Unconditionally. Always.

So, my first Sherlock fanfic went over well enough and gave me the courage to try a one-shot of an idea that's been skating around in my head for ages. It is Season 3 spoiler-free and has in fact nothing to do with Season 3 at all. Here's hoping it will be well received. Please don't flame! Do read and review everyone! Greatly appreciated with many thanks! Read on!

Falling.

Falling.

Falling.

Thud. Crack. Blood.

It could have been a medieval scene. All that was missing was a church tower, a market square, a guillotine and a mob with the church bell tolling dully while the hot blood spread on the ground.

But all he got was the rather more pedestrian sidewalk.

It had probably seen a multitude of lives walk in and out and up and down, living, surviving, existing, dying. And yet, none perhaps as decided as this one had been. Nor one quite so undeserving.

And still that life-giving bright sticky warmth flowed out from the rapidly cooling body.

Body.

Empty of personality.

Transport.

No longer human. Just pounds of flesh.

No pulse.

Like a machine.

No soul.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me…"

No love.

"SHERLOCK!"

To wake from a nightmare usually meant that the dreamer could wake up into a world brighter and more hopeful. To leave behind the dark and tortured dreams where they wouldn't be able to haunt you for some time.

But what could anyone do when the nightmare followed you home into the world of waking men, like a lost puppy forcing you to see it and acknowledge it and feed it and love it and give it a home, sticking to you no matter how often and how vigorously you gesticulated at it and threatened it to 'go away and stay away', because after all it had nowhere else to go and who else's was it if not your own anyway?

And then, when you had finally given in and let it stay,

giving it a chance in the positive, feel-good influence of the lightened daytime sky

that softened your fears and quietened your doubts,

it burrowed under your skin and grew and grew and grew

into something mad and dark and uncontrollable and made you afraid to sleep,

made you question your sanity, and took over your life,

like an obsessive Harpy, railing and rending at you even in your waking hours,

till you forgot what it meant to have peace and security and satisfaction and happiness,

and all you could see were the blood matted inky curls lying gracelessly on the hard grey pavement,

crowning a pale familiar face getting whiter by the second,

a hand flung out to the side, equally pale, lifeless.

Dull.

Tick-tock.

Tick-tock.

Tick.

Tock.

They always say that time waits for no man. And yet, how spectacularly amusing it was that time had just stopped the moment Sherlock Holmes had stepped off that roof. Even in his fall from grace, from life, from his reputation, from his Work, he was still as graceful as when he walked or ran, every part of that lithe, supple body humming with suppressed energy and emotion.

He would have denied the emotion. Or at least every emotion but excitement at finding a lip-smacking, deliciously complicated Case that would make him literally jump for joy like a child in a candy store allowed to buy all he could ever want. Christmas indeed.

Sherlock Holmes. Consulting Detective. He made the job.

He made the job.

London was a ghost city now, left abandoned in the wake of the greatest game ever played on its streets. An empty board gathering dust, suffering from the lack of care from its greatest caretaker, its Watcher from the shadows, its avenging angel. Gone. Leaving a void, a gaping chasm of imploding grief so deep that it pulled in itself everyone who had known the great man, from the youngest member of the Homeless Network to the close knit group of four known to be his closest friends.

Doctor John Watson.

Mycroft Holmes.

Mrs. Hudson.

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.

Over the past year and a half, all of them had grieved in their own ways, sometimes coming together to remember Sherlock Holmes as they alone knew him when the grief came knocking at their hearts, choking their throats with breathless intensity. More often and especially on the first anniversary of his death, they came to give their silent support to the man who had been the chief mourner at his funeral – Sherlock Holmes' best friend and partner, John Watson.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. The Baker Street boys. The detective and his blogger.

All of London knew them as such, criminals and all. Hand in glove, they always went together. It was rare to see the one without the other, even if the other was lurking about a crime scene somewhere, deducing. But very few knew or even recognized them as something more on a whole different level. And that was why even though their lives were getting better and were almost normal most days as the second year rolled away, John needed their support more than the rest of them put together. Because John may have been Sherlock's sometimes appreciated conductor of light, but Sherlock was the one person who John had ever truly loved. And lost.

Or so they had all believed.

Until this day, two years to the day that Sherlock Holmes had famously jumped to his death.

Two years to the day that he had left a 'note' via phone to his best friend, John Watson.

Two years to the day that he had told John that he was a fake, a liar, a trickster.

Two years to the day that he had ripped a gaping hole in the collective existence of the four sitting that very day at 221B Baker Street, trying to move on from the stagnant, grasping mire of their tragic loss.

On this day, Sherlock Holmes came back to the land of the living.

It was Mycroft who noticed him standing in the door, looking much as they remembered him. Tall, lean and fair, piercing blue eyes alive and restlessly taking in all the information that the world offered him, a deep blue scarf draped around his neck, hands stuck in the deep pockets of his long black coat sweeping behind him, a plain white silk shirt open at the throat, perfectly creased trousers and polished black shoes. He stood there a long moment, taking in the scene in the flat.

Mycroft was sitting in his armchair, legs crossed with an ease that spoke of long familiarity with the seating arrangement and his surroundings, the paper open in his hands, looking back at him with an impassive, expressionless look that told him nothing whatsoever about Mycroft's thoughts.

Lestrade was sitting at the table in the middle of the room, hunched over a laptop with his back to the door, possibly because the windows were open and he was enjoying the fresh air and also due to the ease of conversation with his brother that the position provided. There seemed to be a stack of case files at his elbow, so he'd brought his work in with him today to add to the other few files carelessly strewn around the place, particularly on the couch where the indentation meant that someone had been sleeping there regularly. So there were at least two occupants of the flat with Lestrade probably sleeping on the couch.

Though the connecting door to the kitchen was almost shut, he could hear the voices of Mrs. Hudson and John behind it, engaged in the preparation of pasta with either white or red sauce. The aroma was making his mouth water and he hadn't eaten in so very long. Perhaps a homemade lunch would be best. They sounded happy, at ease in their domesticity and a smile lifted the corners of his lips at the sound of Mrs. Hudson's quiet chuckle to whatever John had just said. He longed to be able to see them and turned towards the kitchen door with that intention when a voice rang out, strong, sure, intrusive, grating, halting.

Hand outstretched mere inches from the door he stopped at Mycroft's bland accusative voice.

"Well, well, well, the prodigal seems to have returned."

The silence was deafening.

Everything happened all at once. Everyone moved together. Like perfectly controlled puppets timed to perform at their cue.

Lestrade turned in his chair to look first at Mycroft, then continued turning to face the door, stopping short in blatant confusion at seeing the vision at the door. He looked older, more worn and his hair was shorter and whiter than it had been two years ago. The lines on his face were deeper and the fading tan line on his ring finger suggested he had finally divorced his wife. Sherlock watched as the DI got to his feet, swaying forward a moment before planting his feet at shoulder width in a stance of stability.

Mrs. Hudson and John emerged together, entering the living room from the kitchen, both looking a question at Mycroft who was still staring right at him. Mrs. Hudson was just going to start the dishes going by the rubber gloves on her hands and John was wiping his hands on the kitchen towel he always refused to let Sherlock borrow to wipe up the messes of his experiments.

As one they turned from Mycroft to see what he was looking at, John positioned a little behind Mrs. Hudson. In the next minute, their motherly landlady paled, let out a shriek and fainted away, falling back into John who caught her reflexively. Anxious at the effect the sight of him had caused to Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock automatically moved to check on her himself, when he was stopped in his tracks by the other three occupants of the room.

Looking up from Mrs. Hudson, having checked her pulse and temperature, John looked up at him with an indescribable look in his deep blue eyes that unsettled Sherlock as much as didn't want to admit it. Mycroft was now standing, eyes still on his brother, stepping closer to John's charge as they prepared to move her to the couch. Simultaneously, Lestrade had moved forward as well, his body angled effectively to block Sherlock from coming any closer to them. There was no overt hostility anywhere in the room and yet it felt as though the very air had frozen.

Sherlock watched helplessly as John and Mycroft, of all people, settled Mrs. Hudson carefully on the couch and checked her over. Finally satisfied that she was fine John nodded minutely at the elder Holmes who straightened and turned to stand against the window looking out at the street. And then John spoke.

"If Mrs. Hudson isn't feeling better by evening Sherlock, then I swear I will kill you and put you in that fake grave of yours myself."

Sherlock could only gape at John.

"And trust me when I say this," John continued. "Mycroft and Greg will both help."

"John, I …" John still hadn't turned to look at his erstwhile flatmate.

"Save it. We know why you did it. You told Mycroft about the snipers and Mycroft told us later. After your funeral." Sherlock shivered at John's tone of voice. "Together we eliminated them. So that's done."

As though they had rehearsed this conversation, Mycroft took up the thread seamlessly. "We believed the damage already done with you being dead after all. So we grieved and moved on. I began receiving regular reports from several intelligence agencies about a ghost in the system who was moving through an unknown pattern, eliminating several targets, both prominent and civilian who we later discovered to be a part of Moriarty's large empire. I did not know, however, nor did I even guess, that it would be you, brother dear." Mycroft turned from the window to stare at his younger brother. "After all, you did manage to convince all of us of your death."

"We did manage to clear your name though," said Lestrade, sitting back down on the chair, tilting it back on its back legs. "About an year after your death, you were posthumously pardoned and exonerated of all crimes. Moriarty was recognized as the real criminal that he was, though we couldn't find the body."

"Its in my grave," blurted Sherlock, not knowing how to break into this conversation. He was out of his depth and he had no idea how to gain control of the situation.

Mycroft raised a brow and retrieved his phone from his pocket, placing a call immediately. "M is in the cemetery with Sherlock," was all he said before abruptly cancelling the call.

Sherlock watched with interest and a growing apprehension as his brother nodded to John who in turn appeared completely calm about Mycroft's presence in this flat. Their home. Their home. Suddenly feeling childishly belligerent about his brother standing in their flat, he broke out with the old argument, "Why are you here, Mycroft?"

The impassive stare cut into him as Mycroft replied easily, "I came to spend the day with John, Greg and dear Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock scoffed. "You willingly chose to spend a day with people of a lower intellect that your own? Please, Mycroft." He waved a hand dismissively.

"I assure you," his brother returned, "I have been quite comfortably welcome here over the past two years."

That stung. "So I go all over the world to hunt down the rest of Moriarty's web and you come in here and steal my flat and my friends? How opportunistic of you," he sneered.

Unexpectedly, it was John who replied, his tone flat but firm. "The flat is mine now; Mycroft bought it and gave it over to me." He looked at the tall man and said, "I still don't know why though." A smile twisted his lips lightly when Mycroft just looked at him knowingly and he shook his head. "And as far as 'stealing' us goes, we are not now, nor have we ever been your possessions to belong to you Sherlock, even though that is exactly how you treated us. Disposable objects unworthy of you. Had you ever considered us your friends, you would not have done so. But you being the self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath, I doubt it would have ever crossed your mind."

Aghast, Sherlock sputtered, "But you … you are .. John, you are my friend. And Mrs. Hudson. And Lestrade too." He spread his slim hands wide in supplication, voice rising, "I jumped off that roof for you three .. I .. I did it to save you, John. To save my friends!"

As he finished that broken tirade, Mrs. Hudson stirred. John bent at her side at once, attentive and observant. Her eyelids fluttered open to John's worried face and she smiled when the doctor took her hand in both his own, subtly taking her pulse. "How do you feel, Mrs. Hudson?"

She smiled and said, "I'm fine John. Just fine." She looked up from him at both Mycroft and Greg, but it was on Sherlock that her gaze finally rested.

Using John as leverage, she pushed herself up on the couch until she was sitting. Squeezing John's hand in warning, she extended her other hand to Sherlock, a smile lighting her face. "Sherlock? Is that really you?"

"Its me, Mrs. Hudson," he answered approaching her warily, conscious of three pairs of eyes tracking his movements like he was a wild animal among them.

"Well then come here, Sherlock. Don't be a stranger," she admonished.

As Sherlock approached, John rose and backed away until he could feel Mycroft's stable, comfortable warmth at his back and Greg's arm in easy reach of his grasp. The three men watched as a mother was reunited with her long lost son.

"Why did you take so long to come home, Sherlock?" she asked, her arms around the young man's shoulders, shoulders that shook with quiet sobs of relief and frustration. The "sorry" from Sherlock was almost too quiet to be heard, but the dear lady just held the boy in her arms, rubbing his back in soothing circles until he calmed down. As he pulled away from the embrace, he placed a quick, almost shy kiss on her cheek, a gift more precious to her than anything he could have given her. She kissed his brow to show that all was forgiven and forgotten, patting his shoulder comfortingly as they both rose from the couch. "I'm going to put on a cuppa for all of us. We're going to need it, I think." She fixed the three boys with a Look as she walked past them, "Don't be too hard on him."

Before anyone could say anything else, John surged towards the door, pulling on his jacket and plucking his phone and keys off the table. "I'm going out for a walk. Greg, don't wait up. Mycroft, as always it was good to see you."

"And you too John," Mycroft replied, ever courteous and privately amused to see how shaken Sherlock looked at this sudden turn of events. He noticed Greg and John exchange a significant look and realized what was about to happen. He looked forward to it rather more eagerly than anyone should at the return of a recalcitrant sibling. They listened to John's weary footsteps descending the stairs and then the front door opening and closing behind him.

It took a full minute before Sherlock jerked forward, fully intending to follow John and talk to him. But the moment he made a move towards the door Greg blocked his path and stared him down. A silent battle of wills followed, Sherlock attempting use his height to glare down at the slightly shorter man, but Greg refused to budge, his body tight and tense. Mycroft watched the by-play with barely concealed amusement, noticing how his brother's eyes flickered to the door every so often.

"Please," whispered Sherlock, pleadingly, and it was so unexpected that Greg blinked and almost moved before he remembered what was going on. His gaze hardened minutely while he dialed a familiar number in his pocket.

"Sit down, Sherlock. Talk." He waited until the man was seated in his own armchair before positioning his chair in line with the door. Mycroft stood leaning against the mantelpiece, a towering, stern presence. "You owe us an explanation."

It took a while for Sherlock to compose himself, his expression mirroring indecision, hands shaking and his body taut as a bowstring, ready to fling himself out of the flat by any means possible.

"Sherlock!"

He physically jerked, then lowered his eyes to the floor, face already morphing into the bored expression he often wore when providing explanations for a case. He steepled his fingers under his chin, gaze focusing on a distant point on the opposite wall as he began to lay out his tale for the two men, answering interjected questions from Greg, while Mycroft listened quietly, almost indifferently.

Over the past two years, all alone in his fight against a vast criminal empire, Sherlock had fought on, determined to end the threat of Moriarty to his life and that of his friends. Of course, his reasons weren't all altruistic, but the fact that he cared enough to do something so drastic as to jump to his fake death, showed the human caring side of the self-proclaimed sociopath.

But high-functioning or not, the man was a sentimental fool, caring without even knowing how much he cared.

Listening on his earphones while sitting in the back of a pub, John thought back to that last day. How Sherlock had seemed so indifferent to the news of Mrs. Hudson's death, only to discover that he had fabricated it to keep them both safe and away from the line of fire.'Alone protects me,' he had said then and now he explained how their grief had not only kept them all safe from the snipers, but also provided incontrovertible proof that the detective was dead. This in turn left him relatively safe to continue with his plan of eradicating Moriarty's spider web from the world. No-one would think to look for a dead man and with the kingpin of the operation actually dead, no-one would guess at the identity of the ghost.

Then came the details and what details they were. Unknowingly mirroring each other, John and Greg both tightened their hands around their respective glasses of whisky as Sherlock told them about the people he had killed, assassinated, drowned, strangled, or punched to death, providing Mycroft names to put against the list of bodies found all over the world.

What followed next was a litany of abuse he suffered whenever he was caught or abducted or just outmaneuvered on a trail. From the sound of it, he'd been beaten repeatedly to within an inch of his life only to pull off miraculous escapes with the aid of several contacts he had cultivated during his travels. That he managed to bring down his captors every time was small comfort in the face of hearing that calm collected voice listing his various injuries while simultaneously dismissing them. He wasn't looking for sympathy, that much was obvious; just simply stating the facts like he'd been asked.

All of them were getting worried by the complete lack of emotion in Sherlock's voice as he related the extensive list of his 'victories'. From that incredible brain of his, he kept pulling out names, places, significant events and a tally of bodies that was beyond impressive for any man to have accomplished in the time it took the consulting detective.

As the tale continued, Mycroft was getting increasingly concerned about the state of his brother's mind the more he listened, though his agitation showed only by the tightening of his hands on his umbrella, face still impassive but eyes continually trained on his younger brother. He could see the sheer fear in those pale grey eyes, kept tightly reined in behind a mask of indifferent boredom. But it wasn't fear of his actions or the memories of the past two years, Mycroft knew, but fear that the people Sherlock believed to be his friends would not accept him after knowing all that he had done. After two long years of living in the shadows and jumping at sounds, unable to sleep, unable to breath freely, Sherlock was terrified of being left alone.

"And so, when I returned to London with the intention of terminating the contracts of the three snipers hired for you here, I was surprised to learn that they had been killed in freak accidents 2 months after I left. I am assuming you had something to do with that, Mycroft. But of course, with that last piece of web firmly dissolved, it was time for me to come back to life. That, of course, had been my objective all along." Greg and Mycroft watched as Sherlock rose from his seat and calmly strode around the DI's chair towards the door. "But now that I have related everything you wanted to know, I can see that I am no longer welcome here. Thank you for letting me rest for a while," he said while swiftly wrapping his scarf around his neck and shrugging into his coat, not quite hiding a wince from a still-healing wound. One hand rested on the doorknob as he finished the hour long monologue. "Goodbye."

To both Mycroft and Greg, it seemed like a dream to see Sherlock trying to escape at the end of his story. Everyone in the room knew that he wanted to stay. They wanted him to stay. But they hadn't moved fast enough when Sherlock pulled open the door and made to step out. What happened next broke their stupor quite effectively when their quarry, upon opening the door was beaten back by a rather strong left hook.

Sherlock certainly hadn't seen that one coming. A strong fist landed squarely on his right jaw, pushing his body sharply to the left and making him stumble. Recovering quickly after months of experience in raw fighting, his hands had already clenched into fists and started moving to deliver a vicious uppercut before his head snapped up to locate his target.

And froze in shock; the punch missed its target by a hair's breath.

Framed in the door, his bearing very much an echo of his own rather violent past, stood Captain John Watson. He had removed his jumper and jacket at the door where they could be seen lying on the floor in a puddle of cloth, leaving him clad just his shirt. Arms straight down at his sides, he hadn't even put up a defense to Sherlock's instinctive retaliation though they could see the muscles bunch under the flimsy veneer of his shirt. Blue eyes dark and stormy with a hidden rage, he advanced on the recovering Sherlock with slow measured steps, making the crouching genius fall back on his butt staring up at the doctor in shock.

John bent down to take a fist-full of the heavy coat and heaved the slim man to his feet effortlessly. Sherlock grunted at being pulled off center, his weight falling on his toes and the back of his neck, but he made no move to free himself. Without warning, John whirled around and smashed Sherlock into the wall, the short momentum ending rather painfully for the detective when he hit the wall face first and with his already injured left shoulder. He let out a small whimper of pain before clenching his teeth firmly against whatever might come next.

And come it did.

John Watson was a formidable fighter, with or without weapons, for he fought with a fury that burned bright hot white, even as his mind functioned more coldly. His training as a doctor gave him all the information he would ever need to know exactly where to land his blows to cause damage and to what degree. Sherlock had seen an enraged John Watson in action once during a case when the unfortunate suspect had tried to take Mrs. Hudson hostage after shooting Sherlock himself in the leg to prevent pursuit.

He had hoped never to have to see it again.

John had taken the man down with a scary precision in less than 5 seconds, a cold light in his friendly blue eyes, until his focus shifted to doctor mode, checking over his flatmate and landlady while calling Lestrade for backup.

And now, all that rage was focused on him. And he could not but feel, as his body shook with the force of John's punches and blows, that he deserved each and every one of them and whatever else John did to him. Because he had hurt John Watson and anyone who hurt John Watson had to be punished.

Even if it was John himself who did the punishing.

So he took the pain, not hiding from it, not shying away, not fighting back. He deserved to be punished, to feel pain as he had made John feel pain. To hurt as John was hurt. In many ways it was cathartic, like he was being punished for his crimes, for the lives he had taken, for the people he had left grieving for him in his wake. John was both his Judge and his Jury and if he so desired, his Executioner. He had that right. No-one else ever would.

But sooner or later, in the face of the extreme sensory onslaught his mind and body had to shut down, already battered and scored with wounds that he tried to hide from the world. He did not sympathy for the state of his body. And though he wanted to stay awake through his punishment, sometime during that symphony of flesh meeting flesh, Sherlock passed out.

Insensate of his surroundings, he was unaware when John stopped the moment he slid bonelessly down the wall. He didn't know when Greg began shouting. He didn't know when Mycroft came to kneel beside him to check his pulse.

He didn't know when John knelt beside him and lifted him into his arms, carrying him carefully into his bedroom, laying him down on his bed, laid with clean sheets and blankets. He didn't know when he was undressed and treated for his wounds, several cuts bandaged or stitched and wrapped. He didn't know when he was sponged down, gently and with infinite care, removing all traces of blood and dirt from his body, but leaving behind a checkerboard of bruises in different colours.

When he finally woke, it was to escape from the dark and fevered dreams of hurt and pain born of the darkness in his mind. The horrors that kept him awake and the nightmares that wove into his dreams. All the people, faceless, nameless, who he had had to kill. And all those people, faceless, nameless, who had broken his body, and very nearly broken his mind. And so with a gasp and a whimper he woke … into another darkness. To the knowledge that he was in his bed at Baker Street. That his wounds had been bandaged. That his clothes had been changed. That he was now dressed in his favorite silk pajamas. But not how he got there.

It was when he tried to move that something stopped him that had never been there before. A single pale forearm was draped across his waist, palm resting easily against his stomach, not restricting him, but just … there. Part of a body that lay behind him. A body he did not yet want to face. Before he could think of a way to escape, however, it shifted and spoke, a low hum in the darkness.

"Sherlock?"

Oh! He could listen to that voice forever and not be tired of it. Not when he'd won his way back to it after so very long. It was even better than his memories of it. But what would happen if that voice no longer wanted him around? No longer wanted him to stay and be a part of its life again? In his musings, he didn't realize when the body shifted again and moved around to face him, a broad, calloused hand framing his face, knuckles brushing against his jaw, thumb rubbing softly over his cheekbones.

"Sherlock."

Relief. Joy. Contentment. Why did this voice tell him those things? Shouldn't he be angry with him? Like he was before? This was not torture, surely. John would never torture him. Except when he nagged him to eat more or sleep more or to be polite to Lestrade and the victims. Speaking of which, where was Lestrade? And wasn't Mycroft here too?

"They've both gone home, Sherlock. While you were sleeping."

I suppose I must have said all that out loud. Funny. I didn't think I was speaking.

"You are," replied the voice, warmth and amusement in its expression. It brought Sherlock around quickly, clearing his head of its foggy disorientation. He looked up at the speaker leaning over him, looking directly into his face, blue eyes meeting grey in the sliver of pale moonlight streaming in through the window.

"John." His voice was scratchy, hoarse.

"I'm here, Sherlock." That voice, warm as a cocoon, wrapped around him comforting and safe.

"I'm sorry, John," he had to try and explain why he had done it all.

"Its alright Sherlock. I know why you did it. Greg called while you were explaining. I know what happened, who died, what they did to you. I don't know about you, but most of that info is Mycroft's territory to deal with. What's left is my job." He gave a small smile that lit his eyes and brightened the room. "You'll be fine soon. I've got you now. And I won't let you fall again."

The hand moved up into his hair, leaving a pleasant tingling warmth on his skin. As John began carding his hand through his hair, Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes, burrowing against John's solid warmth. He felt the other man place a gentle kiss on his brow and was startled to feel his eyes water under their lids.

"I don't deserve you," he whispered.

"Neither do I," John whispered back, his hand never stopping, though he lay down next to Sherlock.

Grey eyes opened to look into John's. "I shouldn't have left, John. But I had to keep you all safe. He … Moriarty … he had snipers on you. I couldn't let you … I couldn't, John!"

John smiled at the earnest expression on Sherlock's young-old face. There were lines there that were born of worry and stress over the last two years that should never have been there. Bringing up his left hand, he smoothed over those lines, then sketched his friend's face. Sherlock closed his eyes on a sob, his fingers curled into John's jumper.

"You're home now, Sherlock. Everyone is safe and so are you. And we'll deal with the rest one day at a time."

Sherlock listened to John's soft voice, but could not bring himself to believe his reassurances. It was not perhaps the best time, but he would tell John now.

"John?"

"Yes Sherlock?"

"I need to tell you something."

"Tell away."

The fingers tightened in the jumper, and in response, the hand in his hair pressed down lightly. He swallowed convulsively, eyes screwed tightly closed, lashed black against his pale skin.

"I must admit that my plan was perhaps not my best idea and to have done what I did to you is unforgivable. But had it not been the others as well … I mean … if it was only you … I would still have done it, just to keep you safe. There is no-one else I … that I would rather stand by John … than you. No-one that I want or need more than you. John, I …"

He opened his eyes, needing to see John when he whispered, "I love you."

John's eyes widened and he went still, looking at Sherlock, taking in his fears, his doubts, his need, his love, all of it reflected clearly in his eyes. His fingers tightened on Sherlock's jaw, stopping him from moving away when John did not speak for a moment too long. A brush of his thumb across his lips stopped the words in his mouth and he waited miserably for John to say something. Anything at all.

John's lips curved into a warm smile. "Sherlock Holmes, you wonderful, infuriating, brilliant man," said John, as with a swift movement, he settled himself over Sherlock, bracing himself up with his hands on either side of his face. "Here's what I think of you."

And with that John lowered his head and kissed his friend, his love, coaxing him to kiss him back. Warm lips ghosted a breath over the soft bow of Sherlock's mouth, licking his bottom lip, before moving up to place little butterfly kisses on his brow, the closed lids of his eyes, his cheeks, his nose, the ridge of his jaw and his side of his neck.

And when something inside Sherlock snapped and broke, John kissed away his tears, wiping away the salt tracks with his thumbs and catching the trembling lips with his own while Sherlock wrapped his long arms around him pulling them closer together. They rolled to the side and John put an arm around Sherlock, cradling his head, holding him in place when his breath hitched, never breaking the bond of their mouths on each other.

When they finally broke apart, needing to pull air back in their lungs, John placed his hands on either side of Sherlock's head, looked into his eyes and said, "I love you, Sherlock. Completely. Unconditionally. Unreservedly. Always have. Always will."

Sherlock smiled, a small glad smile that came from his heart and tucked his nose into John neck, cuddling closer to his doctor, his friend, his companion, his lover. The only person who had ever mattered so much to him in all his life. And now he would have him all to himself, forever. He breathed in John's scent, leather, wood soap, tea and home and snuggled in pecking a small kiss on his neck in thanks, finally content in the familiar circle of John's arms.