Disclaimer: I own nothing.

A/N: This is the sequel to Charcoal and Color, set post-Reichenbach. Spoilers. Rated M for sexual situations and some mild swearing. Enjoy.

John started receiving pictures about a month after Sherlock's death. The first time, Molly called him in to see her at St. Bart's. Naturally, he wasn't terribly inclined to revisit the scene of Sherlock's suicide, but she sounded urgent.

When he arrived that night, they didn't talk. She merely gave him a glance of what may have been pity before sliding a large manila envelope across the morgue table.

"I was told to give you these," she said softly. "And John…I'm really sorry."

Then Molly was gone, leaving John alone in his confusion. What could have been so important that she would call him over, only to leave? He reached for the package across from him and opened it carefully.

John inhaled sharply.

There were several drawings enclosed in the envelope, all in a very familiar hand. There was one of Molly, one of Moriarty raising a gun to his mouth in the midst of a spider web, something that must have been the view from the rooftop of John, the red light of a sniper rifle on his head. The last picture was of John in the graveyard, exactly as he had been not three days prior.

That final image had a simple message written on the back. Just two words.

I'm Sorry.

A flood of emotions crashed into him, drowning him under their weight. He couldn't breathe, couldn't process, couldn't move. There was only one thought that was clear enough to distinguish from the roaring in his ears.

He's alive. Sherlock's alive.

After that night, a new picture appeared each week on the steps of 221B. There weren't any more written words, but John was learning how to interpret each image. After "Sorry" came "Forgive me." Then there was "I'm bored" and "I miss you" and the list went on.

Perhaps the most remarkable of all came after 6 months. That one was "I love you."

The pictures came for over a year, during which time John was able to work out exactly how he felt about them and the reasons behind their existence.

He was angry and hurt, very much so, at being lied to and left behind. He was worried that whatever Sherlock was doing would result in him being killed before he was able to return. But mostly though, he loved him. And while he liked getting the drawings, he needed to see the man himself, needed to touch him, to prove that he really was alive and that it wasn't all some fantasy brought on by grief.

And after 20 months, 3 days, and 16 hours, John got his wish.

There was nothing particularly remarkable about the day of Sherlock's return. It was a typical fall day for most of the world, but for the two inhabitants of 221B Baker Street, it was everything.

John came home from work that day to see a familiar coat and scarf on the arm of the couch. He stopped in the doorway and stared at the clothing, hoping it meant what he wanted it to.

"John…"

The voice came from the entrance to the kitchen and John quickly turned his head to see the man he had been waiting for.

"Sherlock."

The two men stared at each other for several moments, categorizing every possible observation they could.

Thinner, hasn't been eating as much recently, working too hard, Harry is back with Clara, limp returned but is almost gone again…

Working too hard chasing criminals over God knows where, tired, hasn't eaten in…probably three days, hasn't slept in four, scar on his wrist wasn't there before, knife graze most likely…

They stood observing, deducing, tension beginning to thicken the air, and then suddenly they weren't simply staring, and John was crossing the room.

Sherlock hardly registered the movement at first, was still caught up in the fact that he was home and John, wonderful John, was finally safe. However he certainly did take notice when John was right in front of him, when he was pinning him to the wall, when their lips met.

It wasn't a kiss so much as an explosion. It was a release of everything that couldn't be said, every possible emotion that had been felt in the time since they had last seen each other.

It was demanding, punishing, hot, hard, and somewhere in the back of John's mind was the vague recollection that this was their first kiss. But he didn't care if it was too fast or too sudden because Sherlock was here, in the flesh, and their tongues were intertwining and it wasn't enough.

John's hands moved to the hem of Sherlock's shirt and slid them under, meeting warm muscle that tensed under his touch. Sherlock broke the kiss with a groan, his head falling back against the wall, hands reaching to undo the buttons on the shirt to give John better access.

John brought one hand up, pulling Sherlock's head down and his lips back to his. The next time they broke for air, John didn't stop, his lips and tongue moving to taste the skin on Sherlock's neck, his hands running over every uncovered patch of skin. When he bit down sharply, marking him, Sherlock quickly flipped them around, catching John's wrists in one hand and pinning them above his head.

"Sherlock, please," he gasped out. "I need to touch you."

His only response was to kiss him harder.

John's head was spinning. He wondered why they hadn't done this earlier, wanted to ask if this was what it felt like to be drunk or high, had so many questions but didn't really want answers. He just wanted to fall into Sherlock, to be so close they were practically the same person. He needed more.

He needed skin against skin, sweat, heat, lips, teeth, tongues. He needed everything.

Coming out of his haze, John realized that Sherlock had somehow removed his sweater and was on his knees, kissing along his waistband, pushing down his pants and…

Oh God. Mouth. Wet. Hot. God.

"Fuck!"

John didn't curse often, but in this case, it seemed incredibly appropriate. He had no idea where Sherlock had learned that particular act, but at the moment he didn't particularly care. His mind shut off almost completely, his knees weakened so that he probably would have fallen to the floor if Sherlock hadn't been holding him up.

Under normal circumstances, John might have been embarrassed about how quickly he came, but there was nothing normal about this. This was Sherlock Holmes and John Watson the way they were always meant to be, and it was with that thought in mind that John drew Sherlock to his feet and kissed him hard before taking his hand and leading him to the bedroom.

The next morning, Sherlock woke up before John and watched him sleep. There were soft beams of sunlight streaming through the window that cut through the shadows and caused John's hair to shine and his skin to glow.

Sherlock's fingers twitched and he smiled at the sleeping figure before reaching for a sketch pad. They would talk later. For now, the sun would shine.

A/N: Review?