Oh my god, I have been working on this fic for about six hundred years. And two hundred of those years were spent trying to think of a half-decent title (and I don't even like this totally lame title but hey, titles are not my thing. Don't judge me on the rubbish title). I don't think a fic has ever given me more trouble than this one. I actually managed to write other Reichenbach fics in the time it took me to write this one, and this was the first Reichenbach fic I ever started. I know, right. Ridiculous.

Anyway, reviews would be appreciated. Especially since I've been working on this fic for so long that I've started to resent it slightly and can only see its flaws.

And obviously I don't own anything.

Reunion

John was sick of telling people that he was okay. He knew that no one believed him, or they wouldn't keep on asking him in that gentle, worrisome voice that never fails to irritate him, like he's on his sickbed or something. Of course he isn't okay, it should be obvious. But he can't even put into words how he actually feels, not out loud anyway, so it's just easier to force himself to smile and say for the umpteenth time I'm fine. I'm okay.

What else is he supposed to say, to his therapist or Sarah at work or Stamford or Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson or Molly or during those rare calls from Mycroft or anyone else who asks? No, I'm not okay actually. I haven't been okay for three years and I'll probably never be okay again, thanks for asking. He knows he can't say that, it'll only cause a fuss. He's tired of everyone still tip-toeing around him, like he might suddenly burst into tears at any moment. It's been three whole years, after all. He should be okay, he should have finished grieving by now.

But it isn't that simple. How do you stop grieving for someone you love so much? There was so much he never got a chance to say, so much that still plagued him after all this time. There was just no way he could get over the death of Sherlock Holmes.

Looking back at their friendship there were so many moments that now seemed to John like missed opportunities. It was only now, when it was too late, that John could admit to himself that what he had felt for Sherlock was so much more than friendship. Hell, it was even more than love. He couldn't think of a word that accurately described it, but there were times when John thought – hoped – that Sherlock possibly felt it too. But it was too late.

John knew deep down that he probably shouldn't still be living at 221B Baker Street. In the immediate aftermath he could barely set foot in the flat and had moved back into his lonely one room bedsit, tormented by his nightmares – nightmares of the war that quickly morphed themselves into nightmares of the fall. After the funeral he had gone back to Baker Street to comfort Mrs. Hudson, but the moment he stepped back into his flat he knew he could never leave. It was a strange and masochistic kind of comfort to be back in the place he had once called home, especially when the person who had made it such a home was no longer there.

Packing up Sherlock's things had been painful, but John declined any kind of assistance from Mrs. Hudson. This was something he knew he had to do by himself, even though his usually steady hands trembled with grief and tears stung his eyes. Everything was packed away; the test tubes, Petri dishes and microscope that made up the miniature laboratory in the kitchen, the masses of notebooks full of equations and deductions in Sherlock's messy handwriting, the heavy textbooks that all seemed to be about human decomposition and the affects of natural poisons, some of which looked as if they had been singed by Bunsen burners or had Sherlock's inky fingerprints smudged on the pages, the old skull above the fireplace that had been Sherlock's companion before John had come along, and the violin that brought back countless memories of Sherlock composing away at 2am. Everything Sherlock owned John put away into carefully labelled cardboard boxes, as if he was just moving house rather than packing away his best friend's life.

At first John thought of putting the boxes into storage, well away from the flat so he didn't have to see them all, but after the painful stab in his chest he settled for piling everything into Sherlock's old bedroom, the door firmly shut and locked for good measure. In the first few weeks back at the flat John avoided that room with all his might as he tried his damnedest to get back to some sort of normal. But after a particularly horrible nightmare that had left him in a cold sweat, John left his bed and crept downstairs, retrieving the key to Sherlock's room and entering it quietly.

The boxes of Sherlock's possessions had a layer of dust covering them, and the empty bed looked strangely lived in, the bed sheets still creased and crumpled. John didn't know why, he would never be able to explain it even to himself, but he moved back the sheets and crawled into Sherlock's bed. He wrapped himself up in the musty duvet and pressed his face into the pillow.

The indescribable smell of Sherlock still lingered in this bed, surprisingly strong considering how little time Sherlock himself spent sleeping in it, but John found it an enormous comfort. It was like being wrapped in Sherlock Holmes, being engulfing in the consulting detective's presence, just like John had secretly dreamed of being held by Sherlock when the man had been alive. It should have hurt to be there – in Sherlock's room, surrounded by Sherlock's belongings, curled up in Sherlock's bed – but for the first time in weeks John slept quite soundly, tears streaked down his cheeks and a lump in his throat but without a single nightmare.

As the months went on, John would spend at least one night a week sleeping in Sherlock's bed. Even when he changed the sheets to wash them the smell of Sherlock still lingered in the whole room like a ghost, wrapping around John whenever he needed the comfort the most. John never told a soul about his nights in Sherlock's bed. He knew his therapist would insist that this wasn't a good way to cope with grief, this wasn't how to get over Sherlock. But John didn't care. He would always be grieving, so what was the point in fighting it when he had something, however strange it seemed, that made him feel slightly better?

Now it had been three years, and John still kept his mourning to himself. He had put the old skull back above the fireplace so he could have someone – in a manner of speaking – to talk to when he got home from work each day. He visited Sherlock's grave every weekend by himself, sometimes bringing a fresh bunch of flowers, sometimes recounting various cases that Lestrade had told him about that he thought Sherlock would have found interesting. But every visit ended with John choking back tears as he confessed just how much he missed his best friend, and he would go home to finally let himself cry, curled up in Sherlock's bed and whispering the words of love and longing that he had never had the heart to say to Sherlock out loud.

John had tried to move on and find himself a girlfriend, but Sherlock was always there like the backseat driver in his brain, pointing out in a voice so sharp he could have been sitting right next to John in the pub or restaurant that this date was obviously still married, or that date was clearly looking for someone wealthy to look after her and little else. On one particularly disastrous occasion John could have sworn that he'd seen someone who looked just like Sherlock sitting at a table just behind his date. But the second he looked again the man was rushing through the exit, and the more he thought about it the more he was sure that the man couldn't possibly have been Sherlock. John had just been thinking about Sherlock as his date prattled away about her job or something, it was natural to suddenly start seeing the detective in every handsome face.

Of course, his date didn't appreciate being ignored. Needless to say, John gave up on dating eventually, preferring to spend his evenings alone in the flat, watching crap telly with the Sherlock of his imagination making corrections and complaints. He knew it was sad, but normal life just didn't work for him anymore. Life didn't work without Sherlock in it.

It was Christmas Eve. Harry had invited John to stay with her but he'd declined, preparing to stay at the flat and have a quiet Christmas dinner with Mrs. Hudson. It had been snowing the night before, and the picturesque view from out of the window had been quickly replaced by the usual sight of winter in London; a few patches of untouched snow around the slippery slush on the pavements and the skies a pearly and miserable grey. John had bought a fresh bunch of flowers to take to Sherlock's grave, remembering how much his friend had loathed Christmas – John had put it down to old family resentments mixed with Sherlock's natural dislike for having to be nice to people. The snow covering the grave was untouched and shimmering, and made John think of old-fashioned Christmas cards or the icing on cakes.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock," John whispered, before he finally left the graveyard with a painful lump in his throat.

As he trudged through the snow and slush on his way back to Baker Street, John couldn't quite shake the feeling that he was being followed. It was the same feeling he used to get whenever Sherlock was deducing him with his piercing gaze. But John knew he was just imagining things. The festive season just heightened his loneliness and his longing to be with Sherlock, that's why it felt like he was being watched by Sherlock right that second when he obviously couldn't be.

Back at the flat, John sat slumped on the sofa with one of the mince pies Mrs. Hudson had brought him and a very large brandy, flicking aimlessly through the television channels. Finally he just gave up and turned the TV off, preferring to just think in the silence of the flat. And that's when he noticed it.

There had only been three gifts under the Christmas tree that Mrs. Hudson had helped him put up and decorate; one from Mrs. Hudson herself, one from Molly, and one from Harry. At least those were the only gifts under the tree when he left the flat for the cemetery. But now that he looked again there was a forth, wrapped neatly in black paper with a white ribbon tied around it. John stood up and went to pick up the gift, but almost dropped it when he saw what was written in the card.

Merry Christmas, John – SH

No, no, no. This couldn't be real. This had to be some kind of sick joke. Okay, so it looked just like Sherlock's handwriting, but... it just couldn't be real! John opened the package with trembling hands, tears stinging his eyes. He felt like he'd been punched in the stomach when out of the package came a dark blue scarf – Sherlock's scarf.

John wanted to fall to his knees and sob. He wanted to punch the wall until his knuckles bled. It couldn't really be Sherlock; that was impossible. He was gone, gone forever. But who would do such a thing? Was it a cruel joke, or someone's misguided idea of a thoughtful gift?

"Mrs. Hudson!"

The landlady made her way upstairs in her slippers and dressing gown, looking worried.

"What is it, dear? Is something wrong? I was just about to go off to bed..."

"Did someone come over while I was out?" he asked, unable to stop himself from sounding angry.

"Not that I'm aware of," Mrs. Hudson said, nervously.

"Was anyone in this flat while I wasn't here?" John pressed on. "Anyone at all?"

"I... I don't think so," said Mrs. Hudson, looking worried and uncertain. "Why, what's the matter?"

"I found this under the tree," he said bitterly, shoving the scarf and the torn wrapping paper into Mrs. Hudson's hands.

Her eyes widened as she ran the scarf through her fingers, and gasped once she saw the name on the card.

"Oh my goodness... oh no, it couldn't be."

"No," said John, trembling. "It couldn't be. But that's definitely his scarf... and that's definitely his handwriting."

"Do you want me to get rid of this for you, dear?" said Mrs. Hudson gently. "I'm sure you don't want to have it here reminding you of..."

"No!" John burst, making Mrs. Hudson jump. "Sorry, just... just leave it. You go off to bed, Mrs. Hudson. I'm sorry to disturb you."

Mrs. Hudson put the scarf down on the dining table and made her way out of the flat, stealing a few cautious glances at John over her shoulder. Once he was alone, John picked up the scarf and its torn wrapping paper and dropped himself down on his armchair, suddenly feeling more exhausted than ever. All this pretending, all this acting like he was okay even though it felt as if his entire life was crashing around him, was really taking a lot out of him. But this... this was the final nail in the coffin.

John read the card again, read that short little note a thousand times over, studied every letter of it as he felt the soft wool of the scarf under his fingertips. It was definitely Sherlock's handwriting, the same as in all those smudged and dogged-eared notebooks of Sherlock's that John had packed away with such care three years ago. John held the scarf over his nose and sniffed. It smelt just like Sherlock too, like that indescribable, enveloping smell that still lingered like a ghost in Sherlock's old room and had given John so much comfort in those nights when his dreams were at their worst.

It was so cruel, this gift. It was heartbreaking beyond words, but worst of all it filled John with the very worst kind of hope. After Sherlock had been dead for six months, John gave up on the ridiculous notion that Sherlock might somehow come back. But this gift – this terrible, wonderful gift – brought all those hopefully feelings right back to the forefront of John's mind. And he hated it.

That night John slept in Sherlock's bed once more, his face pressed into the scarf and tear tracks streaking his cheeks. Having the scarf felt like having the real Sherlock right there beside him, arms wrapped around him, he could practically hear the detective's heartbeat. It was like the most fantastic kind of torture, and in the morning John decided not to tell anyone else about the scarf.

Christmas came and went, as quiet and uneventful as John had wanted. By New Year's Eve the snow and slush had been washed away by the rain, and the sky was as dismally grey as John felt on the inside. The scarf was folded up in John's bedside cabinet, along with the little card that had come with it, and those nagging feelings of hope had been pushed down like so much else that John had been suppressing for the past three years.

Lestrade had asked him out for New Year's drinks, but John really didn't feel like leaving the flat or being sociable. He could hear the sound of party-goers making their noisy way to and from the pubs nearby, all disjointed singing and loud laughter. John couldn't imagine how it was possible that happy people still existed out there in the rest of the world, when his world was nothing but a dark cloud, a dull ache of repressed sadness and the never-ending repetition to everyone he spoke to; I'm fine. I'm okay.

There were only about two hours of the year left. Mrs. Hudson had gone next door to have a New Year's drink with Mrs. Turner, and John was still sat in his armchair exactly where she'd left him, polishing off his third gin and tonic. He hadn't really done anything all day, but he still felt painfully exhausted. He had spent the night before in Sherlock's bed, his nose buried in the scarf, but instead of nightmares John was kept wide awake in a fit of agonizing insomnia, his mind refusing to shut up and let him rest. The Sherlock of his imagination had been sat beside him on the edge of the bed, keeping him awake with endless talking.

"You know it was me that sent you that scarf, John," he had said. "You know it deep down, right in your bones. And you know I sent it to you to let you know that I'm alive. I sent it so that you'd know I would be home soon. I shouldn't have to tell you this, John. Surely it's obvious."

John knew it couldn't be true. Sherlock was dead and gone, had been dead for three years, almost four, and he wasn't coming back. He couldn't come back. It was impossible. But the Sherlock of his imagination kept talking throughout the night, robbing him of sleep.

John was feeling the strain of his sleepless night now as he sat in his armchair in front of the muted television. The three gin and tonics had made him pleasantly numb to the heightened agony that had been coursing through his body since Christmas Eve, replacing it with the warm, woozy feeling of being tipsy but not quite drunk. He had retrieved the scarf from his bedside cabinet earlier, and it was currently in a bundle on his lap, his fingers stroking it lazily as if it were a sleeping cat.

His eyelids felt heavy. He wasn't sure whether he was awake or asleep anymore, but the dark living room around him was becoming even darker, blurry and faded. The next time he opened his eyes he was standing on the pavement across the road from St. Bart's. Sherlock was up on the roof, looking down at John, the tears running down his cheeks visible even from that great distance. And then he was falling, falling, falling almost endlessly, seemingly in slow motion, until finally, with a sickening thud, Sherlock hit the ground. John ran as fast as he could, even though his feet didn't seem to want to move. It was like wading through muddy water, but eventually John made it across the road to the blood drenched pavement where Sherlock lay... so much blood... blood streaking his face and congealing in his hair... his eyes were still open but the spark of life was gone... gone... John took Sherlock's wrist in his trembling hand... his ice cold wrist... no pulse... no life... gone... gone forever... someone was saying John's name... Sherlock was saying it... but he couldn't be... he was cold and bloody and his lips weren't moving... but Sherlock was still saying his name, over and over... how...?

John woke suddenly. Someone was shaking him, but it took a while for his eyes to focus. His head was pounding and his breath was shallow, like he had just resurfaced from freezing cold water. Hands were holding onto his shoulders and someone was saying his name, that same impossible voice from his dream. No, it couldn't be. It was just his imagination torturing him again. He probably should've had that third gin and tonic.

"John, it's okay. It's me."

"No," John whispered, the effort of talking hurting his throat. "No, shut up... get out of my head..."

"I'm not in your head, John."

"No, please," John begged the horribly vivid voice, closing his eyes tightly. "Stop this... just leave me be..."

"John, look at me. It's me, just look at me."

"No, no," John groaned, shutting his eyes tightly, willing the voice to get out of his head. "It's not you... it's never you... just stop it..."

"John, look at me!"

The hands on John shoulders tightened and he finally opened his eyes. His vision eventually focused, and the face of Sherlock Holmes stared back at him. But it wasn't the Sherlock of his imagination. That Sherlock was always perfect, too perfect, blurred around the edges like a ghost, his pale flawless face giving off an angelic glow. But this Sherlock wasn't quite so ethereal. This Sherlock's face was thinner and gaunter, pale in a sickly way, scarred and bruised in places, dark circles under his eyes and brunette curls tangled and grown out. But, most of all, this Sherlock was solid and breathing and so very, very real, more real than even John's most vivid dreams. This wasn't John's grieve-stricken, sleep-deprived mind playing cruel tricks on him again. Oh no, this was so much worse than that.

John mustered up all his strength and shoved Sherlock away from him, shoved him so hard he almost stumbled over the coffee table. John felt breathless with anger, rage and grieve and pain crashing over his body like a tidal wave.

"No," John spat bitterly, standing up on shaky legs and pacing to the other side of the room. "No way, no fucking way!"

He roughly rubbed his eyes with his fists, but Sherlock was still there, standing awkwardly by the window in his rather filthy looking coat. For three years John had longed to see Sherlock again, had ached for the detective's presence back in his life. But now that he was back – now that the impossible had happened and a miracle had come true – John couldn't bear to look at him.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said softly. "John, you have no idea how truly sorry I am."

John could tell in his voice, in that voice he had missed so much, that Sherlock meant it. Back before all this happened, what seemed like a lifetime ago, Sherlock hadn't been one to apologise unless John made him. But this apology was so quiet and nervous and sincere. Sherlock was genuinely sorry. But at that moment John really didn't care.

"You're sorry?" he sneered, the sheer fury constricting his chest. "Is that really all you have to say to me, Sherlock? Do you honestly think that a stupid little apology is going to make up for three fucking years?!"

Sherlock stayed silent, looking down at his feet and appearing to shrink into himself. For some reason this uncharacteristic sincerity just made John even angrier.

"You have no idea what you did to me, Sherlock!" he yelled. "You have no idea! You can't just come back from the fucking dead after all this time and expect everything to be okay again! I had to plan your bloody funeral, I had to bury you! It was only about a week ago that I was laying fresh flowers on your fucking grave! You have no idea what it's been like having to live without you, having to grieve, having to keep reminding myself that you couldn't come back because you were dead! One stinking apology isn't going to make up for the three years of hell you put me through, Sherlock!"

Throughout this tirade Sherlock hadn't said a word, but merely stared sadly at John, flinching at every shouted word as if they were raised fists. John threw himself on the sofa once he'd exhausted his ability to yell. He'd spent so long holding his feelings in, lying that everything was fine and he was okay, that he'd forgotten how much of a relief it was to let it all out. It was a moment before he realised that he was still clutching that damn scarf in his shaking hand, but he just couldn't let go of it.

"I understand why you're upset," Sherlock finally said, watching John cautiously. "I didn't want to have to do this to you. I didn't want to have to lie, but the only way the plan would have worked was if you didn't know about it. I had to protect you from him."

John knew that the 'him' in question was Jim Moriarty. His grief over Sherlock's death had overtaken any feelings he had about all the terrible things that man had done. John stayed silent, too exhausted by all of this to yell anymore, so Sherlock continued to speak.

"He was going to have you killed," Sherlock said with a deep frown. "He shot himself in the head so I would have no way out. The only way his gunmen could be called off without him was if they saw me fall. And if you knew what was going on, then so would they. They would keep following you until they killed you... and that would have killed me."

John was twisting the scarf in his hands, refusing to look up at Sherlock even though his words made his heart ache. He didn't know how he felt – like a painful mixture of anger, sadness and relief. He wanted to punch Sherlock in the face. He wanted to kiss Sherlock until they were both gasping for breath. He wanted to cry in agony, but he also wanted to sob with joy.

"I had no intention of being gone for so long," Sherlock continued. "I didn't think it would take me as long as it did to stop the rest of his men, but I had to make sure they were all dealt with, every single last one of them. I had to make sure you were safe, at whatever cost. If there had been a way to do so without leaving you I would have done it in a heartbeat. But there was no other way. I don't expect you to forgive me, John. But I need you to believe me when I say that I did this all for you... and I've missed you so much."

John could feel tears stinging his eyes, but he couldn't bear the thought of crying in front of Sherlock. He hated crying in front of anyone. He hadn't even cried at the funeral, at least not until he was sure he was alone. He needed to be alone now, away from Sherlock, away from all of this.

"I can't," he choked out, standing up on shaky legs. "I just... can't."

For a split second John was about to go into Sherlock's room, but after remembering that it was Sherlock he needed to get away from, he quickly made his way up to his own room, glad that Sherlock didn't try to stop him. He sat down on the edge of the bed and gave into his tears almost immediately, sobbing into the scarf that was still clutched in his fist.

He still didn't know how Sherlock had even survived, but he didn't think he could stomach an explanation just then. Sherlock's reasons made sense though, more sense than John's unreasonable anger would let himself make of it. He understood why Sherlock had to do it, had to trick him in such a horrible way, but still John wished that none of it had ever happened. He wanted this to have all been a long and elaborate nightmare. He wanted to open his eyes and find himself in his armchair, having dozed off in front of telly, Sherlock busying himself with some experiment in the kitchen. But instead it was that life, their normal – if you could call it that – everyday lives before the fall that felt like the dream, and all this hell, all this sadness was the only thing that was real.

After a while, he wasn't sure how long exactly, John could hear footsteps coming up the stairs towards his room and he willed his tears to stop. But, if anything, John just sobbed even harder, the scarf becoming damp in his hands. He heard his door open but he didn't look up, not even when he felt the bed sink beside him as Sherlock sat down.

John wiped the tears off his face with the scarf, noticing out of the corner of his eye that Sherlock's forlorn gaze lingered on the length of fabric. As big a relief as it was to cry all his pain out, John still felt overcome with anger and grief. The fair and reasonable part of his mind wanted to know how Sherlock felt, how Sherlock had been feeling for the past three years and whether this had all been just as heartbreaking for Sherlock as it had been for him. But John didn't want to ask. He didn't want to care.

Through the open window the sound of Big Ben striking midnight could be heard in the distance, along with the whizzes and bangs of fireworks. Sherlock appeared, unusually, to be struggling for words. Eventually he whispered a rather hollow sounding "Happy New Year, John."

John didn't respond, but as he thought about it this coming year would probably be a happier one, or least happier than the previous years had been. John may have felt heartbroken and betrayed, but Sherlock was back, he had actually performed one more miracle against all odds and was back in John's life. It wouldn't be easy, but John could actually imagine the possibility of being happy again after everything that had happened.

"Look, John," Sherlock said, slowly and carefully. "I know my apologies won't change anything... but I am sorry. I'm so, so sorry for what I've done to you. I know that there's no way our lives can go back to the way they were before. Too much has happened to both of us, it would be implausible to think that things will ever be the same as they once were. But I hope that one day you can forgive me for betraying you."

Sherlock's hand reached out slowly and cautiously rested on top of John's, squeezing ever so slightly. John was surprised by how warm Sherlock felt. He expected the pale skin to feel cold and corpse-like, but Sherlock was warm and real and so very alive. Sherlock seemed encouraged by the fact that John hadn't recoiled away from his touch, and continued to speak.

"I thought I would only be away for a few months, a year at the most. The only thing that kept me going through it all... through all the running and the sleeping rough and expecting to be killed every minute... all that kept me going was the knowledge that I was doing this all for you, to keep you safe. I didn't care what happened to me, just as long as every last one of Moriarty's men were dealt with. Even if they had ended up taking me with them, I wouldn't have cared. As long as you were safe. Your life is worth a hundred of mine, John."

Sherlock had suddenly slipped to the floor, knelt on his knees in front of John. He pressed John's hand to his chest so the other could feel his pounding heartbeat, and John was taken aback by the fire and intensity in Sherlock's eyes; he looked as if he was about to cry.

"You are what had kept this heart beating for the past three years, John," he said. "I wouldn't be able to live with myself if anything happened to you and it was my fault. As much as it hurt to leave you, it would have been unendurable agony if it was you who was taken from me. I wish it didn't have to take all of this for me to truly realise it and admit it to myself, but... I love you, John."

John's anger and heartache was washed away as quickly and suddenly as it took to hear those words. I love you, John. It was everything he had ever wanted to hear, but never in his wildest dreams did he think it would actually happen. He didn't even think Sherlock was capable of feeling such emotions; he had always sneered at the idea of love and considered sentimentality to be a weakness, a chemical defect. But John had heard Sherlock say it plain and clear, had looked right into his tired, piercing eyes as Sherlock held his hand to his heart. Elevated heartbeat... dilated pupils... he was telling the truth.

"Sherlock," John whispered, his hand moving from his heart to the side of his gaunt face. "I love you too. I love you so much, I always have."

Sherlock smiled, one of those genuine human smiles that John had only seen a handful of times before the worst three years of his life. And, for the first time in what felt like forever, John found himself smiling too. The anger and the betrayal were still there, bubbling under the surface. But now those heartbreaking feelings were overwhelmed by the kind of happiness that John had been sure only a few hours ago that he would never feel again.

Sherlock was back. Sherlock was in love with him. Sherlock's warm, slender hands were on his face, brushing the fresh tears away, actual tears of joy. Sherlock was kissing him, gentle and carful and even more perfect that anything he could have imagined. Sherlock was alive.

They lay together in John's bed, fully clothed and warm under the covers, the sound of late night New Year's traffic and the occasional firework outside. The scarf had fallen on the floor a while ago, but John didn't care. He was wrapped in the real Sherlock Holmes, not just the ghost of him. He rested his head on Sherlock's chest just to feel his heartbeat and the steady rise and fall of his chest. Their arms were wrapped tightly around each other, Sherlock's fingers stroking John's hair until they fell into a blissful and contented sleep.

And John didn't have a single nightmare.

Hope you enjoyed, Humble Readers.

xxx