Post-Reichenbach Fall, John reassures himself that the day's revelations were real.

This was inspired by "A Chemical Defect" by TheMidnightOwl over on Archive of Our Own. As always, I don't own anything.

He woke sometime during the confusing hours between late night and early morning, unable to remember what was a dream and what was reality. Or perhaps, he thought, as he sat up in bed and tried to rub the sleep out of his eyes, he couldn't remember which was unreality was real: the nightmare that Sherlock was dead, or the dream that he had returned. He thought the nightmare was more frightening, but the dream was crueler.

John shivered a little: the mattress was bare, stripped of its sheets and blankets after he'd left 221B. Last night he'd suggested they spend the night at his new place, but Sherlock had insisted they return to the now-empty flat. Or at, least, that's what he thought had happened. Maybe that had all been part of the dream, too.

He climbed out of bed, the floorboards cold against his bare feet, and padded down the stairs. The living room was somehow both emptier and messier than usual: half of Sherlock's things stuffed into overflowing boxes, the rest scattered haphazardly across every available surface. A trickle of yellow light seeped through the curtains and illuminated Sherlock's violin case, propped against the wall. John half expected to see Sherlock himself sprawled on the sofa, wearing his dressing gown an expression of serene contemplation, but the sofa was covered only by a dusting of papers. John's chest tightened in fear. Not the nightmare, not the nightmare...

He crossed the living room, avoiding the creakiest spots by habit. He hesitated with his hand on the doorknob of Sherlock's bedroom. What if he opened the door and found the room empty, the bed unoccupied? What if the nightmare was real, and the dream no more than a dream? The fear closed around his lungs like a fist, cutting off his air. He pulled his hand away from doorknob as if it had burned him. If Sherlock was lying beneath a tombstone, not beneath this roof, then John didn't want to know. He wanted to climb back upstairs and curl up in his cold, empty bed, and spend a few more precious hours not knowing if Sherlock was dead.

In the end, though, not knowing was worse than knowing. John squared his shoulders and pushed the door open. He held his breath as he waited for eyes to adjust to the deeper darkness of the bedroom. After an eternity, he picked out a long, lanky shape sprawled facedown among the tangled sheets. He closed his eyes and leaned against the doorframe, suddenly dizzy with relief. Neither a nightmare nor a dream, but real—!

John couldn't resist. He knelt beside the bed and laid his hand gently on Sherlock's back. He could feel the warmth radiating through the thin fabric of the other man's pajamas, and the reassuring rise and fall of his chest. He'd greeted the newly-resurrected Sherlock with curses and blows, but here, hidden by the darkness, he allowed the tears of relief and joy to sting his eyes. He's alive, he's alive, oh God, thank you for giving me just one more miracle.

Sherlock stirred a little at John's light touch and made a sleepy "Mmphf?" noise.

"Just checking," John whispered. "Go back to sleep. Everything's fine."