My thanks to HarmonyLover, from whom I shamelessly borrowed portions of Sherlock's dialogue. I love our conversations, and I hope they continue for many years to come!

Epilogue

"Are you real?" were the first words to leave Sherlock's mouth the next morning. John instinctively reaches out a hand to stroke his long-absent friend's cheek, hoping to somehow soothe him with his touch.

"Yes, Sherlock," he replies, voice breaking at saying his name aloud directly to his face for the first time in three years. "I'm here."

Sherlock reciprocates the gesture, reaching out a spindly hand to trace John's gaunt face with his own slender fingers. They spend many minutes this way, silently contemplating the other as they accustom themselves to old feelings and new sensations. Eventually, though, they realize that tears are streaming down both of their cheeks, and they move closer together until they are nothing but a tangle of limbs. John clutches Sherlock to him, tightly, so much so that his grip must be suffocating; however, Sherlock offers no protest, merely returns the embrace with equal passion.

"You have questions," he says at last. His tone, which is cool and detached, frightens John. What has happened to the enigmatic man that was the Sherlock Holmes of before? What could have broken him so completely? John isn't sure that he wants to know.

"Three years, Sherlock," he whispers forcefully, "Three fucking years." He notices how Sherlock flinches at the expletive, yet doesn't move away, almost as if he welcomes John's wrath. "What happened?" he asks, calming slightly in the face of Sherlock's fear.

"Moriarty," says Sherlock, spitting the name out as though it's poison. And then he proceeds to explain to John: where he's been, what he's been doing... everything. Although John is horrified by some of what Sherlock has to say, not to mention the conditions he has had to live in – John vows then and there to start forcing Sherlock to eat more regularly; the fact that he's never succeeded before does little to daunt his resolve – he hides his distress well, knowing that Sherlock is self-conscious enough about some of the acts he has had to commit and which he is now confessing to John himself. "Colonel Sebastien Moran was the last of Moriarty's 'associates'. I got him yesterday, and then I came straight to you. I just couldn't stay away anymore."

Throughout his recitation, Sherlock has been playing with a frayed edge of the duvet and tracing circles on John's shoulder through his clothes. So far, he has refused to meet John's eyes. Now, though, he looks hesitantly towards his friend, as though to gauge his reaction to all that he has said.

"I did it for you, John, all of it," he whispers at last, when John continues to remain steadfastly silent. "Moriarty would have burned the heart out of me, otherwise."

"I thought you said you didn't have a heart," John swiftly counters.

"I didn't, not for the longest time," Sherlock admits candidly. "And then I met you, an ex-army doctor with an average amount of intelligence, and you somehow managed to work your way into the heart I never knew I had, inspiring me to be a better person. You, John – you are my heart." His little speech finished, Sherlock resumes playing with the blanket and refusing to look John in the eye, afraid of what he might see looking back at him.

Tenderly, almost reverently, John touches Sherlock's cheek and tilts his face towards him. "Hey," he whispers. "I won't say it's alright that you jumped off the roof of Bart's to save my life, but I appreciate the gesture. Never do it again, though. If we go, we go together. Partners, remember?"

Leaning into John's touch, Sherlock allows his eyes to flutter shut as he feels himself relaxing for the first time in the past three years. "Not a day went by that I didn't think of you," he whispers. "You were constantly on my mind. I was always thinking of ways to end the task I had set myself, because the sooner I finished the sooner I could come home to my heart – you."

"That's cheesy, but sweet," says John, chuckling as he bends his head to kiss the top of Sherlock's curls. "Thank you."

Sherlock burrows further into John's embrace, almost as if he were trying to climb inside of him. "That day, on the roof," he begins, speaking haltingly. "Moriarty said that my friends would die if I didn't jump. My first thought was of you; I'm ashamed to say that I honestly didn't even think of the others until Moriarty prompted me, saying that there were three snipers, three bullets, trained on you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. You mean everything to me, John, everything, and Moriarty used that knowledge to his advantage by exploiting my one weakness."

"I know you're of the opinion that feelings are messy and that love is a disadvantage, caused by nothing more than chemicals in the body," John whispers. "But it's not weakness to show that you care, Sherlock."

"I'm not a monster; I would have spared you seeing me jump if I could," Sherlock replies. "But I needed to convince the world that I was dead, and what better way than by having my best and only friend witness it and be convinced of it, too? Think, John – anyone who was watching would have seen us talking, would have seen you run over, would have seen my body taken away, and most importantly, would have seen your grief over my death. I couldn't have told you that I was alive, John, and that it was all a trick; you had to be believed, to save not only yourself, but Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, too. It was the ultimate insurance policy."

The instant the words leave Sherlock's mouth, he wishes he could retract them. He's only just come back, after all; John's bound to be a little sensitive with regards to his 'death,' and downplaying his significance to little more than insurance, even to save the lives of the three people closest to Sherlock, would most definitely be classified as a 'bit not good.'

"It's fine, Sherlock," says John, as if he can read the other man's mind. "It's all fine."

Sherlock remains tense within the confines of John's arms, still waiting for John to turn on him, only to start with an almost violent shudder when John unexpectedly begins to card his fingers through Sherlock's curls. He relaxes instantly at the touch, though, practically purring as he slides down the length of John's body so that the older man is in a position of power over him, for once the taller of the two. His head now resting on top of John's heart, Sherlock gives a contented sigh, his world finally righted with the realization that John is alive and well. Even if the other man eventually comes to his sense and kicks Sherlock out of the flat – though only after punching him, Sherlock would insist – Sherlock would be the happiest of men because John was alive.

"Just so you know, I'm never letting you out of my sight again," John whispers, his breath puffing gently against Sherlock's sensitive earlobe. Turning his head to the side, John presses his face against Sherlock's cheek until his nose must be close to breaking from being twisted at such an awkward angle.

"I wasn't planning to leave unless you ordered me away," Sherlock confesses, finding it easier to talk to John when he's not looking directly at him.

It's at this point that Sherlock suddenly feels a tear trickle down his cheek, followed by another and another... it's John, quietly sobbing out what must surely be his frustration at Sherlock's actions.

"If it would make you feel any better, you can punch me," Sherlock offers with a nervous chuckle. "I wouldn't object." He closes his eyes and waits for John's fist to descend.

"Sherlock," he hears, instead. "Look at me."

Unable to disobey, Sherlock opens his eyes to find John mere millimeters from his face, and he knows then that John will never punish him for what he's done. "Why won't you hurt me?" he asks in a choked whisper. "I deserve it."

John waits until Sherlock's wandering eyes finally settle on his face before answering. "Because nothing I could do to you would ever compare to what you did to me," he replies softly, knowing that his words will hurt Sherlock in a way that his fists never could. "Physical wounds heal; emotional wounds last a lifetime."

"And you think I wasn't emotionally wounded by my actions?" Sherlock whispers, once more on the cusp of a breakdown.

"I've no doubt that you were," John replies, quite calmly, in Sherlock's opinion. "I heard your voice on the phone, after all. You were close to tears, and not just over the fact that you were about to jump to your death. But it's not the same. You knew I was alive, while I knew nothing. I was kept in the dark, left to bury my best friend and spend the next three years grieving what turns out to have been a lie."

Sherlock flinches away from the venom in John's voice, and John is instantly repentant for having unintentionally scared Sherlock, a man he thought felt no fear. He realizes that Sherlock is emotionally vulnerable: having returned to John seemingly from the dead, he clearly expects rejection, and at the very least, a good kick in the pants. It's obvious that they'll have to tread cautiously around each other as they attempt to rebuild their former relationship.

"I won't deny that I'm hurt," John says slowly as he contemplates how much to reveal. "I've had to re-live the sight of you falling, arms and legs flailing, every time I've closed my eyes over the past three years. There's resentment, and I'm sure I'll have some choice words for you to express the full extent of my displeasure – but later. What matters is that you're here; you're alive and safe in my arms; and I'm never letting you go again."

"I'm not going anywhere, John; I'm here to stay – for good," Sherlock assures him. "But only if you'll have me, of course."

"Don't be silly, love," John says without thinking. "Baker Street hasn't been home without you; I'm certainly not about to send you away."

The two men stare at each other in stunned silence as they both realize what John has just called Sherlock, and the implications of his previous statement.

"We've been lazing about in bed long enough, don't you think?" says John suddenly, throwing his legs over the side of the mattress and standing so fast that his head spins for a moment, so great is his hurry to distance himself from Sherlock. "I'll make us some food. What would you like? You must be starving; you're all skin and bones."

"John..." says Sherlock, catching the other man's wrist before he can make good on his escape to the kitchen.

"Let it go, Sherlock, please," John begs, not wanting his heart to be crushed again.

"No, we need to talk about this," Sherlock insists. "If what I've deduced since last night is correct – and you know that I'm very rarely wrong – then I'm surprised you aren't angrier."

"I am, believe me," John assures him. "But at the moment, I'm just too tired to show it. You can't imagine what it's been like..." His voice trails away, and John comes to a decision: food can wait. Right now, Sherlock needs to read the notebook of letters that John has devoted himself to writing ever since the consulting detective's fall. Maybe then he'll understand. Sherlock accepts John's offering without question, opening the first page only to glance sharply up at John, who is now studiously avoiding Sherlock's gaze.

"John..." Sherlock whispers, his voice close to breaking.

"Just read them, Sherlock," John snaps, eager to get this over and done with so that they can hopefully move on with a minimal amount of damage to the tattered shreds that remain of the trust their friendship had originally been founded on.

Nodding once, Sherlock turns his attention to the many pages John has scribbled on over the years. And what he reads leaves him breathless from the pain. He notes the shaking of John's hands and the tears that stain various entries, the subsequent wetness blurring the ink of John's pen. His tears join John's on the pages as Sherlock cries in front of another person for the first time that he can recall. He had cried many times over the past three years, of course – the thought of John was enough for his eyes to well up – but never where anyone could have seen him. And he had cried as a child, shunned by his peers and looked down upon by his older brother. Tears were a weakness, then. Now, though, he let himself go, all the while wishing that he could cry tears of blood as penance for what he has unknowingly forced John to go through.

When he comes back to his senses, Sherlock realizes that the arms wrapped tightly around him are John's. He attempts to struggle, tries to get away, not believing himself worthy of John's comfort, not after what he's put him through. But John holds tight, refusing to let go.

"We'll be alright, Sherlock," he's whispering to him. "Everything's going to be fine, you'll see."

They rock back and forth together on the bed, each drawing on the other's strength. Sherlock realizes that tears are streaming down John's face in addition to his own, and this makes him cry all the harder. It's therefore many minutes before their breathing slows to only the occasional hiccough and their chests stop heaving from suppressed sobs. They eventually find that they've fallen back against the pillows, with Sherlock's head resting in the crook of John's neck.

"I never thought I'd say this," Sherlock whispers at last. "But thank god for Mycroft. If I'd come back to find you gone, I probably would have killed myself for real."

"Don't say that!" John whispers back, his voice fierce as his arms tighten subconsciously around Sherlock's upper body.

Sherlock exhales heavily. He knows that he's been depriving his body as of late, and that his senses have become muted as a result. But he's still as sharp as a tack when it comes to John, and he realizes that the good doctor was telling the truth in his goodbye letter and that his feelings for Sherlock have only grown since.

John loves him.

John loves him.

John loves him.

But why? That's the question now plaguing Sherlock's mind. What's so special about him that would make John want to be with him romantically? Sally's hardly the first person to call him a freak, and there's a reason for that. His deductions have always astounded people, true enough, but they've never failed to turn on him the moment he delved too deep into their personal lives. But John... sweet, pure, good John looks at him with stars in his eyes. Even when Sherlock is surely bugging the hell out of him, John still manages to look at him with admiration. And this is why Sherlock left him behind. He didn't want to disillusion John; he didn't want the light to fade from those expressive eyes. While he knows that John was an army medic and has seen his fair share of suffering, he didn't want John to look at him any differently. When asked, he'd given John the edited version of his story. If John ever knew the full extent of what he'd had to do to keep the ones he loved safe... well, he'd surely be left alone again. And that's why he'd never let anyone in before, because they inevitably left. John, however, broke down all his walls.

Now, the question remained: was he capable of love? He was clearly what John wanted, but could he give John what he needed? He'd never been in a 'proper' relationship before. Sure, he'd fooled around in university. Experimenting in 'love' had been necessary for the Work; he needed to understand what motivated people to commit crimes of passion, after all. But he'd never gone on dates or cuddled or done any of those couple-y type things. He'd always shied away from such activities, deeming them 'sentimental' and not worth his time. Could he put all that aside for John? The answer is unequivocally 'yes.' He loves John, has loved John all along. For John, he would cross oceans and move mountains. Having already risked so much for John, could he afford to risk his heart as well?

Sherlock turns his head to regard John. Yes, he decides. He would gladly risk his heart – and more – for John's love.

He's been silent too long. Though John's arms remain around him, Sherlock can feel the tension radiating from every pore, thrumming through his veins. How to fix this? The last thing Sherlock wants is to make John feel that he's been rejected. Shifting within the confines of John's embrace, Sherlock balances his body over John. Looking deep into his eyes, Sherlock sees a myriad of emotions constantly in flux – pain, hope, love, desire, to name a few – and he prays to a God he doesn't quite believe in that he isn't overstepping any bounds when he tentatively brushes their lips together for a sweet and chaste kiss. John doesn't seem to mind, though, melting under his less-than-experienced touch and falling back against the pillows as he allows Sherlock to plunder his mouth.

The tables are soon turned, though, as John kisses Sherlock back with all the wonder and rage that has consumed him since their first meeting, and which has only intensified since Sherlock's fall and subsequent return. Sherlock accepts all that John gives without complaint or protest, moaning when nips verge on bites and sighing when John's teeth scrape over his lips until they are left swollen and throbbing. His hands tighten on John's hips, which prompts John to flip them so that their positions are reversed and he is now the one looming over Sherlock. This time, when he bends his head and their lips meet, the kiss is soft and gentle as John worships Sherlock's mouth, swallowing his moans and delighted gasps at the new sensations that must surely be overwhelming his body. As warm skin shivers under his hands and heat radiates from beneath his palms, John takes comfort in the breath mingling with his own and this irrefutable proof that Sherlock is alive.

Pulling back slightly, John raises a single hand to brush an errant curl from out of Sherlock's face. "Never leave me again," he whispers.

"I promise, John," Sherlock whispers back, and raises his head so that their lips are touching once more.

Both allow for some of the grief that they have suffered to seep into this kiss, and both open their mouths wide to accept this offering for what it is. Though both have been badly damaged, they are wise enough to see that they can only heal with the help of their partner, now their lover. When the kiss ends, John presses his forehead to Sherlock's, desperately wishing that there were some way for him and Sherlock to reside within the same body so that they would never again have to be parted. He's afraid to let Sherlock out of his sight for fear that this is only a dream. And if it is, then he dreads waking: that moment of oblivion when he first opens his eyes before reality sets back in and he remembers that Sherlock is dead... he's dead and he's never coming back...

Hands are cupping his face, a soothing voice is whispering to him. What's he saying? It's as if he's underwater; everything's muted: sights, color, sound...

Breathe, John, just breathe. In, out; in, out. Follow my lead. You can do it, come on.

With a shuddering breath, John comes back to himself and he realizes that he'd been having a panic attack. He collapses on top of Sherlock before quickly rolling to the side so that he doesn't crush the slight form beneath him. Sherlock follows his every move and winds an arm around his waist, pinning John to his chest. They lie like that in utter silence, John shaking uncontrollably within the prison of Sherlock's arms. Sherlock, meanwhile, has his head pressed to the base of John's neck, where he plants a soft, wet kiss.

"Want to talk about it?" he whispers softly.

"Not particularly," John replies, "But as I've no doubt that you'll deduce what's wrong in a single glance, I might as well tell you."

His silence contradicts his words, though, but Sherlock is patient and settles down to wait, his hands ghosting along John's sides in an effort to calm him.

"You've read my letters," John begins, haltingly. "Some feelings just can't be put into words, though. It was... so hard... getting up each day and facing a world without you by my side. And it never got any easier. The pain was... always there. I wanted to die, Sherlock. Do you have any idea what that's like?" He forges on ahead, not giving Sherlock a chance to respond, if he had even been expecting an answer. "I couldn't be bothered to eat or go out and see people. I would cry myself to sleep at night, only to wake up in a cold sweat from having seen you fall in my dreams. I... existed. There's just no other word for it. What I was doing could hardly be called living; I was empty, numb inside, and barely functioning. There wasn't any light. You, Sherlock – you were my light. Your smile would do more to brighten my day than anything else. You made my life exciting again; in the aftermath of my injury, you were the one that gave me a reason to get up in the morning. Before you, I was... so alone, and I owe you so much..."

He breaks down into sobs again, and Sherlock holds him close, offering comfort the only way he can: through touch, which will hopefully convince John that he's really there and that he's not going anywhere. He decides that now isn't the time to mention that he was at the cemetery when John spoke these same words to his grave. Somehow, he doesn't imagine that going over too well. Sherlock shifts their bodies so that both men are sitting upright. He then turns John around so that they are facing each other, before slowly unbuttoning John's shirt and divesting him of the garment. He's read John's journal, of course, and knows that he had turned to cutting for a time. But nothing can prepare Sherlock for the sight of countless pale scars littering the entire length of John's arms. Wordlessly, he raises the appendage to his lips and begins to kiss each individual mark, as if he can heal John of his pain in this manner. He repeats the process on the other arm, and only then meets John's gaze. Each man's eyes are suspiciously bright.

"I love you, John Watson, scars and all," Sherlock whispers, his first time saying those three little words that can mean so much. "And I realize that I could go on and on all I want to about how we'll never be apart again. But this is one of those cases where actions speak louder than words. So, here's what I propose: we take this – our relationship – one day at a time, starting right now. I won't accept any cases; we'll go out, date, and take the time to properly learn about each other. What do you say?"

John stares at him, considering his offer. "I've been broken for so long that I'm not sure if even you can fix me," he warns.

"I'm well-aware of the risk," Sherlock replies. "I know I've hurt you, deeply. I'll probably do so again. You know how I am, after all – cold and analytical. Are you still willing to attempt a relationship with me?"

"Oh god, yes," says John, his words so reminiscent of their first case together that neither man can help but to smile. And just like that, they're both suddenly doubled over laughing, just like that first night when they had returned to Baker Street after chasing the cabbie and were leaning against the wall, laughing breathlessly... the first time that Sherlock saved John by proving to him that he didn't need to lean on a cane; he could depend on his own two legs to carry him.

"Come on, I'll make us some food," Sherlock offers, throwing his legs over the side of the bed and standing up in one seamless motion. He holds his hand out for John to take, which he does.

"What? And have you almost burn the flat down again?" says John with a laugh. "I don't think so."

"Then what would you suggest, Doctor?" asks Sherlock in that silky-smooth voice of his, hands on John's hips drawing the other man so close that their chests are pressed up against each other.

"I'll cook; you watch," John says, nodding once as if that settles things.

"I can live with that," Sherlock concedes.

As John picks up his discarded shirt, Sherlock halts his movements, lowering his head to press a kiss to John's injured shoulder. Tears inexplicably form in the doctor's eyes at such an intimate gesture, and he cups Sherlock's cheek in one hand, drawing the consulting detective's face down to his until their lips are touching. He draws away and puts his shirt back on, before taking Sherlock's hand in his once more and leading the way to the kitchen. Things aren't perfect yet, but they have the hope of someday.