+1. The one who was always there

It was another year before Sherlock was back to her old self, back in the Game. It wasn't easy, and certainly wasn't what one would call fun, but John kept to a promise he'd made himself after darkened swimming pools and sniper's lasers. He would not leave Sherlock to fend for herself in a world that didn't understand. Not ever.

They had just been on a cross-London hunt for a serial rapist and accidentally broke up a smuggling ring of teddy bears full of cocaine. Still in shock from the unintended discovery, Sherlock and John stood breathless in the entryway to 221, leaning against the wall and gasping.

Then Sherlock began to laugh. It was quiet, scattered, but there nonetheless.

She was a hurricane on the best of days, and a bullet hole in the wall on the worst. A combination of nightmares and insomnia kept her awake most nights, crawling into John's bed to seek comfort from the memories of her years in exile. Her hair was black again, getting longer, and his was getting grayer. He had just had his forty-second birthday, and he was madly in love with his best friend.

There was no appropriate time or place for this to happen. Sherlock was his best friend, his flatmate, his colleague, his partner, and her last boyfriend had been strung up in their sitting room with his guts hanging out. He didn't want to remind her of that; she was in a fragile enough state already.

Well, alright, that was a lie. She had been fragile, certainly enough, but enough time had passed for her to make leaps and bounds in mental capacity. Mycroft had sent her to a veritable plethora of psychologists after Moran's arrest, and after a certain degree of hostile resistance Sherlock had buckled and cooperated. He doubted that she would ever be back to her old self from Bart's hospital all those years ago - Afghanistan or Iraq? - but she was on her way.

"Do you think you'll ever try again?" he asked one night over Korean after a long day of doing good, bringing about justice, and all that. She looked up suspiciously. "Dating, I mean. Do you think he's out there?"

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Do I think who's out there, John? Do be more specific."

"Oh, you know," he grinned, nudging her from across the table. "The perfect man? Mr. Right?"

The tinny music in the restaurant was all John got in reply for several minutes before Sherlock took a deep breath. It was her pre-deduction deep-breathing exercise, he was sure of it, and it was thrilling.

"When I started this endeavor I said I was looking for someone interesting, someone I can relate to, and yet not an intellectual equal. He would have to be brave, of course, to handle my lifestyle and career, and strong, to be able to fend off any potential attacks. Someone who isn't easily shocked, as well, to deal with the experiments. Not to mention being the sort of companion I can trust not to judge me too harshly if I do something a bit Not Good, and yet also understand that sometimes being a bit Not Good is the reason I am who I am, respecting my independence while supporting me. Someone who I'm comfortable and safe with, without a doubt."

She left off there and continued eating as though that had proved her point.

John blinked at her. "Sherlock, you know I've been getting better, but...I'm not following you at all."

Suddenly his hand was very warm, covered by Sherlock's after she patiently put down her fork. Her fingers gently squeezed his, thumb chafing his knuckles in a strangely intimate gesture.

"John, I'm talking about you, you idiot. My perfect match has been with me all along."

Warmth erupted in John's chest, and he couldn't have stopped himself beaming across the table at Sherlock even if he'd been paid. They used their free hands, John's right and Sherlock's left, to finish their food in companionable silence. Nothing else was needed.