"Don't ever do that to me again," John murmurs into Sherlock's hair, bodies wrapped together, arms and legs - even Sherlock's wounded leg, stiff and sore as it is - all tangled in each other. "I don't know what I'd do if you'd gotten dusted."
"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispers back, voice soft in the darkness though the world is brightening outside the curtains. "Promise me you'll be more careful too. Stake was almost in your chest. I had to intervene."
"I know. I'm sorry too."
"Well then," and the smirk is evident in Sherlock's voice, tired though he still is, "I feel as if I'm owed some retribution from the whole affair." He shifts carefully in the bed, enough to be able to press his lips to John's, softly, carefully, as if John is the injured one.
"Sure you're up to it?"
"As I ever am anymore."
So they partake of the only carnal pleasure left to them, exploring each other's bodies. Lips pressed to lips, and necks where pulses once thrummed and finger tips and long-healed scars. Tongues snaking into mouths and the dips at collarbones and elbow dimples (and other places too, of course, though the pleasure now is psychological, not physical.) Eventually, each dozes off, feeling - as they so often do in this afterlife - remarkably blessed.