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They came in to Baker Street, as they had so many times before, arguing about Sherlock’s tendency to hare off into danger by himself. This time he’d chased down and cornered a suspect who turned on him with a knife. Although he’d managed to subdue the suspect, John found him in a dead-end alley, bleeding from a gash across his ribs, and dizzy enough to have to lean against a brick wall. (“Shock, John. And the wound was superficial. I’m fine now.”)

John slammed the door of 221B shut behind them. Sherlock was reaching toward the hook with his coat when John caught him by the arm and spun him around. Then John slammed his forearm across Sherlock’s chest (carefully avoiding the wound), and pinned him to the wall.

"You inconsiderate fucking bastard,” John hissed, skewering Sherlock a second time with his livid, grief-stricken eyes. “Will you ever think to stop and let me catch up, so I can cover your back? I almost lost you again, you complete and utter arsehole —” John took a deep breath that was almost a sob, and finally looked away (but did not loosen his grip one bit).

“John," Sherlock breathed, still unable to move. Then he leaned down, deliberately, but just slow enough to telegraph what he was about to do, and kissed him.

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Most of the takeaway was gone, although Sherlock continued to pick through John’s container for any remaining prawns. Most of the wine was gone too, so John sloshed the last bit into his glass and leaned over Sherlock to grab the second bottle.

"So, what do you want to do now?" John asked, as he unsteadily corkscrewed the bottle open and topped off Sherlock’s glass.

"I thought you were going to make me sit through one of those interminable science fiction movies," Sherlock said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "If we must, let’s get on with that while I’m still intoxicated enough to tolerate it."

"Wow, you’re practically co-operative," John said. "I should get you drunk more often."

"Nonsense. I’m not that drunk,” Sherlock replied, pushing himself into a standing position. He let go of the table and walked to the sofa with exaggerated dignity, then collapsed onto it and pointed at the telly. “Off you go, then.”

John giggled as he collected the wine glasses and bottle and made his way to the sofa. “So, Star Trek? You’re sure?” he asked, as he turned on the telly and logged into their Netflix account.

"For God’s sake, John, I’m sure; get on with it," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "The more you… waffle at me, the less likely that the pleasure of your company is going to be worth enduring this no-doubt ridiculous movie."

"Sherlock," John said, then very carefully set down the remote, turned to his friend, and kissed him.

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They were running after a suspect one night; feet pounding on pavement, blood pumping through their ears, sucking in burning lungfuls of cold air. Suddenly Sherlock rounded a corner and shot down a narrow alley, presumably following one of his arcane shortcuts. John managed to keep up better these days now that his limp was gone, but when he got around the corner Sherlock wasn’t anywhere in sight. John let momentum carry him a few steps into the alley before stopping to look around and catch his breath. As he stood there with his hands braced on his thighs and his sides heaving, he felt a familiar hand grip his wrist and pull him into a shadowed doorway.

"Sher— Sherlock," John panted.

"Shh," came the reply, barely audible. He felt himself being positioned behind Sherlock, whose coat made better camouflage than John’s blond hair. After what seemed like an eternity of struggling to breathe silently into utter darkness, with Sherlock shielding him from the rest of the world, John became aware of two sets of footsteps approaching.

"No, we’ve lost them," Sherlock rumbled next to his ear, reading his mind. "This’ll be Lestrade and Donovan."

"Then why are we still hiding?" John whispered.

"Because," Sherlock started to say, but then John was kissing him, and he couldn’t think of an answer.

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"John," Sherlock croaked, from under his pile of duvets on the sofa. "John!"

John came skidding into the sitting room, sloshing a mug of tea. “All right, I’m here… what is it?”

"I’m too warm. The air is stifling in here. Open a window?"

"No, absolutely not; it’s freezing out. It might even snow this evening. Take a blanket off, genius." John set the tea on the table and patted at one end of the duvet-pile. "Budge up," he said, and the pile contracted so he could sit down.

"This is awful, John. Do something,” Sherlock whined, still cocooned.

"You know I can’t help a viral infection." John replied. "But you can have this tea if you want it."

Suddenly the blankets shifted, and Sherlock emerged as far as his shoulders. He grimaced as he pushed himself back into a mostly-sitting position, then stuck one arm out at John, who obediently picked up the tea and handed it to him.

John couldn’t help smiling fondly at the sight of Sherlock, slurping a mug of tea with both hands, practically curled around it with his knees drawn up, swaddled in comforters. And apparently John really was a bad man, because the disheveled curls and red nose only added to his charm.

"C’mere, let me check your fever," John said, leaning over to put a hand on Sherlock’s forehead. For the first time since Sherlock got sick his glassy eyes had a gleam in them, then he grabbed John’s wrist and pressed his hot, dry lips into John’s palm.

They sat there staring wide-eyed at each other, hearts pounding, for a long minute. Then Sherlock blinked a few times and said “I didn’t want to get you sick, too.” John, still open-mouthed, made a small noise that might have been “oh,” then dove for him.

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John bolted awake with the metallic-electric taste of fear in his mouth and his pulse rushing past his eardrums. It wasn’t the usual hot sand and searing pain of Afghanistan that woke him, though. It was Sherlock’s blood streaming past his ice-blue eyes and pooling on the pavement. But now the quiet darkness of John’s room enveloped him, and he consciously tried to calm his gasping breath and thundering heartbeat.

He was still sitting rigidly upright crushing fistfuls of blanket a moment later, when the door cracked open and a rectangle of dim light fell on his floor. “John?” Sherlock said, uncertainly.

"Did I wake you?" John asked. "I’m sorry."

"No, it’s… fine," Sherlock said, still hovering in the doorway. "I was analyzing earlobes in various states of decomposition when you called out for me, so —"

"Sherlock?" John said, in an odd, flat voice.

"Yes?"

"Can you come here, please?"

"I — yes?" John could see Sherlock move closer in the faint light from the hallway, but he stopped about a foot away from John’s bed.

"Sit with me for a minute?"

"John, are you… is everything…"

"Just for a minute," John said, struggling to sound calm.

"Of course," Sherlock said, and finally sat down beside him. John took a deep breath and leaned back against the headboard. He realized he was still clutching the sheets, and willed his fingers to uncramp and let go.

"Sherlock, I — " John began, then he threw his arms around Sherlock and tried to sound like he wasn’t sobbing.

Sherlock froze for a second, then awkwardly embraced John in return. When John took that as a signal to pull him closer, he dared to relax a bit, then pressed his lips into John’s impossibly soft hair.

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 John couldn’t open his eyes.  His eyelids weighed about a thousand pounds each.  Why couldn’t he open his eyes?

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They'd just wrapped up one of those "not a holiday" cases that required traveling to some remote village and settling in for a few days. This one began with reports of a ghost ("Why did out-of-town cases always seem to be about a ghost?" John thought) and turned out to be drugs manufacturers using a small cave system with freak acoustics.  After almost a week of the two of them investigating overnight and sleeping in a cramped and dingy room by day (if at all), of course the case concluded in a dramatic, terrifying stand-off before the police finally arrived. 

At the end, John's cravings for his own bed back in 221B were physically painful.  And when he and Sherlock stumbled across the threshold of their home and dropped their bags in the hall for Mrs. Hudson to deal with, the relief that flooded over John was bliss.  But he was surprised to feel a tiny bit of loss, as well.  As he trudged up the steps to his room, he felt as though he were moving away from a warm fire and letting a chill creep back around him.

("You're clearly exhausted, Watson; you've gone all maudlin," he thought.  "Hold it together long enough to get some sleep and it'll all be fine in the morning.")

But as he drifted off, John was thinking about how he wished he could quit his job at the surgery and spend the rest of his life traveling the countryside solving mysteries with Sherlock, and how quiet it was with nobody else's breathing in the room.

That was early afternoon on Sunday, and John didn't wake again until Monday morning.  His first conscious thought was that he was surprised Sherlock let him sleep in peace that long.  His second thought was, "Shit, work in two hours; better dash."  He ran downstairs to have a wash, registering that Sherlock was experimenting in the kitchen, then went back up to his room to get dressed.  When he returned to the kitchen, there was a mug of tea and a plate of toast waiting for him.

"Jesus, you did this?  Thank you, Sherlock," John said, shoving the food in his mouth and washing it down as fast as he could.

"It was no trouble," Sherlock said, not taking his eyes off his microscope.  "I'd already made a pot of tea for myself, and it's hardly difficult to put bread in the toaster and push the lever."

"I know, I'm just surprised you thought of it," John said, then slid behind Sherlock to put his plate in the sink.  On his way back through he stopped for a second to rest his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and kiss the top of his head, then he was grabbing his coat and running out the door. 

A moment later, the door re-opened.  "Did I just --" John said, staring intently at the wall beside him.

"It appears so," Sherlock replied, still looking at his microscope.

"Right," John said.  "And that's not -- you don't --"

"I don't mind," Sherlock said, softly.  It startled both of them enough that they made eye contact.

John finally managed to say, "Do you suppose we should... talk about it?"

"You should probably go to work; you're late already," Sherlock said, looking back at his microscope, and John didn't know whether to feel relieved or rejected.  But then Sherlock took a deep breath and went on, in a low voice like a purr, "But when you get home, don't expect to waste a lot of time talking about it." 

And suddenly, John found he no longer cared about work at all.

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They’d been sneaking around a derelict warehouse by the river one night, investigating a gang that moved stolen property.  Unfortunately, Sherlock hadn’t anticipated that several members of the gang would also be there.  So now they were handcuffed together through a steel bridge support not too far from the warehouse, standing in a couple of feet of water, waiting to see if high tide or exposure could finish them off before they were noticed and rescued. 

At first Sherlock had been encouragingly dismissive of the danger, saying that it was unlikely for the water to rise that much, at this point in the river, at this time of year.  But after what seemed like an eternity (but was more likely an hour or two), the water had reached John’s shoulders, and he realized Sherlock hadn’t assured him they’d be fine in quite some time.  Shit.

Naturally, Sherlock more or less heard the thought as it crossed John’s mind.  He shifted in the darkness and sent water lapping in all directions, then took a deep breath and began, “John — “

"No, Sherlock," John interrupted.

"But John, I — "

"I said no.  Not now."

"But I think there’s something I should tell you, and — "

"Sherlock, don’t you dare say anything to me that you’ll regret tomorrow, because we are getting out of this,” John said, evenly.  “Now hush.”

Touched by his soldier's faith and steadfastness even in this grim situation, Sherlock couldn't suppress a rueful smile. “Oh, I won’t regret it,” he said, as he leaned in around the bridge support, cupped John’s face with his free hand, and kissed him.

A few minutes later they heard Sgt. Donovan distantly calling “Oi, Freak!  You here?” in the warehouse behind them, and managed to draw her attention down to the river.  And not even her snide little digs as she freed them with bolt cutters could put a damper on what had turned out to be, all things considered, a pretty spectacular evening.

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It was 4:08 am, and they were still at NSY giving statements to Lestrade’s people. This was the part John hated most — the mystery had been solved, the suspect was caught, and now they were in a little windowless room telling the same story over and over again to various people who didn’t actually care.  Well, Sherlock was talking to them; John was trying not to doze off with his head resting on his right arm.

"…so I deduced it must be the gardener.  And when we confronted him about it, in broad daylight in a public place I might add, he pulled a gun on John — us — both of us, actually.  Which is when I immobilized him and John attempted to disarm him.  Unfortunately for Mr. Woodley, in the ensuing struggle the gun went off, killing him instantly.  Fortunately for the public, the Brixton Ripper is no more.  And that really must be the end of it, Detective Inspector,” Sherlock said, suddenly standing up and tying on his scarf.  “My partner is clearly flagging and needs to rest.”

"Wha — huh?" yawned John, vaguely aware he was being discussed.  "S’fine, Sherlock, finish up here."

"No, John, I think we’re done for the night.  Any further questioning can wait until tomorrow, can’t it, Gerald?"

"For god’s sake, Sherlock, it’s Greg and you know it,” Lestrade sighed.  “Don’t think getting cute with me will win you any favors.  You’re right, though, John looks like hell.”

"Ta, mate," John said, rolling his eyes.

"Certainly," Lestrade replied with his sunniest smile.  "We will wrap this up tomorrow,” he went on, brandishing one finger at them, “so don’t make any other plans.  Now get out of here and get some sleep, you two.”

Sherlock vanished, needing no encouragement.  John was still a bit groggy, and took a second to stretch, drain the last of his coffee, and throw the empty paper cup in the bin.  By the time he got to the lifts Sherlock was already inside one, holding it open.

"Thanks for backing me up in there," John said, as the doors slid closed.

"You’re clearly exhausted, John, even Anderson could tell by the bags under your eyes that — “

"Hang on," John interrupted, frowning at Sherlock in a fond way (an expression that only John’s face seemed to be able to manage).  "I was trying to compliment you; don’t spoil the moment. No, I mean with Woodley.  I don’t regret anything — "

"Nor should you," Sherlock interjected, looking sharply at John.  "He brought that on himself.  By accident.”

"I know!  I know!  Jesus, I — He pulled a gun on you, Sherlock!" John hissed, momentarily losing control.  Then he took a quick breath and continued, "I’m just saying. Things still aren’t… easy, for me, and I — thank you for standing with me through, well, everything.  That’s all.  I just had to say it."

"Ah," Sherlock said, softly.  "John, I’m only — it’s not necessary to… he aimed that gun at you too, you know."

"What a fucking mess we are," John said, giggling; then he leaned up and kissed him.

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Sherlock was analyzing a soil sample to determine its geographic origin when he heard a creak on the stairs above him.  2:37 AM, he thought; if John’s attempting to come downstairs quietly at this time of night, he almost certainly had a nightmare.  A moment later John entered the sitting room through the far door and sat down without saying a word to Sherlock, then attempted to pretend to read.  Nightmare confirmed, Sherlock thought, and rose to find his violin. 

He’d learned not to try interacting with John directly at this stage; he simply checked his tuning and began to play.  He was facing the window, but he only looked out into the darkness for a moment.  Then he closed his eyes and focused on the music as it unfurled from his bow. In this meditative state, he didn’t decide to play certain pieces, so much as he allowed bits and fragments of melody to bubble up and run together as they wished. 

Usually, when enough time had passed that Sherlock resurfaced in his own thoughts and played out whatever piece he found himself in, John would be dozing again.  Sherlock would quietly return to whatever he’d been working on, and John would eventually rouse himself enough to go back to bed.  But tonight, when Sherlock set down the violin and turned back toward the kitchen, he was pleased to see John still awake and grinning incandescently at him.

"Brilliant," John said, golden in the firelight.  

"Yes," Sherlock replied, then kneeled down next to John’s chair, took his hand, and kissed him.

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Visiting Sherlock’s folks for Christmas was kind of tradition at this point.  In addition to being an excellent time, it gave John an excuse not to go to Harry’s (although he always felt a pang of guilt when he thought this).  And John’s presence at least helped Sherlock and Mycroft be civil to each other.

Those were the reasons John let himself consider in so many words, anyway.  He tried not to acknowledge the separation anxiety that had simmered in his gut last year, when he still wasn’t sure if Sherlock would be inviting him along again.  (And when John had finally worked up the nerve to say, carefully offhandedly, “Tell them I say hi,” and Sherlock had replied with an eye-roll, “Don’t be obtuse, John.  Of course you’re coming,” John was a little embarrassed about how relieved he’d been.)

At any rate, this was their third Christmas at the Holmes’ cottage.  As soon as they arrived, Mummy (as she’d insisted John call her too) took him aside for a chat.  “Sherlock tells me you’re the kind of person who worries until you’re very clear on something,” she said, “so I wanted you to hear this from me.  John, you’re always welcome here, as long as you want to be.  Even if Himself’s being awful.  The invitation’s not to do with him; it’s from me.”  John had flushed a bit and stammered his thanks, but she waved him off dismissively and said “Of course, my dear.  You should know by now, you’re family.”

That evening they sat around the fire drinking peppermint white russians and cranberry martinis, while Mycroft moaned about the pedestrian Christmas carols and Sherlock pretended to deduce all the wrapped presents.  (When he told Mycroft that John had clearly gotten him a subscription to the Cake of the Month Club when he knew it was another hideous umbrella for Mycroft’s hideous umbrella collection, John realized he was just teasing and not actually ruining all the surprises.  And he must have read the recognition on John’s face, because he shot John one of those side-eyed looks, winked at him, and went back to twitting Mycroft.)

It was past midnight when Mycroft declared that he’d had all the “merry” he could take for one day, and would see them in the morning.  Shortly after, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes decided to call it a night as well.  “We know you two keep unorthodox hours,” Mummy said.  “Just turn off the outdoor fairy lights when you go to bed, please.”

And then they sat there in companionable silence in the firelight for an hour or so.  Sherlock was slung crosswise in a recliner chair with his legs hanging over the side, gazing off into an upper corner of the room.  John was perched on the sofa with his chin in his hands and his elbows on his knees, staring at the fire.  He was as drunk from the day of warmth and belonging as he was from the white russians, and he’d be content to just sit there forever, awash in happiness.  But eventually the fire ran low, and Sherlock got up to bank it.

"I’ll get the fairy lights," John said, proud of himself for not wobbling very much as he got up.  He made his way to the front hall and threw the switch he knew controlled the decorations, then paused for a moment to reflect on knowing his way around the Holmes’ house so well.  With a solemn, grateful sort of contentment, he turned back to the sitting room to gather his flatmate and head off to their room. 

Sherlock was still fiddling with the fire, so John leaned in the doorway with his arms crossed and just watched him for a moment. Then Sherlock stood up, brushing his hands on his trousers, and looked back at John.

"You realize where you are?" Sherlock said with a raised eyebrow, as he walked directly over the coffee table and crossed the room.

"Right where I should be?" John asked recklessly, high on all the feelings he was sure Sherlock could plainly read on his face anyway.

"No, I mean — look up," Sherlock grinned, now inches away. 

John tilted his head back a fraction, and finally noticed the sprig of mistletoe.  “Oh,” he said, then paused.  “No, I stand by my answer."

Sherlock’s smile took on a predatory glint, then he slowly pressed John up against the doorframe and kissed him breathless.

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They were doing a dangerous bit of breaking and entering on a houseboat when the owners came home earlier than expected.  There wasn’t anywhere to hide if someone came below-deck, so as they heard the engine whirring to life they looked at each other and silently came to a decision.  They crept to the rear sliding door, and Sherlock put his hand on the latch.  Their eyes met again, and John nodded.

Sherlock popped the latch and slid the door open in one fluid motion.  In two strides his foot was on the railing, then he was launching himself at the river.  John took an instant longer to climb the railing and vault himself over.  They were counting on the driver being occupied at the other end, plus the engine noise between them, to cover their exit.  But a second man noticed them immediately and started firing shots in their direction.  Their only hope was to dive, and swim for the riverbank as fast as possible. 

John made it to shore first, and as he heaved himself up onto the gravel, he was relieved to see the houseboat speeding off, having chosen to flee rather than pursue them.  Then he realized he had no idea where Sherlock was, and his anxiety slammed back into him.  He started pacing the riverbank scanning the water for any sign of Sherlock, and eventually spotted him lying face-down in some mud and reeds, camouflaged by his dark clothes. 

“Jesus, Sherlock, are you okay?” John said, kneeling to examine him. 

Sherlock coughed and turned onto his side, then sat up.  “I’m fine, John,” he croaked.  “I just inhaled a little too much of the river.”  Then his eyes widened.  “Did you know you’re bleeding?”

"Oh, yeah, doesn’t surprise me.  I was bashed in the head by what felt like an entire log floating by.  No concussion though, it’ll be fine."  John sat down heavily in the mud next to Sherlock and leaned against his side.  "For a second I thought I’d lost you again, when I saw you lying there…"  Sherlock felt John shivering, and slipped an arm around his waist to draw him closer. 

"Never again, Sherlock," John whispered.  "Promise me." 

Sherlock’s only reply was to gently tilt John’s head back and kiss him; but John seemed to be thoroughly content with that.

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Sherlock had, once again, rushed off into a confrontation and gotten into trouble. By the time John had worked out where he was and caught up to him, he'd been drugged and locked in the coal cellar of a crumbling mansion. John had, of course, brought the police and an ambulance, but he insisted on being the one to lead the search and conduct Sherlock's initial medical examination. It turned out to be a wise decision and not just a sentimental one, because when John threw the door open to what he thought was an empty room, Sherlock leaped out from the darkness and launched an uncoordinated but still surprisingly effective attack at him.

Rather than fighting back or trying to subdue Sherlock, John remained as still as he could under the assault, and said "Sherlock, it's me! Stand down, it's over, we're here to get you out."

These words had a strange effect on Sherlock; he backed off and stopped attacking, then sighed and slid heavily down the wall until he was sitting. "That's a lie and you know it," he slurred. "You're not actually here, just like you weren't in Serbia, or, or... you know. The other places."

When John realized what Sherlock meant, he suddenly needed to sit down as well. "Sherlock... oh my god, no. This is real, I promise," he said, leaning into Sherlock in the hope that physical contact would help ground him. "Lestrade and some people are here, can I call them in? They just want to make sure you're safe to go home, and then I'm taking you out of here."

"Really," Sherlock said disbelievingly. "I'm not just imagining this, you really came and got me this time?" He put his hand over John's, hesitantly at first, then twining their fingers together.

"Really," John replied, with an ache in his chest from trying not to consider everything Sherlock was implying.

"It's always you, John Watson," Sherlock breathed, reverently, and then he was kissing him.

Finally, John got his breath back enough to say, "Hey. This isn't -- I'm happy to see you, too, but let's get you home first, Okay?"

Sherlock pulled away with a grin. "Okay," he purred. And then, "You know how I know this is real?"

"How?" John asked, finding it still a bit difficult to breathe.

"If you were my imagination, you wouldn't have stopped me," Sherlock said, and John suddenly felt like he was on fire from the inside. It took every fiber of willpower John had to remember where they were and what condition Sherlock was in.

"Later," he finally managed. "Let's get home."

"Yes. Home," Sherlock replied agreeably, and burrowed his forehead into John's shoulder.

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Sherlock had just concluded a case, but it didn’t feel successful.  He’d delivered the final, damning deduction to the client, who in a shocking twist had also turned out to be the murderer.  Mrs. Gibson had then broken free and fled through her house, and locked herself in an upstairs bathroom. By the time the police forced their way in, she’d taken her own life by means of the same poison she’d used to kill her husband and his lover. 

(Mrs. Gibson had staged their bodies as a murder-suicide, supposedly committed by the lover when Mr. Gibson refused to leave his wife for him.  Then she’d contacted Sherlock about her husband’s “disappearance,” and had hoped Sherlock would be satisfied with the obvious conclusion.  She’d hoped wrong.)

Now John and Sherlock were in a cab trying to get home across London through evening traffic, and Sherlock was apparently planning to spend the entire longer-than-usual ride silently glaring out his window, looking like thunder.  Finally, John (who was also feeling a bit grim and agitated, not that anyone had asked, thanks) couldn’t take it anymore.  “Sherlock, could we not — “

"Three people dead, John," Sherlock cut him off, "because two of them, as the saying goes, ‘found happiness,’ directly resulting in the third’s prolonged suffering and eventual madness.  Tell me again why anyone’s supposed to want to ‘find happiness’?”

"Well, it’s not really something you can help, it just happens to you," John replied, calming a bit now that he’d got Sherlock talking.  "Falling in love, I mean, not the murder spree part.  That doesn’t happen to most people, thank God.  And it wasn’t about love, Sherlock, that woman was just bananas.  I suppose it might have made some difference if Gibson had just been honest with her from the beginning, but she was bound to go off the deep end eventually whether he’d stayed with her or not.  I don’t blame him for seeing a chance at real happiness and trying to take it… and I don’t think that’s what led to their deaths, either.  I think it was all the years of him not going after what made him happy and staying involved with her insanity that did it.  And if life is short, then… that makes it even more important to spend it with people you actually love, whatever the cost.”

Sherlock was still glaring out the window, but as John talked he seemed to uncurl a bit.  “You really think so, after all you’ve been through?” he said sarcastically, but John could hear the slight unsteadiness in his tone behind the defense.

"I should think that would be obvious, yes," John replied, smiling.  "But in case I haven’t been clear enough," he said, then took Sherlock’s hand, "I’ve never regretted it for a minute."

Sherlock looked down at their entwined hands and blinked a few times, then looked up at John.  “I — are you sure?  Because I don’t see where you’ve gotten anything out of it but pain…”

"Ah, well that’s where you’d be wrong," John said, meeting Sherlock’s intense scrutiny with a look of fond contentment, which didn’t waver even as Sherlock slowly leaned across the cab like a stalking cat and kissed him.

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It was going on half past four, but it was already starting to get dark.  A cold, drenching rain had been falling relentlessly on London all day.  John and Sherlock had been out in it, visiting their suspect’s usual haunts and interviewing her friends and associates.  To keep himself warm and to fend off his overpowering instinct to hibernate in all this gloom, John drank an endless series of lukewarm, acidic coffees that tasted faintly of stewed cardboard.  At this point he felt hollow, used up, swept out; as cold and tired on the inside as he was on the outside.

As they left the suspect’s yoga studio and plunged back into the icy, inch-deep river on the pavement, John came to a decision.  “Sherlock, I need a break.”

Sherlock was still striding off ahead of John, expecting him to keep up.  “Just two more locations, John, and then we can —”

"No, Sherlock, listen to me," John said, and Sherlock stopped and turned back when he realized John wasn’t following him anymore.  "We are going over to that little sandwich shop," John said, "and I am going to eat a thing, and you are too if you know what’s good for you."

Sherlock scoffed, “Is that an order, Doctor?”

"I know you hate how you think it slows you down," John said, sidestepping the taunt, "but a few minutes of maintenance now is going to greatly improve your transport’s performance down the road, and you know it."

For a minute, they both just stood there in the splattering rain, looking at each other.  Sherlock’s dark curls streamed limply down his forehead, ruining his attempt at a commanding glare.  John crossed his arms over his chest and shifted into a military posture, his face calm and unmoving.  At last, Sherlock’s mouth tightened as though he were trying to suppress a smile.  “Very well,” he said, “lead on.  I suppose you’re right that you need it, at least.”  

"Ah, then tonight we’re pretending I don’t notice you stealing from my plate so you can maintain the illusion that you don’t, are we?  Good to know; I’ll order two of everything," John said, and finally Sherlock’s small smile uncurled into a grin, and they were both giggling. 

"Really, John, I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about," Sherlock said, attempting to look serious as he opened the restaurant’s door for John.

"Shut up, Sherlock," John said in a warm, low voice like honey that Sherlock had never heard before.  Then, as he passed Sherlock and went through the door, he reached up and kissed him; briefly and awkwardly, but with intent.  "I’ve been putting that off for too long, too," John said in that same strange but electrifying voice, then he ducked into the restaurant’s foyer. 

Sherlock blinked a few times, still standing in the rain, holding the door open.  Then he started grinning, and followed John inside.

Chapter Text

It definitely wasn’t the first time they’d ended up on the wrong side of a jail cell, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.  This time they’d been caught breaking and entering without a warrant, and the police who’d arrested them weren’t impressed by Sherlock’s “consulting detective” credentials.  And when Lestrade came by to see them in his capacity as their Mycroft-appointed babysitter, he had no sympathy for them either.

"I specifically told you two not to engage with this suspect in any way unless I was involved, and yet here we all are,” Lestrade said.  “And since you never seem to have any consideration for my investigations, or what kind of a mess you’re leaving me to clean up, it turns out I won’t have a chance to call Mycroft until the morning!”

"He doesn’t need you to tell him what’s going on,” Sherlock sneered.  “I’m sure he’ll be along any minute to rub my nose in getting caught.”

"Oh no, no, no, Sherlock, that’s not how this works" Lestrade replied.  "I told you I didn’t just do what your brother tells me; I have some discretionary powers. And right now, I’m going to use them to let you think about what you’ve done… not that you will, so I don’t know why I bother," Lestrade said, grinning through the bars at him, "but I guess I should get something enjoyable out of today.”  And then he swept out of the room without so much as a good-night.

The two of them sat side-by-side on the bed looking straight ahead in silence for a minute, then John said, “That went well, I think,” and Sherlock “mm-hmm”-ed and nodded in agreement.  They glanced sideways at each other, and cracked up.

"So you’re not… angry?" Sherlock asked in a too-casual voice, when their giggles finally subsided.

"Oh, I don’t know if I’d say I was happy about this, when I told you it was a bad idea,” John said.  “But if I’m trapped in this cell with you for the next sixteen hours, I’m certainly not going to spend it fighting over something we can’t change at this point anyway.”

"I don’t deserve you," Sherlock said, softly.  He was smiling fondly at John, but there was something sad in his eyes.

Startled, John tried to laugh it off as a joke.  “Too right,” he said, then winced as he saw even that small smile slide off Sherlock’s face.  “Hey, no, I was just— I’m sorry, I know you must be— that was a terrible thing to say, and… shit, obviously I’m the one that doesn’t deserve you.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed uncomprehendingly and blinked back up to John’s in stages, as though the effort of processing what John had just said was visibly slowing him down.  “You— what?”

"Oh, for God’s sake, Sherlock," John said, then ran one hand into the curls at the nape of Sherlock’s neck and kissed him.

Chapter Text

"John, what is this?” Sherlock asked, with a wrinkled nose.  He had drawn the offending object from the bag gingerly, and was holding it aloft pinched between his finger and thumb as though he almost couldn’t bear to touch it.

"It’s an ugly Christmas jumper, you daft git; exactly what you asked for," John said, not looking up from his laptop.

“I guess I wasn’t expecting it to be this ugly,” Sherlock said, spreading it out for a better look.  “Reindeer, John?  Seriously?”

"Look at the sleeve," John said, still typing.

Sherlock glanced down to see a red label shouting “PRESS ME!!!”  He did so, and the noses of all the reindeer lit up.  “John, no,” he said, turning horrified eyes on his friend.

John finally looked up.  “I’m afraid so,” he said, and smiled the bland, flat smile that suggested he was struggling to keep a straight face.  “The only one in your size.”  He went back to his laptop.  “You should see mine; much creepier.  The snowmen’s eyes glow.”

"Oh lord," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.  "Whose idea was this, again?"

"Yours, in fact," John replied.  "I just wanted to break into the club’s office and read their paperwork so we could turn the agent in, but you insist on going to their Ugly Jumper party and busting the guy personally, so… there’s your jumper.”

Sherlock glared skeptically at John, but there was no reaction.  Becoming resigned, he snapped the tags off the hateful garment, and peeled the “PRESS ME!” label off its sleeve.  As he slipped his arms into it and pulled it over his head, he shuddered; he could hear the synthetic yarn squeak.  But when he finally got it settled and ruffled his hair back into place, Sherlock decided that it was worth wearing the repellent thing, because of the way John was beaming up at him.

"Sherlock, that’s… heehee, wait, let me get mine."  John reached over and fished the second jumper out of the bag.  He put it on without removing any of the tags, then pressed the button on his own sleeve.  As promised, the snowmen’s eyes lit up menacingly.  "It’s like something out of Doctor Who," John said, giggling.

"I don’t know what that means," Sherlock said softly, "but it’s a very ugly jumper.”  Then he smiled at John, but his eyes were sad.

"Sherlock," John said, then took a deep breath and looked at the floor.  I'm not good with... these things, he thought; then, Sod it.  John looked back up at Sherlock and smiled bravely; then he slid one hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck and kissed him.

Chapter Text

"Just you and me, isn't that how it's supposed to be, Sherlock?" Moriarty purred, the red dot never wavering from Sherlock's forehead. "It always comes back to you and me."

"And your little... helper," Sherlock said, indicating with his eyes at the sniper on the other end of the laser.

"Well, that's only fair, Sherlock, you have John," Moriarty grinned, "oh wait that's right, he's not speaking to you anymore, is he? I guess he found out your amazing superpowers weren't so amazing after all when you let his awful wife die, and now he's disappointed in you. How dull." Moriarty made an exaggerated frowny face, then rolled his eyes.

"Whatever the reason, it's for the best," Sherlock replied smoothly. "His... little obsession with me was flattering, but we all know it wasn't meant to last."

"Right, right, Sherlock, very convincing, I think you even have John convinced." Moriarty giggled. "But you and I both know that's not true, don't we? It's tearing you *apart* inside, isn't it? It's not that he's disappointed with you, you think you deserve that. It's that you can't bear to be separated from him at all; it's killing you. You're withering, Sherlock. You're becoming weak. Over that, that... goldfish. And when we could have been so great together. Such a waste."

Sherlock noticed the sniper's laser had vanished, although it seemed that Moriarty had not. For the first time since he'd walked back into this wretched pool building again, Sherlock let himself begin to hope. "Oh, I don't know," he said, "I rather think we'd burn each other up. Too much alike. John now, yes, he's different. Easy to underestimate, I'll admit I'm guilty of it myself, but also... right behind you."

Moriarty whirled around as John came through the door, gun drawn. He quickly realized his backup had been neutralized, and raised both hands, smiling. "You got me, boys." He nodded, and backed up a few paces. "You got me." The smile dropped, and Moriarty's face became cold. "But not for long." Like lightning, he pulled a pistol out of his suit jacket and fired at John, then as John collapsed and Sherlock ran to him, he calmly dropped the gun and walked towards the emergency exit.

"Jim," John called out from the ground, his voice remarkably normal for how much blood was pooling under him. Sherlock sank to his side and began searching for a wound, but John never took his eyes off Moriarty.

Moriarty paused, then shrugged and turned back. "Oh, what the hell. Yes, John?" he responded politely. "Last words, I presume?"

"No," John said, and lifted his hand to point at Moriarty; dazedly, Sherlock realized there was a gun in it. "I must be in shock too," he thought muzzily as the gun flashed, and an eternity later, the sound exploded from it. Moriarty froze, his eyes round with shock, and tried to speak. No sound came out. After a minute, a bright bloom of blood appeared on his shirt, and he staggered backwards and slid down the wall.

Barely absorbing what had just happened, Sherlock's attention snapped back to John. "Oh god," he babbled, "Tell me what to do. John! I need you, don't die. I just got you back, I mean I *think* I got you back, you can't die now, John, I have to tell you how sorry I am."

"Sherlock. Calm down," John gasped. "It hurts like bloody hell, but I'm not dying. I think." He pulled ineffectively at his shirt buttons but couldn't get a grip on them. "Lost feeling in my damned arm, apparently. Impact, probably; it'll come back. Could be worse. Would you?"

Sherlock unbuttoned John's shirt, and revealed a kevlar vest. Relief hit him so hard that tears sprung up in his eyes. As he bandaged the graze on John's arm that had bled so dramatically, he continued the nervous chatter. "Thank god, I thought I'd lost you, and while you weren't speaking to me -- I hadn't even had a chance to tell you I love you yet, you can't die without talking to me, John, I forbid it --"

Sensing that he had broken a couple of ribs and possibly his collarbone, John very carefully grabbed the front of Sherlock's coat, and slowly pulled him down into a kiss, interrupting him mid-sentence. "Shut up," John said, unnecessarily.

"John, I -- I'm sorry," Sherlock said, pulling away, eyes wide.

"I don't really blame you for Mary, Sherlock. But it had to look real. He had to believe you were alone, vulnerable. And... okay, I had to know if I mattered to you as much as you matter to me. I *was* still angry, about Magnussen, and the drugs. But it was the hardest thing I've ever done, telling you to go to hell and sending you into this alone."

"No, I mean... I'm sorry for -- what I did. To you. Both times. Leaving. I don't deserve you." Sherlock appeared to be struggling to speak coherently, then blinked a few times and looked around with more focus. "It really does look like an awful lot of blood, are you sure you're OK?"

"I am now," John said, smiling and pulling Sherlock in again. They barely noticed a few minutes later, when Mycroft's people swarmed in and began taking charge of the scene.

Chapter Text

John was asleep when he felt a weight hit the inadequately-sprung hotel mattress.  His instincts registered it as "not a threat," and he went back to sleep.

 * * *

John's mind struggled to the surface again.  It was some time later; how much, he didn't know. Something happened, he remembered. Before.

Oh.  Sherlock.

It wasn't the first time the git had booked them a single, insisting he wouldn't sleep, then invaded John's bed in the middle of the night.  "He must maintain the pretense of being superhuman," John thought groggily, "good thing he can trust me to keep his secret."

That was John's only coherent thought before dissolving into sleep again.

 * * *

The next time John woke it had just gone daylight, and Sherlock was deep asleep in the bed next to him.  He looked younger, softer somehow.  John thought about all the traumas and sorrows that lined Sherlock's face when awake, and was overcome with a fierce, constricting affection.  He lay awake with it for a good hour, watching the sun climb the wall.  But eventually he must have gone under again.

* * *

Suddenly, John's eyes snapped open as though something had startled him.  He turned to find Sherlock still lying next to him, regarding him with a fond, slightly bemused expression.

"Sherlock?" John said, a bit disorientated.

"John," Sherlock replied with a bit of a sarcastic tone, but still smiling that slightly preoccupied smile.

"What-- was I having a nightmare?" John asked.

"No, I don't think so... not as much as you were snoring, at any rate," Sherlock said.

"Snor-- I was not," John denied flatly.

"Afraid so, John," Sherlock insisted.  "Maybe you stopped breathing completely, and it woke you up."

"I'm a doctor, I'd know if I were having apnea," John said.  "Really, what was it?"

"I've absolutely no idea; you were resting comfortably for at least fifty seven minutes prior to waking up, and I didn't notice any signs of REM activity, you just--"

"Fifty seven minutes?" John interrupted, propping his head up on his arm.

"Really, John, I know it's early, but if you can't keep up with--"

"You were watching me sleep for fifty seven minutes?"

"Ye-es? Um... not good?"

"Why?"

"What do you mean, why?"

"You. Sherlock Holmes. Laid here and did nothing, didn't get up and experiment, didn't read, didn't leave without telling me to pursue armed suspects; didn't, in fact, do any number of other, far more interesting things for fifty seven minutes, and instead sat here and watched me sleep, and I want to know, why?"

"I just -- it was nice. Both of us. Resting. Nothing going on for once.  And I forgot to bring that book, and... okay, maaaaaaybe I was experimenting to see how long it would take you to respond to your name versus a random word, and at what volume."

"Ah, see, there it is," John said, giggling. "And here for a minute I thought it might just have been me."

"It's always been you, John," Sherlock replied too quickly, in a strange, tight voice, then smiled weakly like he was hoping it would pass for a joke.  "Surely even you must have figured that out by now."

"Really?" John asked, visibly surprised.  "I-- really?"

"For God's sake, must everything be difficult with you?" Sherlock huffed, rolling his eyes; then he reached across the bed and kissed him; gently, briefly, but with unmistakeable intention. 

"Oh," John said, blinking, when they broke apart.

And then a light came into his eyes, and he leaned over Sherlock and started kissing back.