As Sherlock wraps his arms around John and pushes slowly into him, all he sees behind his closed eyelids is the gun pressed into his lover's temple not two hours ago.

John was calm and strong, brave in the face of a bullet. But he could not see what Sherlock saw; the panic in the eyes of the man holding the gun. He was a murderer (a crime of passion committed against his wife) and the guilt had destroyed his nerves. In his panic, when the detective and his companion had cornered the criminal, the man was able to get the drop and take John as his hostage.

In the end, the situation righted itself. John disarmed his captor, the met arrived, and Sherlock was overcome with relief. But for a moment he had seen it all play out before him. The man flinches. The trigger is pulled. The bullet tears through bone and brain as if it were paper and all that was once John Watson ceases to exist.

Upon their return to Baker Street, John had carried on as usual, unfazed by their encounter, tea being his only priority. Sherlock had stripped off his coat, scarf, gloves and shoes, walked into the kitchen, grabbed John by the waist and led them to his bedroom.

Now, tangled together as they are, Sherlock is seeking to put the world back together.

He still doesn't quite understand the give and take of a physical relationship. Being the one who had come so close to death, he had expected John to be the one to lay his lover down and reaffirm his need to feel alive. He had expected teeth and scratches and a fast, unrelenting pace until they collapsed in a sweaty panting pile, exhausted but fully alive.

Instead, John had run his hands over Sherlock's body soothingly, looked into his eyes with nothing but open trust and allowed Sherlock to pour into him his fears and his longing and his unwavering need for the man beneath him.

Sherlock presses his lips against John's neck, not in a kiss, just as a point of contact, and listens to John's breath leave him as Sherlock cants his hips and bring the two of them as close as it is physically possible for them to be.

John's legs wrap around Sherlock's waist as Sherlock's hands find John's hip and his hair.

They continue to move together, slowly, neither one of them daring to break the points of contact that they have formed.

After an age, Sherlock feels John tense and then sigh out a moan, semen making the slick glide of their stomachs a touch sticky and that much more sensual.

Spasms still pulsing through his body, John tilts his head slightly, bringing his mouth level with Sherlock's ear and whispers breathily, "It's all right."

And that's it. That simple indication that he understands completely is what pushes Sherlock over the edge with a groan that he will refuse to accept sounded like a sob. John Watson has and always will understand him and that is precisely why he could never bear to lose him.