His dreams were a dark, chaotic tangle. Suffocating and repellant and utterly, utterly forgettable. The bedsheets told the story of restless nights, tossing and turning, nightmares even, but all Sherlock remembered, all he ever remembered, was panic. Sometimes tears, but always, always, that blinding panic.

And then he woke.

And the nightmare began anew.

...

He knew it as soon as he awoke, this time, that something ELSE had woken him. Some unexpected sound, some aberration in the darkness. He lay perfectly still, as his sleep-addled brain instantly began fighting through the lingering panic, wrestling with the best plan of attack.

Feign sleep and he missed crucial data. Open his eyes and he lost the element of surprise. The same indecision as always, for it was not the first time in three years, by any means, that he'd woken to immediate danger. The intruder could be anyone, though if they were creeping in at night, it was much too optimistic to assume they didn't mean him any harm—and yes, there, he could hear them clearly now.

The pad of quiet steps (too careful, too sneaky) and the soft exhale of breath, just by the side of his bed (too close, NO), the smell of tea and wool and—oh. Oh, of course.

He'd forgotten, for a second, but that—that was all right then.

Curious, though, admittedly.

Information insufficient.

He kept his eyes closed as two fingers slid against his throat, palpitating gently, searching until they lay across his pulse. Clever check. A little too fast for someone sleeping, surely and if that didn't give him away, the hitch of his breath ought to have. But the ministrations didn't stop.

A warm hand stroked perfunctorily down the side of his cheek and then paused, abruptly. As if its owner realized, suddenly, that what they were doing was not, perhaps, completely orthodox.

If he could have spoken, without breaking the spell, he'd have said that he didn't mind. This intruder might do as he pleased, take what he needed, because he was trusted, here, and Sherlock knew he'd never been safer.

He turned his head into the touch, the acquiescence subtle enough to seem unintentional.

No.

Miscalculation.

Too much.

A sharp exhale of breath and then the hand was snatched away, taking it's comfort with it. Footsteps signaled a hasty retreat, the door to his room shutting gently behind them, engulfing the room in silence once more.

Sherlock waited, one beat, two and then a few more, before lifting his hand carefully to his own throat and pressing down lightly against the warm skin.

Interesting.

...

"Toast?" John asked abruptly.

"Ah, no." Sherlock flipped through the newspaper for the second time that morning and then shoved it away when anything of interest failed to materialize. He looked up to see a plate of toast and eggs looming threateningly in front of his eyes.

"You need to eat," John said sharply. The plate wobbled precariously close to Sherlock's face.

"I'm not a child John, I can feed myself."

"Yeah? Doesn't look like it." John raked his eyes down Sherlock's gaunt frame, eyeing the prominent ridge of his collarbone, the sharp relief of his every muscle, until Sherlock fidgeted under his gaze and drew his robe defensively around himself. He remembered, belatedly, the unsteady, too-fast hammering of his pulse from two nights ago, how close he'd been to making a fool of himself and grasping John's hand. Like a child with a nightmare and the memory was enough to make him petulant.

"I'm not hungry."

"It's been three days. You haven't eaten since you Returned." The capital was clear in the inflection of his voice and it stopped Sherlock from biting off the retort that rose immediately to his tongue, the one that said that while he might not have eaten, John hadn't stopped NAGGING for the same length of time.

Sherlock, you're too thin, eat this-no, biscuits don't count as a meal- since when do you smoke again- here put antiseptic on that cut, it could get infected-

Like some absurd caricature of a housewife on telly, he thought resentfully, except that it was John Watson and nobody else, really, could have looked so threatening with a spatula in one hand and breakfast in the other.

"Either you can eat it yourself," he said now, softly, dangerously. "Or I can shove it forcibly down your throat, but you will EAT, Sherlock."

From anyone else, it would have been an empty threat. But with John these days, it was difficult to tell and Sherlock wasn't about to risk it.

"One toast," he said quickly. "With butter." He snatched it from John's hovering hand and stuffed about half of it into his mouth in one bite. "See? Eating."

"Don't talk with your mouth full," John snapped at him. "And eat some of your eggs, you need protein."

"Yes, mummy," Sherlock muttered sourly.
….

Sherlock had been prepared for almost anything when he came back. He knew John well, better than anyone, perhaps, but it was understandably difficult to predict how anyone might react to an old friend coming back from the dead. So Sherlock had been prepared for violence or disbelief or hysteria or even tears, but what he had not been prepared for was a deep sigh of resignation.

"You look like a crime scene," John said, his eyes flitting dully over Sherlock's torn coat, the dark bruise blooming on one pale cheek. "You look like hell, mate."

That was it. As if he'd been waiting three years for the day when Sherlock Holmes would show up on his doorstep again and demand his friendship once more.

"John—"

"Don't. Just- come in. It's cold and—you look like you came—"

"Back from the dead?" Sherlock suggested, unable to resist. A slight flicker of emotion finally broke across John's face. A mixture of realization and shock.

"Oh god… Jesus Fucking Christ, only you. Yeah, yeah, something like that."

Sherlock tentatively raised his head and sure enough, a small, ironic smile was tugging at the corner of John's mouth.

"Come in before you freeze out here, you disaster."

…

John watched him, his eyes following Sherlock about the room, flitting away if Sherlock so much as turned.

John had hardly moved his eyes from him for the past four days and he had to know that Sherlock knew, but the thing was, it wasn't all that unusual for them. Nor were the brief, intimate, but utterly irreproachable touches. Just shoulders and hands, usually, perhaps a short sweep into thick locks or the brush of a thumb across the back of a tanned neck.

Part of the agreement was that neither of them would ever, ever acknowledge the touches or the stares. The other part, the newer addition, was that nothing about Sherlock's little holiday could be said. Denial. It was all about the carefully cultivated art of denial.

They were very good at it.

And so, if John was perhaps staring a bit harder than usual, if Sherlock was getting a bit uncomfortable even, under his constant scrutiny, he didn't mention it.

It would pass soon enough, he assumed, and anyways- it was more than comforting to have John's gaze on him, when the alternative was not having John at all.

…..

Six days into this taut, fragile, excruciating existence, Sherlock slipped on his way down the stairs.

Unusual, for him. He was long-limbed, yes, but he was the graceful, stealthy, cat-like type of long-limbed, not generally prone to clumsiness. And anyways, he knew the exact number of stairs in 221B, could have navigated them blindfolded, gagged and drugged, with his hands tied firmly behind his back. Admittedly he'd only had to do it once, but useful knowledge, all the same.

And he slipped. Fifth step from the top and his foot flew out from under him. He grasped wildly at the bannister, missed, and resigned himself to a broken limb or two, all in the space of about half a second.

"No—Sherlock!"

Familiar arms looped about his waist and turned him around. He found himself face to face with John, his hands flailing wildly as John attempted to drag them both back.

"Stop moving, you git—I've got you—""

Which was a lie, if a well-intentioned one, because John very much did not have him. Sherlock was thin, but far too lanky and imbalanced and John staggered hopelessly under his weight for a moment, before his leg buckled underneath him and they both crashed painfully down the stairs, Sherlock on his back, John landing with a muffled 'omph' on his chest.

"Are you alright? Sherlock? Sherlock, answer me—"

"I'm fine, John," Sherlock managed, once he'd regained his breath. John's solid body sprawled out over him was hardly helping matters, but John didn't seem particularly inclined to move.

"And that was unnecessary, you shouldn't have—"

"You're okay," John interrupted, his eyes wide. And it was only then that Sherlock realized that he was cradling the back of Sherlock's head in one hand, like something fragile and precious. "You sure?"

"Yes, I'm quite sure— John—" Sherlock blinked stupidly up at him. At this ridiculous, lovely man whose first instinct, even after all this time, was to protect him.

"Nothing hurts? Not your back or—"

"Not any more than can be expected. You might want to consider getting up now."

John nodded, once, and then he tightened his hold on Sherlock's hair and pressed his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder, his breathing sharp and disjointed.

"John?" Sherlock asked. He cautiously raised a hand to John's arm.

"Yeah, I—" John swallowed and reluctantly raised his head. "Sorry. I'll just—Here." The weight shifted off of Sherlock's chest, leaving him feeling oddly bereft. He lifted himself onto his elbows and John offered him a hand, using it to drag him bodily up.

"Are you sure-?"

"Really John, you're getting tedious," Sherlock said, though the comment lacked his usual bite. He swallowed. "Is your leg all right? It—it gave out on you, didn't it?"

John's expression immediately closed off, going back to the dead neutrality that appeared to be its default these days, at least between bouts of sharp anger.

"You could have hit your head," he muttered, ignoring the question.

"Well, I didn't," Sherlock pointed out. ""Particularly since you so kindly volunteered your body as a human cushion. Crude and unnecessary, but undoubtedly effective."

John almost smiled. "Is that your version of thank you, then?"

"If you wish it to be," Sherlock said flippantly. He walked to the door and then paused, turning.

"Are you coming or not? I'll—understand-if you don't want to accompany me on the case—this time- but—"

"No, I'm coming," John said, interrupting Sherlock's fumbling attempts at avoiding any volatile subjects.

"There's no way in hell I'm letting- I'm definitely coming."

…

Their first crime scene was an unequivocal disaster.

Lestrade let him come back, as a favor to Mycroft (something Sherlock was doing his best not to think about), but he still staunchly refused to so much as meet Sherlock's eyes. Though Sherlock wasn't ready to be worried about that, not yet—the D.I's anger was far more tangible than John's, yes, but far less insidious. Lestrade would forgive him and quickly. But in the meantime, it only increased the tension, which was already slathered thickly over the scene.

Sally wasn't talking to him.

Anderson had left.

And John—John was worrying. He barely spoke and when he did it was utterly factual. He didn't laugh or jostle Sherlock's elbow like he might have. Once, they'd been one entity and the police force another. Now, John was his own little country, Switzerland, maybe, completely unaffected by the rude coldness on either side. No, not Switzerland—it surprised Sherlock that the distinction between neutrality and apathy was so distinct, but there was no mistaking John's demeanor for anything but apathy.

And yet, he never left. He might have walked off the scene, called a cab home. He might have never come. But instead he stuck to Sherlock's side like an extremely benign, extremely indifferent parasite.

The murder was boring. Amy Winfield, age 29, happily married to her boyfriend from uni and discovered, dead, outside their neat little flat Sunday morning. Sherlock was very, very aware of the fact that three years ago, he'd have stalked off and left the police to fumble over it. Now, he solved it quickly instead, pointing out the signs of a scuffle under the window, the loss of a wedding ring, the new lipstick and jewelry.

"It wasn't a random attack," he drawled, at the end of a long-winded and fairly incomprehensible deduction. "It was her husband. Jealousy over a lover. Dull."

Lestrade sighed, Sally glowered and John said nothing. Not that Sherlock had expected him to, not really-but he would have given quite a bit for a word of praise or even an approving expression. Just John, being encouraging, friendly—taking some pride in him—now where had that phrasing come from? But it was accurate, wasn't it?

The way John used to look at him. As if Sherlock was the most amazing, clever being and he couldn't fathom how someone so extraordinary had dropped into his orbit. Wrong, wrong, of course, because John was the extraordinary one, the brave, loyal, loving one and Sherlock knew now that he didn't deserve that praise, knew that John was simply too trusting, too easily impressed.

It had taken him three years to realize that he wasn't whole without John Watson and so anything else, anything extra, was just petulance on his part and yet-

The way John used to look at him.

He used to be extraordinary, then.

He shook his head at the thought, wincing. How inexcusably maudlin of him—he was growing maudlin now, on top of everything else. Next thing you knew, he'd be having a midlife crisis and crying himself to sleep. As if it already wasn't enough that he-no. Pointless. Just his limbic system, finally deciding that it deserved the chance to raise hell, for once.

John would come around (it had barely been a week, yet) and they'd be as they'd always been. And everything else-Was. Just. Ridiculous.

…..

He was half way across the lot before he realized that John hadn't followed him. He'd gotten so used to being alone that he hadn't even noticed.

"John? John, what are you—"

John was looking blankly at the corpse, his expression completely impassive.

Sherlock looked at Amy Winfield again, but he couldn't see anything that he hadn't already noted. Youngish business woman in a tailored black suit—recently married, hadn't known about her husband's alcoholism, nor his tendency for violence. Not a serial adulterer—this was her first attempt as well as her last one, like as not. Beyond that, nothing. (Well-she had liked soy in her lattes and hated her job and she'd carried extra shoes in her bag because her black pumps pinched her feet. )

Pale skin, lightly freckled, and in danger of sun-damage—which made perfect sense, since she was a natural redhead. Though the only red to be seen at the moment was the pool of blood congealed around her head, as her short, curly hair had been dyed a deep, blackish brown—Oh.

Sherlock cleared his throat abruptly. "Chinese, perhaps? I do know of a new one—"

He stopped as John's hand flew out and curled tightly around his wrist, in the universal gesture for 'enough'.

Right.

He could shut up, if that was what John needed. Delayed shock, perhaps, not entirely unusual.

Blunt fingers stroked down his inner wrist, settling, finally and yes, he really should have seen that coming.

John didn't say anything, not as Sherlock took his elbow and led him to the cab, nor later as they sat down at the restaurant, the waitress looking curiously at them. Sherlock glared at her until her eyes fluttered nervously away.

Still, John said nothing. Merely picked up his menu, as if there was nothing unusual happening and this was just another post-case re-feeding.

But he kept his fingers firmly curled around Sherlock's wrist, just over his fluttering, beating pulse, until the food arrived and he was forced to let go.

…

A week later, though, John STILL hadn't said anything beyond the usual bit of nagging and Sherlock's admittedly limited patience was long past worn out. He'd expected a few days, at the very upper limit, perhaps a week, for things to return more or less to normal. And to an outsider, it might have looked like they had. But they wouldn't have noticed that Sherlock's eyes were dark with circles, a protest even from the body of a man who rarely slept. And John was still a walking zombie, as far as he could make out, albeit a zombie overtly interested in Sherlock's vital signs.

He understood. Or he tried to. And he would have given John everything he wanted freely, put up with as many touches and stares as John liked, sacrificed every last bit of privacy and personal space, if only it appeared to be helping in the slightest. But it wasn't and this—this was intolerable. His nights were a lost cause and his days- John nagged at best, didn't speak for days at worst (and the irony of how much that bothered him was not lost on Sherlock) and something was so very dead that Sherlock began to fear it might never be fixed.

It was all that fear, probably, that caused him to snap in the end. Sherlock had never reacted well to fear, anyways—it turned him into a wild creature, scrabbling at the dark, drained him of his rationality and this, in it's own, peculiar way, was the most terrifying situation he'd ever dealt with.

Said the man who brought down Moriarty's entire web.

…

His real mistake, the cardinal sin among an array of lesser sins, was to break their rule of silence.

They really hadn't talked about those three years- it was as if they had truly dropped out of the stream of time. That should have been his first clue. But it had been so easy, too easy to slip back into a life they hadn't had in years and Sherlock had been too blinded by his relief to realize how strange it really was.

Because they were strangers now, weren't they? John had been married and widowed and Sherlock had forgotten how to live among humans and it ought to have been terribly, terribly awkward, negotiating the small boundaries of their flat, trying to avoid all the little reminders of that enormous gap in their shared memories.

It hadn't been.

Should have been, hadn't.

Mary, Sherlock didn't know and John never mentioned. Yet according to all his sources (and Sherlock had kept many), he'd loved her terribly, dreadfully, in the all or nothing way that only John Watson could give his heart.

That would have been an easy way to explain it away. A woman so loved , who died (13 months now, absurdly long to still be upset he might have said, once. But he knew better now. Knew that grief wasn't so easily contained, wasn't convenient or rational. Knew that he'd spent the better part of three years mourning John Watson and that, even if he ever did get his John back, he'd mourn those three years lost.)

Understandable, then. Any normal person would have chalked up John's odd behavior to grief and shock. But Sherlock wasn't any normal person. And he didn't believe in convenient explanations that didn't fit all the facts.

So he broke a rule, the only rule and that was the beginning of an end.
….

"You weren't surprised," Sherlock said, when John came into the living room that afternoon, cup of tea firmly in hand. "Why?"

John didn't bother asking what he was talking about. He just shrugged and settled into his armchair. His tongue darted out to lick his thin, chapped lips and Sherlock was strangely touched by the familiar gesture. By the immediate remembrance of what it meant.

John was nervous.

"Don't tell me you knew, John. You couldn't have known." Sherlock was sure of this. He'd seen the grief for himself, hoarded every therapist report and CTV glimpse, every little scrap of information on John Watson and never once had there been a sign that he didn't truly believe Sherlock had died.

"No one could fake grief like that. Not even I could and I flatter myself that my acting skills—"

"Not now," John said quietly. "Just—don't do this, Sherlock."

Sherlock ignored him.

"Perhaps you were waiting for me? Believed that I would return? A romanticized notion, to be sure, but the Daily Drivel certainly seemed to think it was a viable explanation, so I am obliged to investigate the possibility."

"I said not now," John said, slamming his mug down on the coffee table. "For the love of God, Sherlock, if you don't—"

"Why?" Sherlock demanded. "Tell me WHY, John." He leaned forwards and caught John's gaze, took in the wide, blue, tumultuous panic of it and suddenly it all fell into place.

"Oh," he said softly. "John, I—"

John stood up abruptly, his face twisting in pain and rage. "I asked you for one thing Sherlock," he said, his voice low suppressed emotion. "Just- just to shut up. That was it."

"John, I didn't realize—"

"No. No you never do, do you?"
…

He didn't expect that John would follow him to the second crime scene. Not when he'd stormed up to his room mere minutes earlier. But John wasn't like that. Sherlock might pout and sulk in a crisis, if that was his agenda for the day, but John put everyone else first. So, really, it shouldn't have surprised Sherlock to see him already at the door, jacket in hand.

"After you," he said stiffly.

"Please, don't feel obliged to—" Sherlock began testily.

"Get the fuck out this door, Sherlock."
…

"Are you really so blind, Lestrade? Look at the way he's been shot, the angle, clearly shaking hands, he'd just gotten off of work, do you SEE—how do you—Oof."

Sherlock had whirled confrontationally -and smacked straight into John, whose arms immediately reached up to steady him. As they always did, but this, time, it felt significant. Because they were arguing and Sherlock was still angry, so how dare John continue this patronizing pretense of taking care of him?

To be fair, though, Sherlock gave him another chance. He was exhausted and fed up and yet he waited for a muttered apology, a sheepish grin, even a brief tightening of the hand on his shoulder.

But John just brushed Sherlock off, calmly, coldly, and stepped back.

And that was the moment Sherlock broke.

"Bound to happen, wasn't it?" Sherlock hissed. "Now, if you would be so kind as to move, John, I would very much appreciate it."

John moved, grimacing. But Sherlock was far from done, his vindictiveness out in full force.

"It's infuriating," he said, not bothering to keep his voice down. "I can hardly concentrate in light of the apparent war you've declared on my personal space- what next John? Going to follow me into the bathroom now? Can I sleep by myself, mummy, or do you want to buy me a cradle to keep by your bed? Perhaps one of those little radios, in case I decide to snuff it during the night—"

John looked shell-shocked for moment, though Sherlock failed to comprehend how, even after all this time, John could still be surprised at his cruelty.

Sherlock Holmes was not a good man. He knew that- he was cold and vain and spiteful, but above everything else, he was selfish. He'd died because he was selfish and he'd come back for the same reason and now that reason was standing in front of him with arms crossed and eyes narrowed, as close to leaving him as ever.

"Personal space?" John scoffed. "Yeah? You're one to talk about personal space, Sherlock—bit hypocritical, isn't it?"

John's temper, so close to the surface these days, was rapidly rising.

"And don't flatter yourself, mate—it's not about YOU. You can't expect everyone else to just clear out in time whenever you decide on pirouetting about the place like a goddamned ballerina—"

"I'm not pirouetting about like—this is absurd. This entire argument is absurd."

"Yeah? Then let's not have it," John snapped.

Lestrade chose that moment to storm over. Apparently, Sherlock wasn't the only one at the end of his tether.

"This is a crime scene," he said exasperatedly, his back to his team. "And you two can keep your domestic scuffles at home—I don't know what's the matter this time and I don't care, alright? This is the second murder in two weeks and-"

"This time-?" Sherlock protested indignantly. "It's not a 'this time', it's always him—

Lestrade whirled on him. "Jesus Sherlock, are you five? Look, it's late and there's a murderer still on the loose—so either we finish up this case together or I do it myself, but if you don't keep it professional, I WILL send you home." Despite the fact that he was purportedly talking to both of them, his glare was for Sherlock alone.

"Fine," Sherlock said through gritted teeth. Everyone was staring at them, but he couldn't be bothered to care at the moment. Lestrade turned away and Sherlock dropped his voice, his eyes fixed on the ground at John's feet.

"I'll finish this. John—Go home."

"Are you mad?" John hissed back. "Like hell I'm going to leave you here—You heard him, second time he's killed and I don't care how angry you are-"

"No. I don't need you here," Sherlock spat, still refusing to look up. "I don't want you here. I worked alone for three years, John, against far more ruthless men and I am still alive. So. Leave."

"Look at me," John commanded, his voice suddenly rough. "Look at me and tell me you don't want me here, Sherlock and I'll go, I will."

Would he? Would he really back down that easily? The fear spiked, icy and sharp, in his belly. Familiar that panic, so very familiar and so very out of place here, at dusk. But it was too late to back out now and better to know.

He forced his eyes up, forced himself to lock them with John's. He was mere centimeters away from John's face, even with the advantage of his height, and it struck him how easy it might have been, even for him, to mistake them for lovers in the dim light, their faces tilted so very close, the tension rife between them.

And he'd have been wrong.

""I don't want you here," Sherlock said coldly, his eyes unblinking. "John. I don't need you anymore."

John's eyes widened, hurt and the emotion was satisfying, in a sick sort of way. For a long, terrifying moment, neither of them said anything. And then he nodded. A sharp, precise, military nod, one that Sherlock recognized from three years ago and that, somehow, hurt even more now.

"Right. I—goodbye, then."
…

It wouldn't have happened if Sherlock hadn't panicked. Or at least, he liked to believe that, because he'd told John the truth. He'd spent years without anyone watching out for him and somehow, improbably, he'd survived.

But this was different. Because he was running through the streets of London, by himself, and suddenly, the tall, shadowy man in front of him ducked into a warehouse. And Sherlock, without so much as second thought, ducked in after him. It would be easy, later, to rationalize his idiocy because he was upset, still, but really, it was just idiocy. He should have waited for Lestrade and his team, of course. That would have been the smart, safe thing to do.

But since when had Sherlock ever done the safe, smart thing?

…..

It occurred to him he'd made a mistake when he vaulted over a window ledge and discovered Andrew Winfield waiting for him on the other end, gun in hand. A strong arm caught Sherlock across the chest and then the cold muzzle of a pistol buried itself in his hair.

One suspicion confirmed, then.

"You did murder your wife. And her lover."

The man barked out a short, slightly insane laugh. Sherlock didn't like the sound of that. He liked even less the obvious tremor in the man's hand, quite clearly brought on by years of alcohol abuse and a subsequently unhinged mental state.

So he told him so.

Andrew Winfield was not amused.

"You'll shut up, then," he barked. "Or else I'll make you. I've got a gun, see?"

Sherlock very nearly managed to refrain from rolling his eyes. It was a close thing. And then he decided it wasn't worth the effort and rolled them anyways.

"Yes, I can see that," he murmured. "Just as I can see that that you lost your job two months ago and that your wife kicked you out just before you decided to kill her. Not premeditated—that will help your case—"

"Shut up," the man snarled and the gun shook dangerously in his hand. "Shut up or I'll—I'lll kill you, I will. Won't take much."

It would be a mistake to antagonize him right now. It really would.

"Well, maybe if you'd stop simply threatening me, I'd believe you," Sherlock snapped. "But you won't. You're terrified. You've killed two people, only one of whom you meant to, you're out of money, you're out of places to run—you won't shoot, Mr. Winfield, because you're a coward and a drunkard and path—"

It was only when he heard the gunshot that he realized, stupidly, belatedly, that he might have misjudged the man after all.

….

"Oh god, you idiot, you absolute fucking idiot—"

It was like coming out of a bad dream, a terror, even, the taste of barely remembered horror thick and heavy on his tongue. Except this time, he wasn't alone: his head was propped up, cradled on someone's lap. Familiar hands tore through the bewildering layers of material, his coat, his blazer, shirt, until they met skin and ran shakily over his bared chest, flattening over pale skin as they checked for damage.

"John—"

"Will you shut up? Don't need me, my arse. You are the stupidest person I have ever, ever met, Sherlock—" A warm hand settled across his heart and Sherlock cracked open an eye, making out John's terrified face above him, even through his daze.

"You followed me," he managed and he could feel the smile spreading across his face, the fear fading. "I knew you would. I knew—"

John drew in a shaky breath, sudden fury crossing his face. "So what was that? Some sort of fucked up test? Let's see if John saves me this time?"

Sherlock shook his head frantically. "No, no—I was being—unforgivably stupid. But of course I knew you would."

"No you didn't," John snapped. He looked away, his teeth biting into his lower lip. "I almost didn't, Sherlock," he said, his voice unsteady. "Do you know that? I was so, so furious at you, you git, I—"

"But you did," Sherlock interrupted, a little more triumphantly than might have been appropriate, given their current situation. "You did, John. You saved me. You always do."

John's arm tightened uncomfortably across his chest, his expression changing to absolute rage. "No, I don't, you fucking idiot. Or did you forget? The last time I stormed off, did you delete that? Because I bloody well don't think I ever will. And then you decided to put me through it AGAIN—I can't anymore. I can't do this, you can't keep doing this—"

John was shaking, with either fury or pent-up emotion and Sherlock thought, just for a split second, that it was one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen. He shouldn't have felt that way, shouldn't have felt so gratified at reopening John's grief. It was wrong, but it was there, and maybe, it showed on his face.

"Fuck you," John said, gulping a little. "Fuck you, Sherlock. I won't—I won't do this."

He would, though. Sherlock knew that now, beyond a doubt, that he would. He slipped his hand over John's and John grasped it without looking down.

"The body—" Sherlock started.

John shook his head. "Just unconscious. Wrapped him up in his shirt he'll be fine—unfortunately. Don't think this one's going to go over very well with Lestrade, though. Not this time."

"It was his own fault," Sherlock interrupted. "So drunk he misfired and then couldn't remember anything. Odd that they can't find the gun, of course, but he must have hidden it while I was unconscious and besides, there's no pressing NEED to match bullets, not when they have both mine and your completely sober, trusted testimonies—"

John looked down at him and raised an eyebrow. "And I suppose this the part where I just happen to pick up his gun and toss it in the river or something, is it?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about." He risked a furtive glance up—and met John's eyes, in time to catch the emotions warring across his face. But in the end, the corner of his mouth tilted up and Sherlock smiled tentatively back.

"Might work," John said. He looked down at their joined hands and a flicker of surprise crossed his face, as if he was seeing them for the first time. "And if not," he continued, after a beat. "I reckon Mycroft owes me a couple of favours by this point."

Sherlock took another chance and drew John's hand to his mouth, pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to John's knuckles. John flashed him a narrow stare.

"Wha—"

"Thank you," he said simply, inadequately and John nodded briefly, his lips pursed.

In the distance, he could hear sirens.
...

It was Sally who cornered him, after, her mouth twisting into a distasteful sneer. If Sherlock's death had caused her any grief, it had been thoroughly wiped away by his return and the bright orange blanket about his shoulders certainly wasn't winning him any sympathy.

"You don't deserve him, Freak," she said without preamble. She held up her hand as Sherlock opened his mouth. "No. I know. Everyone knows who shot Andrew Winfield—and that cabbie. We're not stupid, you know."

She sighed and Sherlock waited impatiently for her to go on. Clearly, this speech had been brewing for a while. When she did continue, it was not what he expected to hear.

"But he loves you," she said, finally. "I don't know why, but he does and I've never seen a man so broken."

Some part of Sherlock rebelled at the adjective. John Watson was not broken. He did not need to be pieced back together and surely, even if he did, then Sherlock was the last person to be up to the task. He'd broken them both, if they were indeed broken, and why would anyone in their right mind entrust him with the fixing?

He had barely opened his mouth before Sally stepped in, far too close, her face inches away and one accusing finger sinking into his chest. He wanted to spit out a scathing reply, about how it was none of her business and how wrong she was—but there was something in this little lecture that rang too true to be petty spite.

"You fix this," she hissed. "Fix him, Sherlock, because if John leaves you, then I don't know who's going to put up with you any more."

It was almost kind.
….

Sherlock knew. Or at least, he was very, very certain. He stayed awake, easy as it was now, with his body buzzing with adrenaline in the darkness. And sure enough, about two hours after he made it to bed, the door creaked open.

Sherlock watched through slitted eyes as John walked in. He looked exhausted—worn and—old. John looked old and three years ago, he hadn't. His hand crept hesitantly to Sherlock's neck, his fingers pressing down familiarly until they found his pulse.

Sherlock let his eyes flicker open and John gasped.

"I—sorry. I can—I can explain—" he tried to move his hand away and Sherlock's hand flew instantly to his wrist, holding it in place.

"Sherlock—let me go, I'm sorry, all right? It won't happen again-"

"You thought I was a ghost," Sherlock interrupted, staring sightlessly at the ceiling. "When I came back—you thought you'd invented me. That's why you weren't surprised. You thought you'd gone mad."

He could feel John tense at his side. "Yes, yes, very clever. Now, let go."

Sherlock flicked his eyes over to John, taking in his unhappy grimace, the guilty intensity in his shoulders.

"But you never got over that, did you? When you don't see me, you start wondering if you invented me again. When I fall, trip, run off—you worry that I'll manage to kill myself." He cupped both hands over John's and drew it, slowly, deliberately, down to his heart..

"And when you can't feel my pulse," he said, softly. "You convince yourself that I'm dead."

John swallowed. Sherlock tugged insistently at his sleeve until John sat at the edge of his bed, his palm steady under Sherlock's, only the thin t-shirt separating Sherlock's chest from the splayed fingers. They curled possessively over his heart, the pounding, living beat of it and something in his expression broke open for the first time.

"It's stupid," he muttered, his gaze fixated on Sherlock's rising and falling chest. "It is, I know it. But Jesus, Sherlock, people don't—they don't come back from the dead. I know that, better than anyone. Not even—not even you—do you know what it felt like? Seeing you on that porch, three years too late, 'course I thought I'd gone mad. Still do, sometimes."

"You're not mad," Sherlock spat. "You're not. John. John. I'm-I am sorry. I'm apologizing, I will beg, if you like. I should not have-"

"No, you shouldn't have," John agreed. "None of it. But you did. And I've lost too many people now, to believe in miracles. This, whatever this is-No, it is, shut up-I can't Sherlock. I spent three years—three years, believing in you when everyone said there was no proof. And now there's proof right here and I just—I can't anymore, all right?"

"You CAN," Sherlock said, his teeth clenched. "You will." He fisted a hand in John's collar and drew him down onto the bed and John let out a strangled protest.

"You can't just—"

"You WILL," Sherlock insisted and to his horror, something wet pooled at the corners of his eyes. Maudlin. So very, very maudlin. Crying himself to sleep.

But John inhaled sharply at the sight of tears. He allowed himself to be pulled down, settled half over him, an elbow resting on Sherlock's chest, one strong arm slipping under his head.

"I'm here," Sherlock said and he was embarrassed to realize his voice was trembling. "I'm HERE, John—you can't leave."

John drew in another unsteady breath and there was a question in his eyes, one Sherlock answered merely by letting his head fall back, exposing the vulnerable skin of his throat. John leaned forwards, nuzzling Sherlock's neck and Sherlock arched it back, letting his fingers settle in John's hair, guiding him, until his lips found what they were seeking.

"I know," he said finally, his lips soft and warm against Sherlock's quickening pulse.

"Oh God, Sherlock-I know, really I do."

"Stay here," Sherlock said softly. "We can- we can fix this."

John pulled away, frowned down at him. "Who said it was broken?"

"Isn't it?"

John bit his lip. "I don't know. Maybe."

"Stay anyways," Sherlock suggested, though he wasn't entirely sure for who's sake he was suggesting it, not anymore. "Because- I need you-" He had started that sentence with an ending in mind and then forgotten it, because it seemed complete suddenly, the entire sum of what he wanted to say.

He tried it again. "I need you."

John looked at him for a long moment and perhaps he saw what he needed to convince him. Because his mouth tightened and he leaned down and kissed Sherlock's lips, firmly, sweetly. Sherlock groaned into his mouth, tugged him close. Their lips slid against each other, chaste, almost, but it was far more intimate then it ought to have been, the exhale of John's breath into his open mouth. Presumptuous, maybe, but John hadn't been wrong. No, because he was brilliant.

They were brilliant.

...

Later, a bit later, wrapped up and tangled together, Sherlock finally had to ask.

"When did it start?" he asked against the side of John's mouth. "You coming in- it was the first time, that night I returned, wasn't it?"

John pressed a kiss to an eyelid, a cheek, the soft corner of his jawline. Apologetic kisses and no answer.

"Mhmm."

But Sherlock was done with evasion, at least for the moment.

"Why?" he demanded, pushing John away. "But why come in at all? That's not like you, John. No matter how worried you were, you wouldn't walk in- it started there. Why?"

John stared at him, his mouth back into an unhappy line.

"Leave it, love?"

The question implied he would answer, if under duress, and so Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow. John kissed the side of his mouth in lieu of answering.

"Something must have instigated it, you checking on me, because no matter how you worried, you'd have convinced yourself it was irrational. So something happened. A noise, perhaps- but that would have woken me and it was your footsteps that woke me. So what then? Only us in the flat, no noises outside and surely the pipes haven't begun to terrify you yet- Oh. Not you. Then me."

He tried to sit up and was thwarted by John's firm hold. But he had an appalling suspicion now, for there was one thing-

"The nightmares," he said flatly.

"Yes," John agreed. His gaze softened. "I don't think that I'm the only one who's been worried."

"Tell me," he demanded. "What happened- what did I do?"

John smiled then, a tired smile but a smile all the same. "What you always do, idiot," he said, tightening his hold around Sherlock's waist. "What you-what you always used to. Every time you got in a strop, every time you were upset or bored or infuriated or just being difficult-Instinct, I guess."

And Sherlock knew, because really, he'd known all along. In the end it wasn't even humiliating-it was fact. Simple, unalterable.

"I called your name."