Author's note: So, um, this is my first fic and stuff. Please be gentle. It's going to be a bit long. Neither britpicked nor beta'd.

suppose I never ever met you
suppose we never fell in love
suppose I never ever let you
kiss me so sweet and so soft
-"Fidelity" by Regina Spektor

Chapter One

In retrospect, Sherlock realized that his first mistake had been the kiss.

It wasn't a particularly romantic one, at that. It had been in a fit of enlightenment, when all the facts suddenly fell into place and he'd bounded off the couch, excitedly sharing this information with John, and kissed him.

He wasn't even paying much attention to it, at the time. His mind was focused on the case and he was only dimly aware of what he was doing. John was too stunned to react or respond, and by the time he came out of it Sherlock had dashed into his room to fetch his mobile and text Lestrade.

There, Sherlock realized what he'd done and was too surprised and embarrassed to venture out of his room. John didn't bother him for the rest of the night, which was the worst part. By midnight Sherlock had convinced himself that he would never be forgiven. Yet he was proven wrong the next morning when John knocked timidly and entered with tea. They sipped in silence until Sherlock felt he might explode from the tension.

"Look, about last night—"

"Sherlock." John cut him off swiftly and firmly, and one glance at his expression confirmed that all was forgiven.

And then John surprised him with a kiss. That was the thing about John: he was full of surprises. And Sherlock wasn't easily surprised.

When they finally stopped for breath, John looked away and said slowly, "I think I love you."

And this time, Sherlock was not at all surprised to find that the feeling was mutual.

Water closed on top of him and for a moment Sherlock couldn't remember how to move and he couldn't breathe but breathing's boring and then the word John flashed across his frozen brain and he reached out and grabbed John's arm. He cleared his mind and started tugging John towards the surface but John was heavy and unconscious—why was he unconscious? Suddenly they broke the surface and Sherlock gasped in the air and then coughed because it was full of dust from the rubble. And then he was shaking John and calling his name and there was a dull pain in his leg and blood spreading in the water and flashing lights and police and people everywhere…

His second mistake was getting comfortable.

It was hard to resist, though. Life was simply not boring when John was around. Not even the worst of things, like watching those awful movies, for instance. Sherlock still made a great show of disdain and was chastised for it, but to be honest he didn't really mind sitting through James Bond. Especially not when he was curled up on the couch with John snuggled against him.

For once he found happiness outside of his work. Even in the smallest of things, like chatting over morning tea or short goodbye kisses or midday texts from John or just falling asleep, one arm wrapped around the man he loved.

It was everyday. It was pedestrian. It was… comfortable.

And Sherlock Holmes, who wasn't a normal person, who didn't understand normal people, found himself living a normal life with John Watson.

He woke up in the hospital, and was automatically annoyed.

He didn't like hospitals. He had no patience for them. They were inefficient and boring and the doctors were idiots. Besides, he had no need for one, now that he had John to take care of him.

He jumped out of bed, gasped at the pain, and slowly slid back under the crisp white sheets. He wished John would come get him soon and take him away, he was quite sick of the hospital… yet at the same time he felt the heavy blanket of sleep overpowering him, and blearily hoped that John would still rescue him, even if he was asleep.

His third (and worst) mistake was obvious, stupid, and damning.

It was also around this time that he became vaguely aware of the first two mistakes.

After all, if he hadn't let John get so close to him, they wouldn't be here. They'd be at home, perhaps, warm and safe. Not here, surrounded by snipers and explosives and danger.

For a moment the world was frozen in time, as if the universe was holding its breath waiting to see what Sherlock would do. Sherlock hadn't quite decided. He had ideas, of course, a million circling round his brain, but none of them seemed good enough. And here, pointing a gun at a bomb with both John and his lives at risk, good enough was important.

And he was running out of time.

Aah. That one plan might work. It was all about the timing. He calculated in his head how much time he'd have to grab John and dive into the pool, and it wasn't a lot.

He looked up at John, and their eyes connected. For once they really truly saw each other in a way they never had before and Sherlock knew just how much John trusted him. And loved him.

He closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

And too many shots rang out before the building crumpled.

He woke up and saw the doctor and tried to pretend he was still asleep but failed. He was forced to listen to boring facts and figures about his condition, what he was and wasn't allowed to do, and when he could go home.

Home. The word alone triggered a deluge of emotions, memories, love, worry, anxiety, fear. He felt a pressing urgency and interrupted the doctor.

"Where's John?"