A/N: Post-Reichenbach and pre-s3. I was aiming for angst but I think I failed quite miserably. Well, Johnlock's Johnlock. Enjoy (:

He's sitting in his armchair, Sherlock's violin cradled in his lap like a precious thing, a virtual mountain of music scores littering the floor around him. John sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. He knows he shouldn't be doing this, shouldn't be poking a wound when the blood has barely started clotting. His therapist would definitely advise against it.

But fuck if he cares; the Stradivarius is the closest thing to Sherlock he has left, Mycroft having tired of his moping and had most of Sherlock's possessions delivered to Holmes Manor, safely out of John's sight. John had adamantly refused to part with the violin and Sherlock's music. God knows why he kept it; it's not like he can actually read the notes penned onto the sheets with obvious care. But when he runs his fingers down the page, when he skims his hand along the smooth ebony of the instrument, he can almost imagine Sherlock in his own chair, scraping violent, nasally-sounding notes with his bow at 4am just to annoy John.

John takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.

It's been two years and it hasn't stopped hurting. Not once. There are times when John marvels at how he's managed to make it this far without offing himself or everyone else around him because honestly, he doesn't see the point anymore.

He remembers with painstaking clarity the numbness he felt when Sherlock jumped, remembers how it felt like the world had tilted on its axis and he was the one in freefall. It took him five months to stop living in denial, to stop his eyes from flicking to the door at the slightest sound, and to start boxing away the lab equipment and Stradivarius which up until then he had been careful not to touch, mindful of Sherlock's uncanny ability to tell if his things had been moved so much as a inch.

Dust is eloquent, John can almost hear his voice in his ear, the rich baritone wrapping around him like velvet, and all he wants is to see him again, alive and breathing and in the flesh, not cold and dead and broken –

"…from the various dust formation that you haven't so much as gone out in the past week, John, which I don't doubt is a rather unhealthy choice of lifestyle."

It takes John perhaps three seconds to realize that this time, this time it's real, the voice is real and there and his eyes snap open, his heart beating fast, too fast, somewhere in the vicinity of his throat.

Sherlock's sitting opposite him in the armchair that's been left vacated these last couple of years, hands steepled under his chin, eyes narrowed as he studies John, looking exactly like he had before walking off the roof of St. Bart's. He swallows, because his throat's closed up and he can feel the beginning tendrils of anger curling in the pit of his stomach. Another beat of silence, during which John realizes Sherlock's probably awaiting a response to his deduction – his customary 'brilliant' or 'fantastic' when it comes to complimenting the detective's astutely observant eye – Sherlock's puzzled yet expectant expression says as much.

John consciously steadies his suddenly trembling hand as he leans over and gently rests the violin on the coffee table off to his left, loosening his jaw when he realizes he's been clenching it so hard his teeth have gone numb. Across from him, Sherlock – he's alive he's alive it's okay he's alive – fidgets uncharacteristically, and John smirks at his obvious discomfort, letting the silence drag on, until the detective can't bear it any longer.

"John, I –" he licks his lips, eyes darting nervously to John's as his hands twist in his lap, "I'm starting to realize that maybe this wasn't, uh, wasn't the best idea –"

The rest of whatever Sherlock's been about to say is cut off as John launches himself at him, landing a solid right hook to Sherlock's chin before he tackles him to the ground, pinning the surprised detective in place with his body weight.

Sherlock's eyes are wide and his cheeks are flushed, breaths coming faster as he stares at John, astonishment written in every line of his face. "What – John, what –" he starts to say, but John chooses that moment to fist his hand in the detective's silk shirt and bring his mouth crashing down on Sherlock's in a messy kiss.

Any initial smugness at having surprised the unflappable detective fades as Sherlock lets out a choked-off whimper and all but melts into the kiss, his long arms winding themselves around John's neck, stroking lightly along his nape before those long-fingered hands gently cup the sides of his face like he's something precious and breakable and all of a sudden John can't breathe and it has absolutely nothing to do with the kiss and everything to do with the way his chest is constricting and constricting until it feels like his heart is trying to claw its way out of his chest.

He pulls away, ducking his head so he doesn't have to meet Sherlock's inquiring gaze as he noses his way down Sherlock's neck, latching onto the rapidly fluttering pulse point before sucking on it, hard enough to leave a bruise. Sherlock's Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, his hands tightening their hold on his hair, and John hears the barely-there hitch in his voice when he says, "John, you – we don't have to –"

"Shut up," John tells him, and damn him for being so bloody perceptive all the fucking time. John bites down hard on the tender skin he punched not five minutes ago, ignoring the detective's surprised gasp, not pausing as he mouths his way down Sherlock's clavicle, sucking another mark in the dip between his collarbones while he single-handedly rakes a hand down Sherlock's shirtfront, sending buttons flying every which way and ruining the Dolce & Gabbana ensemble he's wearing.

John's mouth is on Sherlock's skin as soon as his chest is bared, mouthing hungrily over the pale canvas of his torso while his hands push impatiently at the sides of Sherlock's shirt.

He sits up so he's straddling Sherlock across the hips, panting, "Off."

Sherlock sits up slowly as he pushes himself off the floor, still pinned by John's weight. John wants to haul Sherlock up by his collar and tear the shirt off his shoulders because Sherlock – the bloody bastard – appears to be taking his time about it. And now he's leaning back, propped up on his elbows, shirt still most definitely on, although a V-shaped expanse of skin is remains visible, thanks to the missing buttons. He's staring up at John now, eyes narrowed and brow furrowed, scrutinizing John like he's seen Sherlock study bacterial cultures under his microscope lens countless times.

John fidgets, deciding he doesn't like being on the receiving end of that gaze. It feels like the beginning of their acquaintance, when John would do something the detective wasn't expecting (like shooting Jefferson Hope) and Sherlock would aim that intensely scrutinizing look at him, like he can't for the life of him figure John out. Like he's an interesting puzzle worth solving. He used to feel flattered and amused and just a little bit proud, because Sherlock – who finds everyday life tedious and serial killings fascinating and whose idea of a fun night out is chasing criminals down the alleys of London – found him (ordinary, boring John Watson) interesting enough to figure out.

Now, years later, after watching the man fall to his death and attending his funeral and giving his eulogy and grieving and mourning and trying his utmost not to put a bullet in his mouth on days when he just doesn't see the point anymore, John realizes he hates it. Hates the way Sherlock's eyes, clear and sharp with their laser-like intensity, bore into his own, make him feel raw and exposed and like his insides have been flayed wide open, everything that makes him John Watson laid bare for Sherlock to see.

Sherlock's voice, when he speaks, is soft, as if he's speaking to a caged animal, one that's frightened and lashes out as soon as anyone comes near (John hates the comparison as soon as the thought forms in his head).

"I'm sorry, John. For all the hurt I caused you. I never meant –" he pauses, takes a deep breath, "– you were meant to move on with your life, forget about me and be happy because you would never have had that with me around –"

John's brain has barely processed the words before his mouth is back on Sherlock's and he's kissing the life out of him, the detective letting out a pleased sound before surging up to return it. "You – are such –" John pants in between fervent kisses, "– a bloody –" he tugs Sherlock up into a sitting position and divests him of his shirt, "– tosser."

"I know – I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Sherlock mutters when they part for air, his eyes squeezed shut and his face turned away like he's hiding and doesn't want John to see.

John frees his hands from where they're tangled in Sherlock's hair so he can cup his face, angling it towards him. "Look at me," he says softly and Sherlock does (John gets the feeling he would do most anything for him). He stares at John through watery eyes and when he finally blinks, a tear slips down his cheek. John gently wipes it off with a thumb, continuing to stroke over Sherlock's cheekbone.

He tries and fails to suppress the pleased feeling bubbling in his chest when the detective instinctively leans into the touch.

"I'm never –" Sherlock starts, voice strained and raspy. He clears his throat, tries again. "I'm never going to make you happy, John. I'll say something or do something like – like be dead for two years and I don't want –" Sherlock averts his gaze, speaking instead to John's collarbone, "– you deserve to be happy and I couldn't – I can't live with myself knowing I hurt you."

John blinks, stunned into momentary silence by what has got to be the most emotion Sherlock's shown since Dartmoor and I don't have friends, John, I've just got one. He swallows past the lump lodged in his throat, mouth too dry to speak. He wants to find every single person who's ever called this man an unfeeling sociopath and snap their necks, because anyone with half a brain can see Sherlock's problem isn't too little heart; it's too much. He can pinpoint the exact moment when Sherlock withdraws, can see the effort it takes for his barriers to slam shut, for him to smooth his face into an impenetrable mask, but now – now John can see the cracks in his armour, the weariness and dejection etched into every line of his face, and it feels like his heart is breaking all over again, shattering into pieces on the pavement alongside Sherlock's broken body.

He nudges Sherlock's chin so the detective has to look at him. John tries not to be fazed by the blank gaze he's met with, tells himself it's only there because Sherlock doesn't want it to hurt, and – oh. He thinks I'm going to turn him away, John thinks wildly, Or that I'm going to leave.

"Oh, Sherlock," he mutters, grinning fondly despite the situation at hand, "You really are an unmitigated idiot sometimes." Before Sherlock can manage so much as an indignant squawk John is kissing him again, close-lipped and slow, taking his time to worry Sherlock's bottom lip with his teeth, tracing the seam of his cupid-bow lips with the tip of his tongue before slotting their mouths together again and honestly, it's like they're made for each other, the ease with which everything from their lips to chest to hips align.

A noise that might have been a choked-off sob works its way out of Sherlock's throat and when John simply slips his hands into Sherlock's hair and cradles his skull in response, Sherlock capitulates, for the second time tonight. He gives in, gives himself over to John completely, lips parting under John's questing tongue, hands slowly coming up so his palms frame John's face, fingertips stroking reverently across his cheek.

When they finally break apart this time, it's for some much needed oxygen. John scoots even closer to Sherlock (he's practically sitting in the man's lap, now) and rests his forehead against Sherlock's.

"You're right," he murmurs, and at Sherlock's blank look clarifies, "I do deserve to be happy."

John lets the silence drag on for long enough that it's uncomfortable, before smirking. "Which is why you're going to stop whining and take me to bed, where you're going to make me very happy."

Sherlock stares at him in bafflement for a moment, before a delighted giggle escapes him, the sound pure and joyous and infectious. That's how ten minutes later finds the two of them collapsed in a heap on the carpeted floor of 221B, holding onto each other and their cramping sides and complaining between breathless giggles that they're never going to finish making out if they don't stop laughing.

The top three buttons of John's shirt are undone and his belt buckle has been loosened and Sherlock's still shirtless but they're nowhere near ready to finish what they started so John gives it up as a lost cause and slumps onto Sherlock's shoulder, still wracked with uncontrollable giggles.

And even though his sides hurt from laughing and his shoulder's aching in protest, his chest no longer feels like someone took a scalpel to it without anaesthetic and he can (finally, finally) breathe again. And even though it's probably going to take months before he can begin to forgive the stupid prat for everything he's done, John thinks they're going to be okay.

For now he simply clutches tighter at Sherlock's shoulders and presses closer to him and revels in the feeling of how much this feels like coming home.

A/N: Drop me a review? They're totally my division.