25 December

It had cooled off enough overnight that there was still a dusting of snow on the ground as John walked home from the Baker Street tube station. It melted beneath his feet, leaving a trail of dark prints behind him. The sun was just coming up and the streets were still quiet, though he knew that inside the buildings he passed, families were celebrating Christmas. Children had risen hours ago to see what Father Christmas had brought, and their parents were probably poking at the remains of breakfast, relishing a day of forced relaxation.

And then there was John Watson, heading back to his empty flat, heart pounding at the thought that there might be another clue waiting for him on the kitchen table. This morning, of all mornings, if there was something there, it would have to be important, wouldn't it? He picked up the pace.

The warmth of the entryway would have caught him off-guard if it weren't for the combined scents of coffee and bacon that enveloped him almost immediately. Mrs. Hudson must not have gone to her sister's after all. He looked up the stairs, up towards the door to the flat, and his stomach lurched a bit.

He'd spent a good part of the night fantasizing about what might be waiting for him. A photograph, perhaps, or a letter, or something tangible, something that would make it clear once and for all that Sherlock had been behind it all, that he was actually alive and well, and still a part of John's life. And if there was nothing… He swallowed down a sudden wave of anxiety. It was time to find out.

The moment his foot touched the first step up to the flat, a familiar sound filled the air. It was nearly a second before he could process what he was hearing, what it meant: the long sustained notes, the gentle vibrato, the light touch on a well-known melody. Bach played on a violin, the way he'd only ever heard one person play it.

He froze, hand clenching the railing, uncertain what to do. He suddenly wasn't ready for this, wasn't ready to find out if he had been right or wrong. He waited, listened, let the moment spin itself out. His stomach was wound up in knots, his mind was spinning, and it was just so fucking surreal – everything that had happened in the last month, all the little clues he'd so willfully ignored, not wanting to let himself think about this possibility, wanting so much to protect himself, to protect his heart. Even now, he could barely let himself entertain the thought, to let it blossom into reality.

He took a deep breath and listened, let the music flow over him. It might still be something else, someone else. He wasn't sure he could bear that, but he had to prepare himself for the possibility. But of course, if this was true, he wanted to know. He needed to know.

He let go of the rail and climbed the stairs slowly, a knot rising in his throat, tight and hot. When he finally reached the top, he hesitated with his hand on the doorknob and closed his eyes. The violin piece was nearing the end of the first movement, and he found himself not wanting to interrupt, as if the moment he opened the door it would all fade away like a dream.

He waited another three seconds before turning the knob and opening the door.

Morning light flooded the sitting room, casting stark shadows against the furniture, and made the sight before John that much more dramatic. Sherlock stood by the window playing the violin that had been tucked onto a top shelf for the last six months. It was the one thing of Sherlock's that John hadn't been able to bring himself to part with.

John closed the door and leaned back against it, and Sherlock continued to play. He surely knew John was standing there, but as always, nothing interrupted the music. He played on for several interminable minutes and John watched, taking in the sight of him, trying to reconcile his presence with everything he'd seen and been told.

He looked fine. He looked completely, utterly fine, not at all like someone who'd leapt off a building and suffered multiple skull fractures and punctured organs. This was not the person Molly had said she'd autopsied herself, unable to look John in the eyes as she described his injuries. This was Sherlock, his Sherlock, alive and well and whole and standing there as if he'd never been gone.

The piece came to an end and Sherlock lowered the bow, placed the violin on the stand that had been pulled out from the corner John pushed it into months ago, and stared out the window.

"Merry Christmas," John said at last.

Sherlock turned to look at him, and John inhaled sharply. Jesus, he hadn't changed a bit. Even his hair was the same. Sherlock stared back at him, his expression almost apprehensive. "Merry Christmas."

John opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He swallowed, blinked, and tried again. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

Sherlock's eyebrows rose. "Is that really the first thing you want to ask me?"

"Yes. No. I don't know."

John looked away for a moment, his thoughts whirling. What idid/i he want to say? He hadn't let himself think about this moment, that it could actually happen. He was completely unprepared. He pushed off the door and started towards Sherlock, slowly, but stopped when he saw the muscles in Sherlock's shoulders tense.

He shoved his hands in his pockets. "Why now?"

Sherlock pursed his lips. "You were being a stubborn twat and refused to come to me. So I had to come to you."

"iI/i was being a stubborn—?" Oh. Oh. Oh, God. He clenched his jaw, feeling anger pressing in at the edges. Jesus, it had been another fucking puzzle, all of it, the last six fucking months of his life. He exhaled slowly before letting himself speak. "Did it ever occur to either of you simply to tell me what was going on?"

"I did tell you. I told you when I was standing on the roof of Bart's, that it was a magic trick and that you should talk to Molly and she'd explain everything."

"No, that is not what you said." Anger bubbled to the surface now, raw and hot. "You knew I believed it all this time, and you never did anything to change it."

"I did, I—"

"And Molly's known, all along? I get Mycroft, but—" John had to turn away, to look somewhere else. Little things were falling into place in his mind now, things he should have noticed and pieced together if he weren't so utterly stupid.

But no, it wasn't his fault. This wasn't his own making. As always, Sherlock valued being clever above everything else. Above anyone else.

He half-laughed, shook his head. "You've been cruel to me before, but I never would have thought—"

"John, please." Sherlock's voice was rough, just enough that John knew the emotion was genuine. "I didn't mean for it to happen this way. I didn't think it would go on this long."

"And what was all of this about, sneaking in to leave me bits of a message every day, just enough to freak me out but not enough for it to make any fucking sense?"

"I thought you'd like it."

John turned back to him at that, but the sight of Sherlock's face made him bite back the sarcastic retort on the tip of his tongue. Sherlock looked stricken, truly surprised by John's anger. He meant that, John realized. He really did think that this was the best way to reveal himself to John, and he'd clearly put a great deal of thought and planning into it. When one considered the source, it was almost sweet, in a twisted sort of way. John inhaled, exhaled, and finally shrugged. There was really nothing else for it. It was Sherlock, for fuck's sake.

"I would have liked it if you'd shown up in the sitting room on the first of December."

"That wasn't possible."

"This isn't possible. You here, now." He crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. He could feel his anger was melting away as quickly as it had risen. The emotion left in its wake was difficult to process. He closed his eyes. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why now? Why like this?" He looked up again, forced himself to make eye contact.

"It's Christmas." Sherlock shrugged, as if that should explain everything. "After all the insipid things you've written for your girlfriends, I had expected you to appreciate the sentiment. Or at least to enjoy the process of uncovering the message."

"Enjoy it?" John snorted, and then paused as a strange thought occurred to him. "Wait… You were trying to be romantic?"

"I…" Sherlock paused and to John's amazement, blushed.

John couldn't stop himself from smirking. "Are you asking me to be your girlfriend?"

"No! I just… thought you'd like it."

Sherlock looked embarrassed and lost, and John felt something warm blossom in his chest. "I suppose I did, to an extent."

Sherlock exhaled. "Good."

"When I wasn't considering having the flat put under surveillance by the police."

Sherlock stared back at him and swallowed visibly as John took a step closer. Something more was going on here, something John hadn't really let himself consider until now. He bit his lower lip and took a fortifying breath. If he was wrong about this, he supposed it couldn't get much worse. But if he was right…

"That doesn't explain why you're standing under the mistletoe, though." Mistletoe that Sherlock had placed there himself, and was now very pointedly positioned beneath. He'd apparently planned this moment for several weeks.

Sherlock looked slightly uncomfortable. "It's a Christmas tradition. You like Christmas traditions."

"Did you really expect me to kiss you?"

Sherlock's cheeks tinted once again. "I thought it would provide an alternative to punching me in the face."

"The day is young. And I have rather a lot of reasons to punch you in the face."

"Perhaps. But you've wanted to kiss me for almost two years now." Sherlock straightened his shoulders.

John allowed himself to smile; there was no point in denying it now. "And what about you? What do you want?"

Sherlock stared back at him with bright, clear eyes. "I want to come home."

"You are home, you're—" It came together in his mind then: last night it was Snow and this morning it was Home, and John felt it all crash over him, the reality of Sherlock here, now, standing right in front of him, very much alive. "Oh, God, Sherlock."

He took the last two steps forward, grasped Sherlock by the shoulders, and pulled him roughly into a kiss. Sherlock made a sound not unlike a whimper, but he didn't pull away; in fact, he leaned into the kiss. His hands settled hesitantly on John's waist and his tongue brushed against John's lips, and John melted against him.

It wasn't the best kiss John had ever experienced: it was sloppy and overly-enthusiastic, but it didn't matter. It was warm and hot and lips and tongue and it was Sherlock and yes, it was real and he was alive and here and ihome/i.

"Oh, God," John whispered against Sherlock's lips, mortified to feel wetness in the corners of his eyes because this, this was happy and wonderful, and it should have been an occasion for joy, but instead he found himself nearly overwhelmed. He pulled out of the kiss and pressed his face against Sherlock's shoulder, and clung to his thin frame for dear life.

"Still planning to punch me?"

"Not if you keep kissing me like that."

"Kissing you like what?"

"Like you mean it."

Sherlock's arms tightened around him. "I do, you know."

John huffed against his shirt. "Do I detect a bit of sentiment?"

"It's a weakness," Sherlock muttered. "Mycroft would be horrified."

John leaned back and looked up at him. "Take a photo and we'll send it to him with a Merry fucking Christmas."

Sherlock smiled and John leaned in to kiss him again, more slowly this time, and with rather more finesse. Sherlock's enthusiastic tongue followed his lead and John felt a haze of arousal begin to settle over him. Sherlock couldn't possibly miss it, as closely as they were pressed together. Sherlock shifted slightly and, oh, John wasn't the only one in that state.

It was fast, though, too fast, and there were still so many questions and things to consider and discuss. As much as John would have liked to fall into bed (or to his knees, for that matter), someone had to be the responsible adult here.

He pulled out of the kiss and stepped back to put some space between them. "So, you made breakfast?"

Sherlock had a gloriously dazed expression. "How can you possibly think of food right now?"

John grinned. "I'm tired and hungry, and neither of us has slept much in the last twenty-four hours, I imagine." Sherlock shrugged noncommittally and John kissed him again, lingering until it threatened to become heated once more. "I'm suggesting we eat something and talk, and then I'd like a shower, and then maybe we can take this to the bedroom. To sleep," he added at the sudden widening of Sherlock's eyes. "Or whatever. We'll see, all right?"

He had no idea, honestly. Sherlock had never shown a bit of interest in sex in the eighteen months John had known him, and though the erection pressing against John's thigh suggested he might want something more than a hearty snog, John certainly didn't want to presume. Even now, Sherlock looked utterly discomfited.

There would be time for that, for all of it. They had nothing but time now.

Oh, God. He'd been given a second chance. All of the regrets, all the things he wished he'd said and done – he could still do all of those things. And judging by the way Sherlock was looking at him right now, John guessed he was thinking something very similar.

"Breakfast," John said, taking his hand and pulling it to the kitchen. "And you can tell me all about what you've been doing the last six months, and try to convince me not to punch you after all."

There was a sharp tug on his hand and he turned back to see Sherlock staring at him, his eyes full of something John could only call emotion.

"Thank you," Sherlock said.

John stepped toward him and pressed his lips against Sherlock's, briefly this time. "Thank you for coming back."

He squeezed Sherlock's hand, and Sherlock released him to lean against the entryway of the kitchen and watch John set the table.

John set the platter of extremely crispy bacon on the table. "I didn't know you knew how to cook bacon."

"Of course I do," Sherlock said with an indignant sniff. "Put it in the microwave until it starts to smell like it's burning. Simple."

John laughed. "I'll get the coffee." He pulled two mugs from the cabinet and turned back to see Sherlock pulling out a chair and settling into it. He poured coffee into each and set them on the table, and then pushed the sugar bowl in Sherlock's direction.

"You've got some explaining to do, and you'd probably best start now, while I'm still happy to see you."

Sherlock sat across from him, an expression of amusement on his face. "Where would you like me to begin?"

John smiled and plucked a piece of bacon from the plate between them. "At the beginning, of course."

Epilogue: 31 December

"More champagne?" John set two empty fluted glasses on the countertop and opened the refrigerator. "There's at least one more bottle chilling in here, I think. Aha, yes."

Greg leaned back against the counter and tipped his own glass up to empty it into his mouth. "I'm not nearly as drunk as I'd hoped to be tonight."

John grinned and untwisted the wire cap on the champagne bottle. "Surely he's not that bad already?"

"What? Oh, no, I don't mean Sherlock." Greg watched as John levered the cork out with his thumbs. "The newness of it, him being alive – it's going to take some time to wear off. Don't tell him this, but he's going to have a good month-long grace period with me."

John raised his eyebrows. "Yeah, that's what I thought. That grace period lasted about four days."

Greg's lips quirked into a smile. "You're happy, though. Happier than I've seen since… well, since before he left."

They both looked over to where Sherlock was frowning at the screen of his laptop, completely ignoring the party going on around him. He'd done well for the first two hours, but now that it was finally nearing midnight, he seemed well shot of the entire idea.

"I'll have some more, thanks."

John blinked and turned back to Greg, who was still holding his empty glass before him. "Oh, yes. Sorry."

It was Greg's turn to raise his eyebrows. "So, are you happy? Or are you better than happy?"

John smiled and refilled Greg's glass. "I'm very happy."

Greg smirked at him. "And I assume Sherlock is happy as well? And by happy I mean well-shagged, of course." Mercifully, he'd pitched his voice low enough that no one else would have heard him.

"Oh God, is it that obvious?"

"No, I was just curious. I reckoned you'd confess if I just asked."

John raised his glass and took a sip to cover his embarrassment. "We're trying to keep it quiet for now. I mean, he's only just starting to tell people he's back. It's going to be hard enough when the press gets wind of everything, without an added layer of..." He waved a hand in front of him vaguely.

"If I can help, let me know. I want to help."

"I know, and I appreciate it. Thanks."

Greg glanced over at Sherlock again. "God, it's so strange to see him sitting there, like none of it happened. It must have been a shock for you to see him again."

John nodded. "It was. I'm still getting used to it, to be honest."

"And you really had no idea?"

John shook his head. "I had suspicions, but I didn't let myself think about that, you know? Looking back now, it seems so obvious, but no, until he was standing in front of me, I didn't really believe it."

Greg paused and fingered the stem of his glass. "So it's good, then? I mean, you're really happy?"

John smiled. "Yeah, I think I am."

Molly and Mrs. Hudson burst into laughter across the room, drawing their attention.

"Speaking of happy, I haven't seen Molly in a while. Is she–?"

"Twenty years younger than you, yes," John said, taking a sip of champagne.

Greg frowned. "More like fifteen."

"Eighteen."

"Seventeen, at the most."

"You're old enough to be her father."

"Fuck you, I am not." Greg nudged him with an elbow. "So is she single, then?"

"Just split up with the bloke she was dating." John paused and pressed his lips together. "Look, she's special, all right? Don't even think about this lightly, because if you aren't serious—"

"You know I'm not the type to fuck around." Greg tore his gaze away from Molly to look at John again. "She's nice and smart and funny, and I could use someone like that in my life after the last few years."

"I know. I just—" John shrugged. "You're both fantastic people. I want to see you both happy, of course. But you know how it is. Sherlock doesn't have enough friends for them to go and fuck things up with each other and have it not affect us."

Greg glanced over to where Sherlock was staring at his laptop with the sort of intensity he usually reserved for crime scenes, and then back to John. "Trust me, I know."

John sighed. "I suppose you do. Go on then, maybe you can kiss her at midnight."

Greg clapped John on the shoulder and then crossed the room to where Molly and Mrs. Hudson were chatting.

John poured another glass of champagne and settled on the sofa next to Sherlock. "It's almost midnight."

"Dull."

"It's New Year's Eve, Sherlock."

"These arbitrary time designations are pointless."

"Not to me. Last year fucking sucked. I'm looking forward to another year. A new beginning." He held out the glass; Sherlock took it and downed half of it. John leaned closer to whisper in his ear, "And to you shagging me on this very sofa after everyone goes home tonight."

Sherlock coughed; apparently some champagne had gone down the wrong way. He closed the laptop and set it aside. "How long until midnight?" he managed after a moment, not quite looking at John.

John pulled his phone from his pocket, suppressing a grin. "Five minutes."

He spent the remainder of 2012 refilling everyone's glasses, and by the time the countdown began, Sherlock had grudgingly left the sofa to join everyone else.

At the stroke of midnight they cheered and clinked their glasses together, and everyone exchanged kisses and hugs. Greg let his lips linger on Molly's cheek a moment more than was technically appropriate, and the resulting flush on her face spoke volumes.

"Happy New Year, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said as Sherlock pressed a kiss against her temple. He smiled at John and John smiled back, and then Mrs. Hudson stepped away.

They'd discussed it earlier and had agreed to keep quiet about their whatever-it-was-that-they-were-doing. It was early yet and things were going to be complicated as it was, and the fact that they were now actually shagging (after nearly two years of speculation about their relationship by everyone in the universe) was hardly anyone else's business anyway. John stepped forward, intending to give Sherlock a friendly sort of hug, but before he quite knew what had happened, Sherlock's arm was around his waist and Sherlock's lips were pressed against his, and the room had gone very quiet.

So much for keeping it a secret.

John leaned out of the kiss and smiled up at him, suddenly not caring what anyone else thought. These were their closest friends, after all, the people Sherlock had wanted to know he was alive and well before the news was released to the press next week. Mycroft and Harry had both made other plans for the night, but the people here were their family of choice, the people they wanted around them.

Greg already knew, and likely Molly did as well. John turned to look and saw three faces smiling at him. He smiled back and leaned into Sherlock, and slid an arm around his waist.

Sherlock raised his glass. "There, it's the New Year. So if you're all done ringing it in, I'd like to shag John on the sofa. Please leave."

John felt the blood drain from his face. "Sherlock!"

"At least the sofa's not right above my bedroom," Mrs. Hudson said. "I've had to sleep with a pillow over my head these last few nights."

Greg and Molly burst out laughing, and John buried his face in his hands. "Oh God, I'm so sorry."

"No need to apologize, dear. I'll just turn the telly up a bit next time. Good night, all."

"We'll walk down with you," Greg said, and turned to Molly. "We could share a taxi, if you like."

"Yes," Molly said, and John could see the stars in her eyes already. "That'd be lovely, yes."

Good nights were said all around and coats were gathered, and the moment John closed the door, he found himself pressed against it face-first.

"Finally." Sherlock's lips moved across the back of John's neck.

"Does the term too much information mean anything to you?"

"They would have stayed another hour otherwise."

"And you couldn't wait that—oh God." Sherlock's mouth had found a particularly sensitive spot behind John's ear, and he found his annoyance was dissipating rapidly.

"I want you naked, bent over the arm of the sofa." Sherlock's voice was nearly gravelly in his ear.

John pushed backwards, grinding into him. "Do you, now?"

Sherlock inhaled sharply at the contact. "Yes. I want…"

"Say it. Come on, I want to hear it."

Sherlock released him and stepped back. "I'll get… be right back." John turned around in time to see him disappearing into the bedroom. John grinned. Despite his massive intellect, Sherlock seemed to lack the proper vocabulary for any sort of discussion about sex.

John ducked into the bathroom for a moment – considering what was on the agenda, a good wipedown with a flannel seemed in order – and opened the door again to find Sherlock standing by the window, staring out.

John stripped off his jumper and shirt, and crossed to wrap his arms around him from behind. "Naked, as requested."

Sherlock turned in his arms and kissed him. "So you are."

He slipped his fingers into the waistband of Sherlock's trousers and tugged him toward the sofa. Sherlock stared back at him, and John hesitated. "Is something wrong?"

"You're not angry that I told them about us." It wasn't a question.

John shrugged. "You could have been a bit more delicate about it, I suppose, but no. It's fine."

"I didn't plan to kiss you then. I just… I wanted to." He looked surprised by his own admission. John had been surprised as well – Sherlock generally scorned public displays of affection. Perhaps he'd changed his mind about that in the months they'd been apart. Or at least, he hadn't worried about it in that moment, which spoke volumes.

"I know. I'm glad you did." That earned John a rare genuine smile. "And I believe you wanted me bent over the sofa?" He took two more steps backward and leaned across the arm of the sofa, and grinned up at Sherlock.

Sherlock's expression changed from hesitant to heated in a heartbeat. "Yes, I believe I did"

Twenty minutes later, they were snuggled on the sofa, sated. John had commandeered one of Sherlock's dressing gowns, and Sherlock was still naked from the waist down, his perfectly tailored shirt now a bit wrinkled.

"Think you'll sleep tonight?" John let his head fall back against the sofa cushion and closed his eyes. His fingers stroked Sherlock's chest, playing with the smooth fabric there.

"For a bit." Sherlock had turned out to be more of a cuddler than John would have expected. Never for long, though. John sensed him growing restless even now.

John yawned. "I've got a shift tomorrow, so I need to get to bed. Want to join me?"

"Later. I've some research to do."

John leaned down to kiss him once more before he lost him to the work. It was only because he knew Sherlock so well that he didn't take it personally. Sherlock slid a hand around the back of John's head and held him there for a moment, open mouths pressed together, the soft slide of tongues somehow connecting them more intimately than they'd been just a few minutes ago. John closed his eyes against the emotion welling in his chest.

"I'm sorry about last year," Sherlock said when they finally parted.

John smiled and sat back. He entwined his fingers with Sherlock's. "I know. But it's over, thank God."

"I don't know what's coming next. It could be even worse."

"I love starting out the New Year with such a sense of optimism."

Sherlock snorted. "I didn't say we wouldn't enjoy it."

John squeezed his hand and released it. "No, of course not. Good night, Sherlock."

Sherlock sat forward enough to let him stand, and then stretched out on the sofa. He stared up at the ceiling, already shifting into what John liked to think of as processing mode. Sherlock probably wouldn't come to bed tonight at all; it was likely that John would wake up alone and would find him in this exact position again in the morning. Still bare-arsed, probably. But it was fine. He was home, and John couldn't imagine having him any other way.

"Happy New Year," he said. Sherlock's lips twitched briefly into a smile of acknowledgement, and John felt an unexpected flutter in his chest.

It would indeed be a Happy New Year, he had no doubt. In another week Sherlock's survival would be public knowledge, and their lives would be mad for a bit. But it would settle down again, and there would be cases – because who wouldn't want the help of a detective who'd so convincingly faked his death before an entire nation? – and Greg would find a way to involve Sherlock at Scotland Yard again, and Mycroft would scheme to get them both involved in the security services, which they would continue to resist, and John would blog about it all, and everything would be as it was before.

Well, with one rather significant difference, anyway. John walked to the bedroom – their bedroom – and smiled.

~ fin ~

End note: Thank you for reading! Comments and feedback are always appreciated. If you'd prefer to read the "adult" version of this story, it can be found on my AO3 page. The link is in my bio. ;-)