It was a few more days before Sherlock was allowed to leave, per John's orders. There was still tension between them but it was lightening as Sherlock attempted to prove himself. It was difficult for him. He'd never been in a relationship before and he didn't know exactly what to do. He tried his hardest, though. He used his phone to search the internet for proper gifts for a loved one and planned to try them out once he was out of the hospital. The one with the highest hits seemed to be flowers. He would try that first.

The two checked out together at the end of the week and were driven home by a car sent by Mycroft, who disappeared as soon as he was satisfied his brother would be okay. John wheeled Sherlock out in a wheelchair despite his vehement protests.

"John, really? I was shot in the chest. I can walk," he whined.

"It's hospital protocol," he said sternly, obviously trying not to laugh.

"You're doing this to demean me," he pouted, crossing his arms, an act that still took effort.

"No one likes a whiner. Suck it up, Sherlock, we're almost to the door."

He wheeled him out of the glass doors and onto the sidewalk where Sherlock was permitted to stand. He threw himself into the back of the sleek black car in a huff and John joined him, slightly amused. They didn't talk for a while, each looking out of their respective windows, but Sherlock kept glancing toward John. He had banned kissing for the time being because he was still upset.

He had said that they wouldn't be doing anything especially affectionate until Sherlock had finished working through his feelings. It was disappointing but understandable to him. Still, he figured hand holding couldn't have been out of the question. He looked at John's hand resting in between them and discreetly slipped his hand into his, the two fitting together like pieces of a puzzle. He gazed out of the window again as though nothing had happened but was reassured by a light squeeze of his hand. They spent the rest of ride being silent together.

Upon the arrival at 221b, Mrs. Hudson ran out of the building to greet the two. They hardly had the chance to step out of the car before being assaulted by her hugs and worried words.

"The two of you are going to give me a heart attack one of these days. You have no business messing around in something so dangerous."

"It all turned out okay, Mrs. Hudson," John laughed.

"I may just be your landlady but that doesn't mean I don't care."

"We know," Sherlock said, hoping to console her. "But we're all right and home."

"Oh, Sherlock, look at that shirt! That's the second suit this week you've ruined."

"Don't remind me," he groaned. "I'll need to buy a new one. However, it would be nice if we could go up to our flat."

"Of course, dears. You boys go and get your rest."

She ushered them into the building and let them go up to their flat. It felt like a long time since he'd been in his home and it had been even longer for John. Once they were inside with the door closed a sense of relief settled over them. It was all over and they were safe. John looked at Sherlock and smiled, just pleased to be somewhere where he could relax.

"How does boring look right about now?" John asked.

"For the time being, it looks decent."

The two collapsed on the couch, John with his laptop and Sherlock with a good book. They kept eyeing one another when they thought the other wasn't looking. Sherlock didn't know what John had been searching for in him but he just wanted to know what the doctor was thinking. He himself was still partially unsure if their relationship was right but his heart felt strongly about that man and it had to count for something.

The rest of their afternoon was spent as such, boring and relaxing. They ordered in for dinner and Sherlock finally got around to ordering flowers without John knowing. It was around ten when the two were brought to a silent consensus that it was time for bed. Sherlock looked to John, wanting to hold him, or kiss him, or bring him to bed with him but he knew to respect John's wishes.

"Well, goodnight, then," Sherlock said, almost sighing.

"Night, Sherlock," he yawned. "See you in the morning."

He watched him leave and lingered around the living room a few moments before going to his own room. It was later that night Sherlock lay in bed, thinking, unable to sleep. His chest was throbbing and it left him feeling uncomfortable. No, not uncomfortable because the pain didn't affect him much. He felt hollow. He rolled around, trying every position but sleep wouldn't come to him. He knew why but couldn't quite admit it to himself. He turned on his side to masochistically gaze at the empty space next to him. He hesitantly reached out to that space and stroked the sheets, hoping something solid would be there. When he realized what he was doing he pulled away and turned to face the wall. Emotions would not rule him. They couldn't. And yet…

Sherlock dropped the walls of his mind. He knew what he had to do because deep down he knew how he felt and John needed to know too. He cleared his thoughts to allow for instinct to control him. He almost leapt out of bed and followed his feet through the flat and up the stairs to the second bedroom. He paused at the threshold. The door was slightly cracked and he could hear the soft, strangled snores of the man on the other side. He pressed his hand flat on the door, absorbing the energy within, before pushing it open.

The room was quite bare, there were no indicators of his personality but the sheer lack of items could've been an indicator itself. John's bed was pushed against the wall so that the headboard touched it but no other side did. The sleeping doctor was curled up on the right side of the full bed, leaving the left open, just for him, as if John knew. He approached the bed slowly, his heart worried that if he made a misstep everything he knew would melt away.

At the bedside he hesitated. His brain was butting in to tell him to turn around but his heart was so close that it gave it strength to keep the reigns. He pulled back the covers and climbed in so easily. When he pulled the covers back over himself and could feel John's warmth next to him he knew that it was right. It was where he was supposed to be. He reached out to John who, even in his sleep, reacted to his touch. He pulled him close so that John's head rested on his chest and he could bury his face in his hair. Sherlock didn't even want to sleep anymore.

The doctor curled into him, draping an arm around Sherlock's waist to keep him in place. Sherlock wrapped his own arms around Johns shoulders to leave no space between them They'd been apart for far too long already. The simple scent of Johns shampoo filled him with such elation that he had to smile. He rested his cheek on the top of his head, drowning himself in the intoxicant until sleep stole his consciousness away.

The light of morning unwelcomingly assaulted Sherlock. He attempted to shift himself to avoid the sun but a weight on his chest prevented him from doing so. He glanced down to see John, still snoring, cocooning his body. He grinned as he affectionately brushed his fingers through the pile of dirty blond hair beneath his nose.

The sleeping man stirred, which was shown by the occasional anomaly in his snoring pattern and the shifting every few minutes. It looked like his own body was trying to lightly shake him awake. After a half an hour of absent-minded stroking, as though John were a cat lying over his heart, the doctor opened his eyes, his vision blurred by sleep. He prodded Sherlock's chest, as if he were wondering why his mattress felt so strange.

Finally, he decided to look up and almost ran out of bed when he saw a face looking back at him. He was calmed by the soft fingertips running through his hair and tracing his cheekbone. He reached up and touched Sherlock's hand, intertwining his fingers with the detective's. John pulled himself up onto his pillow so that he could see Sherlock eye-to-eye.

"Sherlock…" he whispered, resting his hand on Sherlock's cheek to make sure he was real and that he himself was awake.

"John, I'm sorry. I-," he was interrupted by a hand on his mouth.

"It doesn't matter."

"It does."

"You took a bullet for me. That said enough."

"Would you just let me say it?" he whined, moving closer so that their foreheads were touching.

"Okay," John beamed.

"John, I love you. I want you to know that because we'll have to take this day to day. I won't always be like this, as much as I'd like to be. No matter what mood or mindset I'm in I need you to know that I love you and that won't change no matter what I say or do."

John looked hard at the man before him. "Sherlock Holmes, you're worth the work."

They stared at each other, reading one another's eyes, before they moved in for the kiss. Sherlock crashed against John like a wave, drinking him in, moving frantically, bordering on animalistic. He grabbed a fistful of the same hair he'd been stroking only minutes before and pulled him in until two became one. John fumbled with his shirt but Sherlock ripped it off before he had the chance to finish. He pulled off his own shirt and immediately dragged John back to him. Bare chest on bare chest with two hearts beating in frenzied sync. Sherlock touched the scars on John's back with such tenderness and John caressed the bandages over the detective's shoulder. They pulled apart to look at each other, the love for one another so visible, when Sherlock spoke.

"I think… you're going to have to call out of work," he smirked, breathing heavily. "Something tells me you're going to be quite busy today."