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Home is wherever I'm with you.
Sometimes John would wake up in his bed, forgetting and having to remind himself that Sherlock was really here. His Sherlock was here and well and alive. Judging from the way his flatmate's erection was pressed ardently against his arse, John could remind himself that yes, Sherlock was very much not-dead, thank you very much.
As if sensing his troubled thoughts, the gangly dark-haired man tightened his arm around the doctor's waist, making little snuffling noises that surprised John the very first time he heard them. Never did John expect that Sherlock could be so...soft. John Watson was never quite the artistic soul, unlike his sister Harriet, but what he wouldn't give to be able to paint Sherlock, loose-limbed and slack-jawed, dozing with his cheek pressed against the pillows. These water-coloured moments sometimes left John with marvel so intense that Sherlock would awake with a strange look on his face at being the subject of such passionate scrutiny.
After Sherlock faked his death, John had been to see his therapist, he talked about what his flatmate did, their adventures, and at the very end of their fifth session, slightly over a month after The Fall (John could hear the capitalised letters even in his head), he finally confessed that his grief consisted of regret. What he would have said, the things he never could say now. John remembered, with Sherlock curled up, a long line of warmth against his back.
It was hard to believe, even now, two years after Sherlock came back to London. For me. John thought. He came back for me. As pathetic as John knew it sounds, he would take it. John asked for a miracle, and Sherlock delivered. Sherlock had never failed John.
Having made the mistake of marrying another, John's mind flashed back to the moment when the plane carrying Sherlock off to his death mission turned back and landed on the tarmac. He had knew then, that now when he has had the love of his life back into his life, he was never going to let go. The fact that Mary turned out to be cheating with her co-worker David was besides the point. The fact that this and that the baby wasn't John's was supposed to break his heart. But it didn't. Instead it felt like God, if he existed, tied up John's little problems into a little bow, leaving him the freedom now to get things in order with the love of his life, his maidenly flat-mate and best friend.
Even when he's grey and old, John was sure that he will always remember the way the sky looked when he exited the cab outside 221 Baker Street. He will always remember how the door was unlocked, as if waiting for his return (he felt silly thinking that, but knowing how Sherlock was, it was not unlikely that his return was expected by the brilliant genius he was so in love with.). Taking the stairs two at a time, John was out of breath when he reached the top step and the door flung opened, Sherlock's dressing gown billowing as he took in John's dishevelled appearance and in two seconds, herded the doctor into the flat and closed the door, reaching around to click the lock in place, the sound loud in its finality.
Instead of feeling trapped, John felt like he was finally home where he belonged.
He smiled at Sherlock, who stood, immobile, except with a slightly upturned corner of his mouth, waiting.
His eyes were shining.
John stepped forward.
And began the rest of his life.
Yes, his lips were as soft as they looked.