Epilogue

It had been three weeks since John's release from the hospital. They had opted to keep him for a few more days to make sure that the army doctor was recovering smoothly. He was, of course, weak from the time spent lying in the hospital bed, and he needed to rebuild his strength.

They started slowly, having him walk in the flat, regaining his strength bit by bit until he was able to go grocery shopping without assistance. Sherlock still refused to do cases for a week and a half, even though by then John would've been able to accompany him on a low-key one. It wasn't that the detective didn't want to waste his time solving a petty crime in under an hour, though he normally wouldn't have done such a thing for that very reason; rather, it was because Sherlock didn't want to put John in any sort of danger or strain himself until his strength was fully regained. Even the detective knew that even the simplest of cases could produce a dangerous situation.

Of course, John hated that Sherlock refused to spend any time helping out the Yard or a desperate client, but he knew as well as anyone that once the detective put his mind to something, there was nothing that would dissuade him from getting it done. The doctor had tried to hide just how tired the simplest thing made him; however, Sherlock always saw straight through his act.

And John could see straight through his.

The worry that never ceased to flow from the detective's taunt form saddened the doctor. He never used to be burdened by sentiment. Boredom was stretching the detective's patience thin, resulting in an increase of experiments and sulk sessions on the couch.

John's memory grew clearer, until the second week of their return came and the doctor realized that the confusion that had seemed to linger in the recesses of his mind had vanished, as though the detective had swept the cobwebs away.

And with that clarity came healing.

The first few days back at the flat had been extremely awkward. With John's weakened state, he required assistance, which forced the two together. John couldn't hide from the detective and lick his wounds, nor would Sherlock leave the doctor's side. Perhaps he had thought about doing so in the beginning, but any ideas of solitude vanished when John swallowed his pride and asked for help, the first words spoken between them since their meeting in the hospital. The sound of the doctor's voice, roughened and hoarse from lack of use, but musical nonetheless, had sent shivers down the detective's spine.

They grew used to the other's presence, becoming reacquainted with the person that had been closest to them for years before their separation. Sherlock's touch no longer spiked slight discomfort, both from the gesture itself and the knowledge of the detective's sentiment. Their steps fell into the ease of the past as they slipped into a familiar rhythm that made the doctor feel more comfortable than he had ever felt in his whole life.

Sherlock merely saw that his friend, the love of his life, was finally recuperating, and he internally rejoiced. Their separation had turned his world upside down. He was a planet with nothing to revolve around, his personal sun long gone as a gaping black hole replaced it. It was after their reconciliation of sorts that Sherlock realized how close he had been to being destroyed, though it didn't matter much to him now. The Earth may revolve around the Sun, but Sherlock revolved around John, and he would never take the doctor's presence for granted again.

With the clarity of his mind during the second week of their arrival at the flat came a second realization. John had been able to wrap his mind around the why of Sherlock's pseudo-suicide, had understood the logic of the detective's actions, but the overwhelming pain of his absence was too hard for the doctor to ignore. The detective's regret for his actions, however, was also impossible to be ignored. Sherlock's every gesture spoke of his distress, his every touch a despairing apology and a plea for forgiveness. John's pain began to dwindle as he witnessed this behavior from the detective until it was replaced with a growing fondness and a newfound realization of their mutual affection. The doctor had known, even during their rocky meeting, that he had loved the detective, but he hadn't realized just how much until that second week.

Unfortunately, that realization was completely vacant from John's mind a week and a day later, as they stood in the living room, glaring daggers at the other.

During the end of the second week, John had finally regained a majority of his strength and was able to persuade the detective to take a case and bring him along. Sherlock and John visited the crime scene later that day, where they were met by Lestrade and briefed on a case involving a trio of murderers, one of which being a vengeful lover. He had killed a young woman and her family because she had refused him. It was quite frankly a ridiculous case, but both men were eager to get out of the flat for reasons other than grocery shopping or mindless exercise, so they stifled their complaints.

It proved to be more challenging than they figured, and on the third day of the case, they were busy chasing the final murderer in an alleyway. Sherlock had run ahead of John, quickly losing the doctor amidst a maze of buildings and pavement. When the detective noticed that John was no longer following him, he bit back a curse and retraced his steps, worried that something had happened to John. Seconds after the thought flitted through his mind, a gunshot rang out through the silence.

Sherlock's heart stopped then pounded as he took off running, faster than he had ever run before, in the direction of the noise. Minutes later, he found the doctor standing over a man in his mid-twenties, gun in hand and a developing bruise on the man's face that alerted Sherlock to the situation.

Before he could control himself, the detective had rushed to the doctor and began inspecting him for injuries. His heart was still pounding, loudly echoing through his mind, accompanied only by the thought of John. The doctor's pulse matched his own, the detective realized as his hand brushed against John's wrist. Relief flooded through Sherlock, though it was quickly replaced by anger, illogical and unwelcome but overpowering nonetheless, tainting his vision red and turning his body against him.

Hours later, they had returned to the flat, terse words the only component of a very short verbal exchange before they entered the cab. They continued to stand in silence, John's anger steadily rising with the detective's. The incomprehensibility of Sherlock's rage sharpened John's, each temper steadily rising until Sherlock burst.

"You don't do that, John. You don't just leap at a killer without anyone with you! You know in your state you aren't fit for that-"

"And yet, I was," John coldly replied, his icy gaze unwaveringly boring into Sherlock. "I had everything under control. You have nobody to blame but yourself. You left me behind!"

"It's not my fault you couldn't keep up! You were perfectly able to before!"

"Well as you are so fond of pointing out, things aren't like what they were before!" John yelled.

"Everything would've been fine if you had just stayed with me!" Sherlock hollered the last three words, his face flushed and his eyes flashing savagely.

"What are you so upset about? The bloody case was solved! Isn't that what matters most, the cases?" John replied, anger he had believed to be resolved coursing through his veins, a frustration old and much deeper than the situation at hand.

"No! You know it is not all about the cases! Do my words mean nothing to you?" Sherlock paused, harshly running his fingers through his curls as he cast his gaze to the floor. "You could've died," He all but whispered, his normally smooth voice hoarse.

Understanding dawned on John, though his anger was still present, poisoning the sentiment in Sherlock's voice. "Did you think I was dead?"

"Yes."

"Now you know how I felt during your absence," John coldly replied, fighting to maintain his anger, though it was quickly fading as he beheld his flat mate's despair.

"What more do you want from me John?" Sherlock asked, staring into the doctor's eyes once more. The detective's throat was sore from shouting and his eyes stung. "What more do you want me to say? I am sorry. I am sorry for everything I put you through, but I would do it again in a heartbeat if it meant that you were safe. Do you think it was easy for me to stay away? To be on the other side of the world, eliminating Moriarty's remnants in the hopes that I could return, and be worried that I would wake up one day and find out that you had died believing I was dead too? To wonder if you were alright? To wonder if I had been replaced? It was hell, and then you were in a coma, which was also my fault, and that was hell, but I did it for you because I love you. I love you, and I will continue to do so, even if you will never love me back, even if you find someone else, even if you cast me out of your life. And if-"

"I love you too," John blurted, unable to stand the anguish drenching the detective's words. He felt himself moving forward, striding towards Sherlock.

The detective blinked, staring down at John, who stood mere centimeters away from Sherlock, in disbelief. For the first time in his life, he doubted his hearing. Had he just imagined what he wanted the doctor to say in return? But no, how could he have, when the man in question was standing so close, leaning forward-

John's lips were pressed against the detective's still, surprised mouth. All at once, he burst into action, moving in reply with John. His arms wrapped around John's waist, and Sherlock felt the doctor's arms entwine around his neck.

They pulled apart, pulses racing and dilated eyes shining.

All was right in 221 B Baker Street once more.

Thank you so much for reading this, and continuing to do so despite my horrible gaps in updating. Thank you for all of the wonderful reviews, favorites, and follows. :)