It is not the calm before a storm. Rather, it is the quiet the settles after it, when the winds have died and the clouds have cleared to reveal the damage left by the storm's wake.

The petrichor of their shared nightmare still lingers in the air. Sherlock can almost taste it: the deception, the grief, the fear, the loneliness.

Yet even now, three years, twelve days, six hours and eighteen minutes since his... disappearance, Sherlock still marvels at how there was never any doubt.

'Nobody could be that clever.'

'You could.'

John has finally let sleep claim him, his body half-turned toward Sherlock, still unconsciously seeking Sherlock's presence for comfort, still subconsciously believing that the man stretched out beside him on the bed is a mere figment of his imagination and will soon vanish when he opens his eyes.

Sherlock watches the steady rise and fall of John's chest, and for once, his mind is quiet as he listens to John simply breathing and revels in the fact that John is next to him and beautifully alive.

'All lives end. All hearts are broken.

Caring is not an advantage.'

His gaze lingers to where John's hand is resting innocently on the pillow between them; an unspoken but seemingly necessary barrier. Sherlock's hand is resting mere centimeters away from John's, but it is frozen in place, aching to touch but terrified to break.

'This is your heart, and you should never let it rule your head.'

They have not touched since his return twelve days, six hours and twenty-seven minutes ago, not since John had pulled him into a bone-crushing embrace that threatened to engulf him and meld him into John's skin, and Sherlock had gasped and wondered how he had ever survived this long without [his] John, and he had wanted to wrap a chain around both of them and lock it and swallow the key so that they will never be separated ever again.

'I'll burn you.'

He used to believe that hell didn't exist until he lost his only piece of heaven.

'I'll burn the heart out of you.'

His body betrays him as he is unable to repress the shiver that shoots through him. He curls his fingers reflexively, and his skin brushes ever so slightly with John's.

John's breath catches, but he doesn't stir.

'Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side.'

His gaze settles, as always, to John's face. His focus narrows and sharpens as his mind catalogues all the minute details revealing the changes these past three years, twelve days, six hours and thirty-eight minutes has brought.

'I was just playing the game.'

'And this is just losing.'

Lines have appeared across John's face like a parched desert, indicating the weariness of a grief long carried. The crow's feet that feathered his eyes are barely visible now, indicating that John has rarely smiled nor laughed since their... separation. His sun-bleached dishwater hair has evaporated into a dull, lifeless grey, and the hollows under his eyes have deepened and darkened, indicating a solitary life spent indoors and sleepless nights plagued by nightmares. Even in sleep, John's features aren't fully relaxed, with his lips pressed tightly together and his brows furrowing at the center, indicating a strange, heart-rending mixture of quiet suffering and stubborn determination.

'I don't want the world believing you're a fraud.

I know you for real.'

John doesn't know that Sherlock knows. He knows how many visits John had with his therapist, how soon John needed that hated cane again, how often John took out his gun contemplatively when he was alone, how close John came to using the morphine, how often he stood by the grave, not saying anything, but simply, silently weeping.

'I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you.'

And most of all, Sherlock knows how hard John had fought. How he held his own against Moriarty's men, how he walked the streets with his head held high despite the hissing insults people threw his way, how he scoured the bowels of London's cesspools and how he had been thrown out of Scotland Yard multiple times for trying to present evidence of Sherlock's innocence, how regularly he had drinks with Lestrade and tea with Mrs. Hudson and coffee with Molly as he tenderly nursed their grief and set aside his own...

And Sherlock knows how John had already forgiven Mycroft, even though there was actually nothing to forgive. Because everything had been orchestrated by Sherlock alone, and Mycroft had only been a willing accomplice - a willing actor.

John doesn't know that Mycroft never betrayed Sherlock. And yet he has already forgiven them both anyway.

From the moment Sherlock had stepped into the threshold of 221 B twelve days, six hours and forty-nine minutes ago, and something had come alive in John's eyes, Sherlock knows he has already been granted the forgiveness he doesn't even know how to ask for.

Sherlock knows that John can never leave him, can never leave Baker Street - can never leave behind the only home they have built together - even as he had made John believe that Sherlock had left him behind forever.

'He is my best friend, and I will always believe in him.'

"I used to believe," Sherlock whispers brokenly, "that love was a dangerous disadvantage."

'Take my hand.'

'Keep your eyes fixed on me.'

'One more miracle, for me.'

John stirs in response to Sherlock's voice. His eyes flutter open as he blinks away the last vestiges of sleep. And Sherlock doesn't look away. Not this time.

Never again.

"Thank you for the final proof."

'You were the best man, and the most human, human being that I have ever known.'

He stretches his hand and touches his friend's fingertips. "Thank you," he says softly, "for proving everyone wrong."

'I imagine John Watson thinks I know nothing about love.'

'I've just got one.'

They have not touched since Sherlock returned twelve days, seven hours and two minutes ago. And for about thirteen seconds more, Sherlock holds his breath and closes his eyes, listening and waiting for the moment when his heart will stop beating.

And then he feels familiar callused fingers close firmly over his, and Sherlock swears he hears his soul sing.

"Idiot," John says affectionately as his other hand reaches across their self-imposed barrier to gently cup Sherlock's face, startling the younger man into opening his eyes.

"John?" Sherlock says his name properly for the first time since he returned twelve days, seven hours and five minutes ago.

And those delightful crow's feet reappear as John smiles.

"You're welcome."

His thumb brushes tenderly over Sherlock's cheekbones, and Sherlock's eyes flutter close once more as he relishes the feeling of being cherished.

Of being loved.

"You are always welcome," John whispers.

The pillow still remains between them, but above it, their hands are now loosely entwined. It is not the calm before a storm, but rather the quiet that settles after it.

The petrichor still lingers in the air, the smell of fresh, clean earth; a rebirth.

'Welcome back,' John's eyes say.

And Sherlock's smile answers: 'I'm home.'