John Watson let himself quietly into his flat, easing the door shut softly behind him. It was silent inside, but not the kind of silence of being empty, although it had that overtone. John had learned to tell the difference. He couldn't hear Sherlock asleep in the bedroom, but he knew his husband had to be there. In part because his coat, shoes and scarf were still there, the coat and scarf hung neatly only because John bothered to do it. That was enough to alert John; even at his worst, or best, John supposed, Sherlock wouldn't fly out of the flat for long without his coat. John had seen him do it a few times, only to come racing back, long legs taking the stairs three at a time, grab his coat and dart back out into London's busy streets. If the coat was still there and the stairs were silent, then Sherlock was home.

John knew Sherlock was sleeping, because his phone had been very precisely positioned on the coffee table next to a full cup of tea. Why the cup had to be full, John had no idea, and hadn't bothered to ask.

After being discharged from the hospital, Sherlock had taken to leaving John some additional sign that he was at home and asleep, usually some personal thing of his on the coffee table. He had taken awhile to settle on the phone and the tea. Presumably he left his phone so that he could sleep undisturbed; John had wondered if perhaps the tea was supposed to be a gesture to the doctor, a welcome, but it was almost invariably cold when John got it.

He usually drank it anyway.

At first, it had been any number of things. A book Sherlock was reading, or may have read, or may have finished, or which may have been John's. The TV remote – that hadn't been particularly helpful. A couple of times, Sherlock had left the telly on, but had given up on that, because he got distracted by the noise, even from the other room. Even if the volume was off. John let that one pass, too. For a few days after being fitted with the walking cast, it had been his crutches, propped against the couch, but the less he used them, the more Sherlock forgot about them.

One day, it had been his wedding ring.

The sight of it sitting in the middle of the otherwise empty coffee table, gleaming gently in the lamplight, made his blood run cold. John stared at the ring for a long moment, hearing his heart hammering in his ears, feeling the nausea tighten his stomach. The universe, and his heart, contracted in that moment, and he was unable to move, rooted to the spot, all too aware of the silence and emptiness in the flat.

Then a small sound from the back bedroom, a normal, everyday sound of someone turning over in his sleep, brought him home to the present.

In one stride, he crossed the living room, scooped up the ring and charged into their bedroom, the door banging against the frame. Sherlock started from sleep, blinking hard, then pushing himself onto his forearms, giving John a bleary and pitiful look.

John ignored it. Unable to speak, for fear of what might come out of his mouth, he gritted his teeth and held up the ring, glaring. Sherlock looked at him, puzzled a moment, still waking up, then frowned.

"I was sleeping!" he protested wearily. Even now, there were still faint bruises around his eyes and healing scars on his cheeks and chin.

John drew another deep breath.

"You left this?" he asked, forcing his voice to remain steady, but he could hear how hard it was. Sherlock seemed puzzled.

"Yes, so you'd know I was here. And not wake me up." The last sentence was delivered pointedly.

"Sherlock. You left your ring. On the table."

The detective gave John one of his special "I'm-trying-to-be-patient-with-you" looks, and nodded.

"Yes," he repeated. "So you know I was sleeping. Like you said I should."

John managed to close his eyes, unsure if he was fighting down laughter or frustration. After a moment, he heard a soft "ah" from his husband.

"Yeah," John said tersely, opening his eyes again.

"But I wouldn't leave you!" Sherlock protested. "Why on Earth would you think that?"

"What would you think if my wedding ring was on the table when you came home?" John retorted.

That brought Sherlock up short.

"It was either you left, or Moriarty left with you," John said quietly. He didn't relish Sherlock's wince at the words, but they needed to be said. Sometimes, he had nightmares that Lestrade was taking him to the morgue following the accident, not the hospital. More often, he had nightmares about what could have happened with Moriarty in the MRI room. He hadn't told Sherlock, but the detective had figured it out after the first couple, if only because he had similar nightmares himself. For nearly a week, John had felt like their flat was a nightly performance of shared and remembered fear, then it began to abate.

But he wasn't letting himself forget. Moriarty was still out there.

"Leave something else from now on," John ordered, sitting down on the bed and handing the ring back to Sherlock. He watched as the other man put it back on, then Sherlock lay down again, clasping his hands under his chest, and giving John a woeful look.

"I'm going back to sleep," he grunted, burying his face in the pillows.

John shucked his coat and scarf and toed off his shoes. He sank down gratefully onto the couch and picked up the tea. It was cold now, which meant Sherlock had been asleep for awhile and may be up soon. It was strange, because John was still used to the overactive Sherlock who could function on six hours of sleep and who darted about the flat, as if stopping or slowing down had never crossed his mind. But he was glad at least that Sherlock took his advice to heart, even if it was because his body just stopped functioning if he tried not to sleep. John was starting to adjust to a husband who cut himself off in mid-prattle to announce that he was going to bed.

At least it was better than the abrupt silences in the hospital when Sherlock had fallen asleep without warning. He was mostly better now, but still needed to stop and rest, which John privately thought was good for him. Maybe it would teach him to slow down.

But probably not.

And anyway, John knew he would miss the old chaos, if it never returned.

He sipped the cold tea, which wasn't entirely unpleasant, because Sherlock had his own ideas about how much sugar tea required and John often thought that it was amazing that other man wasn't the sole source of employment for half the dentists in London. But cold sweet tea was better than cold bitter tea, and he drank it out of some vague sense of marital duty. If Sherlock was leaving it as some sort of loving gesture, then John couldn't bring himself to refuse it.

He checked Sherlock's phone for messages, but there was nothing. John was developing a sense for when Lestrade would reappear in their lives with another case no one could solve. During Sherlock's convalescence, the detective inspector had sent over boxes of cold case files, which had kept the consulting detective occupied between naps and physiotherapy, and which had let John return to work. Occasionally, he spotted a familiar car on the street, which let him work in peace, knowing Mycroft's men were guarding the house.

Often, he tried not to remember that Moriarty had made it unnoticed into the hospital and had captured Sherlock alone, despite Mycroft's people and Lestrade's officers being present. If he thought about it too much, it made him panic, which did no good to his patients at work, and even less to his mental health. He texted Sherlock more now, which his husband tolerated and even reciprocated. In his own way, Sherlock was just as worried about John's safety. It would have been difficult for John to identify that once, but he had experience now. And, he had to admit, Sherlock had gotten better, at least in dealing with him.

Once, just under a year ago, some months after they'd become romantically involved, John had been idly snooping through Sherlock's phone. He knew he shouldn't have been, but he found it fascinating the things Sherlock stored on there. His taste in music was even more bizarre than John would have predicted, and he made a very conscious effort not to listen to his husband's playlists. But he had stumbled upon what looked like a to-do list at first glance, although the information on it was not something most people would jot down.

-Remember to say I love you

-Careful with the left shoulder

-Less sugar in the tea (check on that – can't be right)

-Learn to cook eggs

-Cook breakfast

-Say please and thank you

-Sort mail properly

There was also a brief list of John's favourite restaurants and take-away places, as well as a list of foods John didn't like, which he had noticed before that had been disappearing from the flat.

The memory still made him smile, although he had never checked the list again, nor given into the urge to snoop through Sherlock's phone after that. John knew that if Sherlock found out John had discovered the list, he'd be upset, so he kept it to himself. Sherlock wouldn't understand that finding the list alone was worth more than a dozen days of properly sorted mail and came close to an "I love you". It was, in fact, an "I love you", in Sherlock's own way. It was not easy for him, so he often didn't put in the effort and often failed to understand why it would be necessary. When he had found that list, John had known he'd made the right choice.

He wondered, now, if it also included "do not leave ring on table". Certainly, that had never happened since.

Still smiling, he set the phone down and swung his legs onto the couch, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. It had been a routine day at work, but it was nice to be home. The rare times between Sherlock's frenzied cases were cherished.

After a few minutes, John heard the sound of movement from the bedroom and Sherlock came padding out in stocking feet and John's old bathrobe, which the detective had appropriated for himself at some point. John didn't care much; it was so old he could no longer remember when or where he'd gotten it, nor if he'd bought it for himself or received it as a gift. Whenever John washed it, Sherlock made him wear it for a full night, to "get the right smell back", as he said.

"Hello, sleepy," John said wryly as Sherlock sank onto the couch, settling his long body against John's. The detective chuckled, still shaking off sleep, and John smiled, kissing him lightly. He was mostly recovered now; the bruises on his face were gone and the cuts had healed, leaving him with some scars that would fade from pink to white as time went on. The cuts on his head were healed as well, as with his arms, and the bruises everywhere on his body, which had traced seatbelt lines across his chest and pelvis, as well as pointed to broken ribs, had faded away. He still had twinges from the mending ribs, John knew, and was still working on regaining all of the strength in his left leg.

Sherlock regarded John, a small smile playing on his lips. Idly, John ran his fingers through his husband's hair, watching Sherlock watch him. Even now, the younger man seemed intent on memorizing every millimetre of John's face, but John didn't hold that against him. After ten days of being unable to see, he did not begrudge Sherlock the opportunity to enjoy looking at anything.

John wove his fingers into Sherlock's dark hair, resting his hand gently against the back of the other man's head. Sherlock closed his eyes momentarily, the smile on his lips twitching and growing. Gently, John kissed him again. Sherlock returned the kiss, settling in closer against his husband. He found John's other hand, twining his fingers with the doctor's, and John could feel the slight coolness and pressure of the gold and bronze wedding band Sherlock wore against his own skin.

"I was going to suggest we eat out tonight," the detective murmured, his breath warm against John's lips. "But now I think we should stay in."

John smiled and caught Sherlock's lips in another kiss.

"Good idea," he replied. "I'm not particularly hungry yet, anyway."

"Well," Sherlock murmured, "We'll just have to see about working up your appetite, won't we?"

Some time later, they ate ordered-in Indian on the couch, resting against one another. Sherlock was engrossed in a new episode of Doctor Who, his grey eyes intent on the television as he ate. John watched with mild interest; it was more entertaining to watch Sherlock watch the show. John loved that Sherlock could get so caught up in something that wasn't work related. It was good to hear him laugh, too, at the corny lines that would otherwise make John roll his eyes. That, and the occasional muttered "brilliant!" from the consulting detective were high praise for the show.

John enjoyed the show more now that he watched it on a regular basis. It was still campy and absurd, but it was meant to be, and it could certainly be worse. Sherlock didn't go in for some of the reality garbage John had endured in Afghanistan. John himself used to enjoy one or two of the American crime drama series, but had stopped watching them very quickly after meeting Sherlock, because of the constant stream of criticism. Suspension of disbelief seemed to be something Sherlock would only apply to Doctor Who.

John finished his curry and put the container on the coffee table, next to the empty tea mug which, what with one thing or another, he hadn't yet put in the sink. He wrapped an arm easily around Sherlock's shoulders and leaned forward a bit. Sherlock glanced at him and gave John a quick kiss before returning his attention to the telly. John could taste the spices from Sherlock's lips.

He cherished these moments, which had an unusual sense of normality, as if they were any other couple in the world, enjoying an evening at home together. John caught himself quickly, as if fate or the universe might be watching.

Don't call attention to it! he warned himself, focusing on the sensation of Sherlock's warm body resting against his, his eyes tracing Sherlock's profile. Because-

Sherlock's mobile rang.

"I knew it!" John exclaimed. Sherlock shot him a puzzled look. John sighed, waving a hand. "Just answer it."

The consulting detective shook his head and scooped up the phone, answering the call. John sighed, but did not really feel put out. He had been somewhat expecting the call after all, since it had been several days.

"Lestrade," Sherlock greeted. "What is it?"