolled his eyes, pulling away and clenching his fist tightly.
He had the urge to strike the detective, but the bruises from the previous day had yet to fade, and the marks and scars that littered his previously flawless chest already had John's mind switching from angered to sympathetic.
Feeling more like a petulant child than a grown man, he simply shook his head.
"You're right. Sorry. I'm just-"
He shook his head again, clearing his throat distractedly.
"Why don't you go put some clothes on, and I'll just, erm, make breakfast."
His awkward transition from visibly angered to some hollow embodiment of his former self disconcerted the detective.
"John,what's wrong? What-"
"Promise me that you'll be here when I wake up."
Failed him again.
The Detective's eyes widened, and he placed another hand On John's shoulder, spinning him around and crashing thier lips together suddenly.
The former doctor froze and pulled back, shocked and more than a little afraid.
"Sherlock."
His voice was low, dangerous.
The voice of a soldier who had been cornered.
Shit.
The detective backed up a pace, his fingers running through his still damp curls in frustration.
He wanted to comfort his blogger, yet his every move seemed to harm him.
He paced around the room, his arms flailing as his frustration grew.
John watched, mesmerized and more than a little concerned by his former (current?) flatmate's behavior.
"Sherlock. Mate, what's wrong."
The detective paused, his lips parted as he registered that John was still in the room.
That he could see him.
The former doctor's face spoke volumes.
Not good.
"I don't know what to do."
The words were whispered, barely audible eve in the sudden stillness of the room.
John simply crooked his head, confused.
"Don't know what to do what? I just told you to get dressed. I'm sure you can find something to wear. You haven't forgotten how to put your pants on have you?"
Sherlock stared at him, open mouthed and utterly lost.
"John. I'm talking about us. I don't know what to do here."
He waved between them.
That was it then.
John thought, his features clouding over.
He's woken up and seen things as they are.
He sighed, hanging his head.
"Look Sherlock-"
"I keep failing you and I don't know how to stop. How do I become worthy of you?"
John stopped, mid-sentence, his brow furrowing further, lips pursed.
What?
"Sorry. You. Are failing me?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes, his hand going to catch the towel that was threatening to fall from his hips.
"Yes John. I know that I am. I don't need you reiterating it. I just want to know how to stop."
There was a dangerously long pause with John and Sherlock simply staring at each other before the former doctor burst into laughter, his hand clutching the counter beside him.
"That is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. Sherlock. You've never failed me, or anything like that. Saved me, yes Hurt me in the process of saving me? A necessary evil I suppose. But you've never failed me."
Sherlock simply stared forward, his expression blank, though his eyes were full of disbelief.
"I mean there was that one time when I specifically told you not to put kidneys in the bunt pan, but that was a long time ago."
John wiped his eye, moving forward to place a light kiss on Sherlock's cheek.
"If that's what you're all off about, then relax. You've not failed anybody."
His hand came to rest over the fading criss-cross scars lacing Sherlock's shoulder.
"As for being worthy of me, this isn't some C-grade Arthurian romance novel. You don't need to 'prove your worth for the fair maiden."
his hand moved down to Sherlock's hip.
"And I am no maiden."
He kissed the Detective once more, a light peck on the lips.
"However, if all this senescence translates into you feeling bad for leaving-"
He pulled Sherlock's hand up and let it rest over his heart.
"Then let me assure you that it was worth it. Because we are both alive."
The detective seemed to come back to himself, his eyes blinking and refocusing in on his blogger, the beating of John's heart steady under his palm.
After a few moments of simply existing, he let out a shaky laugh.
"To think, I was worried about having to reassure you. Not the other way around."
John let out a light chuckle of his own.
"The Mighty Sherlock Holmes admitting he was wrong? What is this world coming too?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes, and playfully smacked the back of his hand against John's chest.
"Don't get used to it. I'm simply off my game."
John nodded, stepping back again.
"I'm sure Resurrection will do that to you."
Sherlock didn't know whether to apologize once more for his Fall, or simply take the comment.
"It was a joke, Sherlock. Don't stare at me like you want to hide me in your closet. I've seen that look."
His gaze ran once more over Sherlock, lingering again at the bruises he himself had inflicted.
"Now please go get dressed. It's very distracting to have you running around in only a towel."
Sherlock smirked, pulling off the towel and tossing it over his shoulder.
"Whatever you say John."
The former doctor blushed crimson, his mouth going dry as his yes lingered over the now-lightly-tanned skin before him.
The detective turned on his heels, dutifully marching toward's John's room.
The former doctor himself turned back to the counter, trying to control his breathing while he readied the tea.
Two mugs, this time.
Just as it should be.
As he pulled a mug from the cupboard, however, he heard a scream.
"Mrs. Hudson!"
And footsteps pounding up the stairs.
John smiled to himself.
"Serves him right."