I do not own Sherlock.

Title is from Home is Not Places-The Apache Relay.

Not beta'd or brit-picked. Sorry if there are some mistakes!

He wakes up some mornings and tastes reality on the tip of his tongue. It is bitter and disagrees with his stomach. He rolls over, face into the pillow, willing for the sunlight to appear somewhere between the blinds of his window because he knows that maybe maybe then he will truly be awake. In the cold light of his room, he raises his eyes to the digital clock, bright with red numbers. He sighs, the time burning into his eyes so that even when he closes them, they flicker behind his eyelids.

There is something to be said for mornings where he wakes without screaming into the empty flat where the dust settles uncomfortably as though it belonged there, once, and is now no longer welcome. It is a reminder that things never change. They stay still and monotonous unlike his thoughts which flicker from the gun in his bedside drawer to how much tea he needs from the Tesco down the street.

And then, he remembers.

This has happened before, John Watson; you know that he will come back. The days will be long and it will hurt hurt hurt.

He thinks this and inches further into his pillow where the thoughts will not be drowned out by the sounds of the morning, because he needs them. Sometimes, it works and he gets out of bed and forgets about the contents of the drawer and forgets that feeling of loss and a memory that he wants to forget and also something terribly unforgettable. So unforgettable, that even 120 years later it makes his heart want to stop beating.

It does not work this morning, however. John Watson is not the man he used to be before he met Sherlock Holmes the first time, and when they lived through their lives back then, he woke as if from a dream in this life. This life, where his mother commented often on the old soul behind his eyes and a father who drank himself to an early death. This life, where he spent his childhood in a small house and made a lot of friends while telling stories about the life he knew was past, but wanted all the same. This life, where he dreamed about the detective and drew pictures of their adventures that hung on the wall of his room. This life, where he grew up with two sets of memories and learning that no one was like him at all.

He went to medical school, because he knew nothing else and then went to war because he missed it. And after an injury to his shoulder and the universe mocking him with a psychosomatic limp, he retired back to London where he searched for the mad genius that paraded through his dreams because this was simply how it was supposed to be. Just when he was about to give up, he found him sitting in a lab with unruly curls and lanky limbs that seemed as though they barely fit on the stool that held him.

Holmes looked so different, but he supposed he looked just as different. The moustache was gone, he was much shorter, and the clothes were definitely more modern, so it did not surprise him that the detective did not notice him. In fact, he was not surprised until he introduced himself and Sherlock Holmes did not say anything at all but strode away with a wink on a pale blue eye and a crooked smirk gracing his features.

The man did not remember him.

John Watson waited for it to happen, while he relived their cases. They were not the same, but they made his heart race and he was glad to finally be with his detective again. He waited and thought that he often saw recognition of another time somewhere in Holmes' eyes, but it would flicker away so quickly that John was surprised it was ever there at all. His entire life had been waiting for the time when he would be back with this glorious, strange man. Long ago, when they were old men and propriety melted away into the humming of bees, he often wondered if this was what love was. He knew it with Mary and could recognize that easily enough because she was what he'd always wanted. But Holmes had always been something he needed. Something essential to his being. Smart, beautiful Mary had even seen it and looked at him with sad smiles when he spoke of the dead man in the year following Reichenbach.

Now the man was dead again and the fall was not off of a waterfall this time, where at least he could not see the result of it all. Now Sherlock was dead again and John had been there and seen it happen and reached the body where blood pooled around his head like a dark halo and his pulse nonexistent to his fingertips when he firmly grasped at the pale wrist.

John breathes out shakily into the pillow, smothering the images and feeling the warmth from his breath on his face.

This has happened before, John Watson; you know that he will come back. The days will be long and it will hurt hurt hurt.

When he does come back, John does not faint. Later on, he will be proud of himself and of the reddening bruise high on the cheekbone of Sherlock's face. He did not punch him last time. He also knows what he should do about the surging feeling in his chest but he ignores it in favor of feeling the very-much-alive-man's wrist. The pulse flutters under his fingers and almost cries in relief.

For the next few nights, John dreams of Sussex and wakes with the lingering smell of honey under his nose and the sound of bees whispering faintly somewhere in the distance. It is a reminder that he is happy and that Sherlock is finally home and that now they can begin again, just as they did before.

Sherlock stares at him more often now when he thinks John is not looking. Returned from his long absence, he is calmer and more patient. There is a look in his eyes as though he remembers too many terrible things and John sees it and recognizes it from the soldiers he saw so long ago. Sherlock watches him and John does not let on that he knows because he likes that all that focus is on him because he has been without it for so long and it feels like a slow burn on his skin.

He still remembers, and often wonders if Sherlock is either a very good liar or unable to do what John can. Some days, it is perfectly alright.

"Holmes." Sherlock says one day. It is sudden, as though he is voicing a random thought.

"Sorry, what?" John looks up from his laptop.

"That's what you called me, I think."

John blinks slowly and looks down at his steady hands on the edge of his keyboard. He feels pressure mount in his chest, anticipation most likely.

"That's what I called you, when?" John tests the waters with these words because he might have let the name slip once before.

It does not help that the memory is there in his mind of meeting Holmes so long ago on the same street before he learned to distinguish between the two of them.

This is Sherlock, and that was Holmes.

Holmes was so much different, and he'd learned that on the very first day. Holmes did not have access to refrigerators filled with body parts and mobiles that gave him the weather in the span of seconds. Sherlock is a whirlwind of emotions and a lot ruder in general. This life is so much different and so similar that he wonders why he is so lucky as to come across the same fascinating human being twice.

Sherlock stares hard at his toes, his dressing gown tumbling elegantly down the side of the couch, leaving a t-shirt covered shoulder completely out of it. His hair is everywhere, still needing a cut, from running his hands through it no doubt and despite his exaggerated exclamations of not needing sleep; his eyes have dark rings under them. He looks exhausted. He looks like he does when he is on a puzzling case.

This is Sherlock, and that was Holmes.

Sherlock is silent for a long time, not looking at anything in particular. John waits, patiently.

"Sherlock," John urges. "When?"

In a swirl of blue silk and pale skin, he is off the couch and retreating into his room where the door slams upon his entry. John sighs and stands, puts on shoes and a jacket and leaves the flat to go for a walk because perhaps Sherlock can do what John can, but maybe he just needs more time. And that is perfectly alright.

When he dreams that night, he dreams of Mary. When he wakes with dried tears on his cheeks and the smell of her perfume burned into his senses, he wonders why he has not met her yet. He wonders if the universe is mocking him from afar because his heart races in his chest when he sees the detective and he feels like he may burst when the man is close enough to touch.

When the window is mostly lit up by morning light, he gets up and hears Sherlock's phone ring somewhere downstairs. Lestrade calls with a case and John tries to ignore the burning feeling in his chest that lingers almost the entire day.

The case is solved in less than three hours and Sherlock sits in the back of the cab with arms crossed and a glare that seems to desperately want to melt the leather of the seat.

"That was too simple. A four at the most, John," he says.

John catches his eye and smiles brightly, "You haven't changed at all, have you? You're still just as brilliant," he assures him fondly.

Sherlock looks at him strangely. "Some things do not change, I suppose," he says just as they pull up to the flat. There is that anticipation again, flaring somewhere deep in his chest.

He leaves John to pay and when he finally gets up the stairs, the detective is in his room and John wonders what he meant and if perhaps he is putting too much hope into a simple sentence.

There are more cases and they are standing back in 221B after laughing about a recent brush with danger-This is at least an eight John, how exciting. One for the blog, I think.-and John is getting ready to make tea and to put away the gun that sits easily against his back, when it happens.

"When I was…away. I had dreams. About you and I, but it was long ago and yet very familiar," Sherlock says.

John stops his march to the kitchen and turns on his heel to stare at the dark haired man leaning against the back of his chair.

"Dreams," John repeats.

"But do you? Remember, I mean," Sherlock asks.

John stops twitching; staring at Sherlock's face to try and find any answer he can before going any further.

"What do you mean?" He tilts his head. Surprise and confusion and adrenaline surge through him so suddenly he wonders if he might fall over.

"I mean," Sherlock runs a hand through his already impossible hair, "they were more than dreams, weren't they?"

John sighs. Suddenly, he is almost tired of waiting for the man to catch up. It is lonely, knowing what he knows. "I don't know, Sherlock," he begins to walk into the kitchen. "Why don't you deduce it?"

Sherlock groans in frustration. "I am trying, you frustrating man!" He springs from his perch and in a few strides is leaning against the doorway to the kitchen behind John. His hands are still in his hair. "I've gone over the data for four years, John. Since meeting you, I have had 154 different dreams that involve a completely different time period and men who perform the same acts as us while simultaneously using the same names."

John turns around from retrieving the kettle and realizes that maybe this is it. Sherlock Holmes was admitting that he knew something-perhapsperhapsperhaps- about this strange hand the universe has dealt them.

"You do not understand the madness I have had to endure. I have had dreams of bees, John. Bees. The importance of which I have no recollection of making, and yet researching them is quite fascinating. I dream of chases on cobblestone streets lit by gas lamps and the air is obviously London but it is not my London, John. John. John Watson. Watson." Sherlock shuts his eyes tightly and lets out a huff of breath.

John stands and silently walks over to the man. He stares up at him and reaches up to take pale twisted hands out of dark curls. At this, the detective looks at him with shining eyes.

"Leaving you, John. It was as though I had done something much worse, before. It was as though I have done this all before and everything felt doubled. The loneliness, the fear. Watson. John. What do I call you?"

John lets the hope in his chest bloom once more so that it expands enough to make him smile at the mad man in front of him. He laces his fingers through Sherlock's because he needs to feel the complete warmth of the man's hand in his and it is wonderful and Sherlock is shaking but it is okay but John has never felt more steady and sure in any life about anything.

"John. Call me John. And you are Sherlock," John says.

When Sherlock looks at him with the knowledge of everything in his eyes, John understands what his mother meant when she said he was an old soul. He sees it there in Sherlock's eyes, swimming with the pale blue and brown and gold and green. When Sherlock looks at him like that, he lets himself place a steady hand on Sherlock's cheek. He needs a shave, and the slightly rough texture grounds him for a moment. John holds his hand there and stares at it because he cannot bear to look back into Sherlock's eyes and see that knowledge disappear.

"John." His voice is rough and so much deeper than normal. It sends a jolt down John's spine. "Look at me, John."

John does and laughs because this man is still looking at him like he knows him. Not just John, but Watson as well. "You have no idea how good it is to finally have you understand," he tells him softly.

"How long?"

"Since I was a child," John explains.

Sherlock lets his empty hand come to rest on top of John's. They stand there for a long time, Sherlock looking as though he cannot believe he has found him again and John staring at the small details of his detective's face because the last time he saw it this close it was covered in blood and John blinks hard to rid himself of the image.

"Kiss me," Sherlock says.

John opens his eyes and chuckles lightly before obliging him. They kiss and it is more than anything he imagined. Sherlock is soft against him and warm and his hand that was entwined with John's is now sliding up to rest on is hip and John sighs into the other man's mouth. They have discovered each other in so many ways. In trust and death and life and knowledge and danger and yet this makes them both shudder against each other because it is so new and strange and John feels Sherlock's tongue sliding against his and wants nothing more than the taste of this man on his lips for the rest of this life.

He pulls away to open his eyes and see the effect their kiss has on Sherlock and the man's lips are red and swollen and his eyes are hooded as he stares down at him. John smiles and Sherlock mirrors it so that they are grinning at each other.

"This was bound to happen, you know," John tells him.

Sherlock fists his hands in John's collar and laughs with his forehead lowering onto the doctor's so that they are almost eye level. "We are quite stubborn aren't we?"

They share an amused look and the words go unsaid between them but it is there all the same.

Stubborn enough to live and die for each other in one life and do it over again in the next because this is probably what love is if it is anything it is this.

When they are together, it feels as though they might burst out of their skin and merge together somewhere in the air where it smells like London and each other and sometimes John knows that they could have done this so long ago and why why why were they so stupid. He buries the thoughts by memorizing the feel of the detective's skin underneath his and what his face looks like when he comes apart, a writhing mess on wrinkled sheets that has never looked more beautiful. Sherlock looks at him afterwards and the knowledge is still there, swimming. And John thinks that home is something like the feeling of this man pressed so closely up against him.

They will grow old, one day. The days will melt away so that all that is left is the lingering smell of honey-so familiar, that- and their lives are lived together and for each other because what other way do they know. They do not wake up alone and there are old memories and new memories that blend together until they do not know which is which anymore and they find that they do not really care. They are both alive, and real, and home.

Home is not places, it is love.

Thanks for reading!