My first attempt at multi-chapter slash, as encouraged by the brilliant MapleleafCameo – so if you want to know how it should be written go…go NOW and read her wonderous stories – but please come back….
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, John et al – that privilege belongs to ACD, Moffat and Gatiss

"John?"

The doctor looked up from the fire to see Sherlock standing over him, looking concerned.

"John are you alright?"

"Think so."

Sherlock crouched in front of John's chair, one hand negligently resting on the arm, the other resting on his friend's forearm, his fingers gently wrapped around that wool covered limb.

"You were kidnapped, held hostage, and strapped into enough semtex to take out a whole street."

"Yes….yes that's true, but I'm still here aren't I?" John smiled.

Sherlock frowned slightly as another thought occurred to him.

"Why?"

The smile faded, to be replaced by hurt puzzlement. Realising his mistake Sherlock reached out on impulse, moving his hand from chair to John's cheek. John froze. Those long, warm fingers stayed resting against his cheek.

"I don't understand." His voice shook. "Don't you….are you asking me to leave?" Confusion was the emotion uppermost in the doctor's mind as he stared back at his flatmate. Sherlock's voice seemed to be saying one thing while his body, his hand was saying something else.

"No John," the normally rich baritone voice was barely a whisper. "I'm wondering why you would willingly stay with me" He swallowed, breaking eye contact momentarily to let his gaze wander over the man sitting in front of him, a fine tremor running through his body as he looked back into those clear blue eyes. "You survived a war, only to almost die in a municipal swimming pool."

The pair moved almost unconsciously towards each other. Sherlock's hand was still cupping John's cheek; John leant forward until his forehead rested against Sherlock's shoulder.

"Far too pedestrian, John" Sherlock said softly "No way for a war hero to die!"

Sherlock's hand moved, ever so slowly, as if his mind was afraid to acknowledge what his heart was asking of him. Stroking through the soft blond hair, there was a subtle shift in his balance as his knees sunk to the floor, allowing him to pull John's head closer into the shelter of his body, and as he did so he was barely breathing. Kneeling in front of John's chair Sherlock waited.

oOo

John's mind had gone into free fall. It had been a hell of a night, recovering the Bruce Partington plans, unmasking Andrew West's killer (his future brother-in-law), and he'd been looking forward to a night in front of the telly with Sarah. Then it all went to shit. He barely noticed the sharp sting of a hypodermic needle, but he'd never forget the sensation of waking with the weight of the explosives strapped to his body, the sound of Moriarty's voice in his ear, and the look of shock – betrayal? – on Sherlock's face.

The tremors started when the Semtex jacket had been ripped off him and flung across the floor, the sudden adrenalin shutdown had left his legs weak and he sunk to a crouch, leaning against a cubicle, the juddering through his muscles controlled by iron will. Moriarty had left, but when he came back, changed his mind and brought his snipers back into play, John had been convinced they would die. The look he and his friend had shared was one of resignation and determination – yes, they may die here, but Moriarty would die too, and that, as Sherlock had once said, would be a result. There was something else in that look, but John couldn't quite catch what it was. The relief when he changed his mind was enormous, and all John wanted to do was go home. Home; to the flat with its boarded up windows, and gale force draughts. Home, to the fire in the hearth, and his room, and his bed. He wanted a return to normality, but this wasn't it. Something had changed.

oOo

Sherlock could feel his heart thudding in his chest. John was shaking. Was it memories, or the fact that he was holding him close? He had wanted to hold his doctor like this almost from the first, when his new flatmate had taken his gun and killed that murderous cabbie, but he hadn't known how to make the first move. He'd watched with jealous eyes as John had pursued Sarah. Part of him feared he would drive him away with his outrageous antics designed to chase away boredom, he understood that his lack of feeling, of sentiment, had disappointed the man now shaking in his arms. He dared not move lest he break the spell.

At first Sherlock wasn't sure that he'd actually spoken, but into the silence John's voice came again. It sounded weak and distant.

"If you want me to go…." There was a break in his voice and he swallowed hard. He couldn't help himself; the shakes had taken hold as soon as Sherlock had pulled him into the safe haven of his shoulder.

Sherlock tightened his grip on his army doctor.

"Please don't leave me." There was desperation in his voice, and any other time he would have been horrified at the show of weakness, but he didn't want John to leave, and he didn't know how else to convince him that he had to stay.

John placed his hand on Sherlock's chest with the intention of pushing him away, but as he made contact he could feel the wild thudding of his friend's heart beneath his hand. Instead of pushing he let his hand rest there, relishing the erratic life he could feel there. He lifted his head, causing Sherlock's hand to slip away until it lay, loose and unresponsive back on the arm of the chair. Closing his eyes he took a deep breath, preparing himself for…for what? Rejection? Where the hell had that thought come from?

Battening down the tremors, he opened his eyes and let his gaze wander upwards over his flatmate's face. As anticipated his expression was carefully neutral, but his lower lip looked slightly reddened, as if bitten. There was a hint of a flush along the sharply etched cheekbones that John dismissed as being caused by their proximity to the fire. He didn't want to look further. He was confused.

"John" It wasn't a whisper, it was a sigh.

It drew John's eyes up to meet Sherlock's, and what he saw there took the breath from his lungs and almost stopped his heart. There was no condemnation, no rejection. There was hardly anything left of the ever changing silver-grey irises. Sherlock's pupils were blown wide, so wide that John felt he was drowning in the inky black depths, falling so deep that neither man was sure who made the first move, only that as their lips met the world could have exploded around them, and they wouldn't even have noticed.