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John Watson woke with a gasp. Two years on from that day, and the nightmares of gunfire and explosions had been replaced by a nightly ordeal far worse than any of the PTSD-induced flashbacks he had experienced after being invalided home from Afghanistan. Like clockwork, as soon as his eyes closed, he was once again at St Bart's Hospital, watching his best friend fall to his death; while he stood rooted to the spot. The worst part was the feeling of utter helplessness that always accompanied the dream; he couldn't run to catch him and even if he could, he knew that it wouldn't change anything. The impact would still be fatal to Sherlock, and would most likely have resulted in John's hospitalisation at the least. The constant cycle of what-ifs that spun through his head always lingered along with the grief when he woke, sometimes lasting through the whole day.
He had tried so hard to move on, but how can you go about your day when you know that sleep will never offer you any peace of comfort? Of course, being unable to move on had also affected his social life; he was more withdrawn than he had ever been, his only interactions were with his patients, not including the occasional check-up on his sister, and needless to say his love life had been virtually non-existent ever since the events at St Bart's. He just wasn't interested in other people anymore. Every now and then, things would seem like they were getting better; the nightmares would stop, and he would even toy with the idea of meeting up with Mike or Lestrade for a pint. But then it would pass, like crossing through the eye of a hurricane, and the nightmares would return and he would shut himself away from the world one more.
The illuminated face of his clock read 04:00, and as hard as he tried, he couldn't get back to sleep. Eventually he gave up; padding in his old t-shirt and ratty jogging bottoms to the kitchen to put the kettle on, pulling out a bottle of pills and knocking one back dry. His mind flashed back to last year when he was barely living, no; surviving. He remembered what he was like at his lowest and had sworn to himself that he would never let himself turn into that again. No matter what he told himself, John still felt at least partly responsible for what had happened to his friend. Eventually he had found himself, on the anniversary of Sherlock's death, reaching for his pistol, craving the relief that it would give him from the guilt, the grief and the nightly torments than never allowed him any of the escape that he wished sleep would give him. In his mind's eye he was sitting on his bed again, methodically and carefully cleaning the weapon and loading a single bullet from the box into the magazine; chambering the round and placed the muzzle into his mouth at such an angle that the path of the bullet would pass through the brain stem, destroying it instantly. The end would have been quick and painless, dead before the signals had had time to reach his medulla oblongata. John shook his head, chastising himself for letting his mind wander down this dangerous path, reminding himself that there had to be a reason that he had, after a few minutes, taken his finger off the trigger, removed the round and put his gun away.
Turning on the tv, he was just settling down when there was a knock at the door. Who on earth was calling at four in the bloody morning? Other than Ella, who was still his therapist regardless of what Mycroft had said the first time time they had met, and the landlord, no-one knew where lived. And even they didn't know that he was spending the night in his old room at Baker Street whist helping sort the flat out. Only Mrs Hudson knew, and she must be sound asleep at this time. He sighed and stood up, muting the female news reporter and headed for the door; at the last minute slipping his (unloaded) gun into his waistband.
He opened the door, and froze. No, this wasn't happening. Had he finally lost his mind? Was he still asleep, and this was just another dream; a new torture devised by his subconscious and brought on by spending the night in 221B after so long.
"Hello John" that deep, oh so familiar voice said after a few seconds. John took a step back, before swinging his fist in an impressive right hook that landed squarely on Sherlock's jaw, sending him reeling back clutching his face. Despite the discomfort in his smarting knuckles, John still refused to dismiss the idea that what he was seeing wasn't actually there. As both a doctor and someone who had experienced it first-hand, he was well aware of the potential for hallucinations to develop in PTSD sufferers.
"Sherlock?" John's whispered, his voice shaking. "No, you're dead. You died two years ago, I saw you fall. Jesus Christ!" He was shouting now. "I buried you, Sherlock!" Sherlock may be dead, but he could still take it out on a ghost.
Sherlock looked at John in growing confusion. While it would seem obvious to anyone that he was alive and standing there, John couldn't see it. He remembered the file that Mycroft had handed him, including the notes from his therapist. One phrase had sprung out of the page to slap him in the face "Patient has been showing signs of suicidal tendencies." He wished that he hadn't asked what exactly she had meant, aghast to learn that John had shown up in Mycroft's office and handing over his gun until he felt stable enough. The image of John, lying motionless on his bed with the weapon held in a limp hand, the blood spatter and trauma perfectly mapped out, almost made him weep.
And John still couldn't see what was staring him in the face; the natural instincts to avoid further trauma, perhaps. Or had John been experiencing hallucinations as well, like the times over the past couple of years that Sherlock had been captured and beaten to within an inch of his life, scarred with his own dragon-fire?
"John, please." His voice cracked, unable to think of anything that would help John realise the truth. Slowly, he placed a palm over the still-clenched fist that had hit him only moments ago. "It really is me."
John's eyes widened as he acknowledged that what he was seeing wasn't just in his head. He grabbed Sherlock by the collar and pulled him forcefully inside, using every effort not to slam the door. It was four in the morning, after all.
"One word, Sherlock. One word to let me know that you were still alive!" The full force of everything he had been through surged through John like lava, burning him up inside and spilling over in a furious tidal wave. "Why, Sherlock? Why did you do it? What was so important that I had to spend two years thinking that you were dead?"
It was chilly in the flat and with a click of his fingers Sherlock brought a small ball of fire to life, tossing it into the fireplace where it caught immediately before sitting down on the sofa, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees with his hands pressed together under his chin. How John had missed those miniature suns.
"There were thirteen possible solutions that I had worked out before going to meet Moriarty -" was all he got out before John interrupted him.
"I don't care how you did it. I want to know why." John was fighting to keep the anger out of his voice, and the effort showed on his face.
"Why? Because Moriarty had to be stopped, of course. Oh, you mean why I didn't tell you. You were being watched, undoubtedly to check that I was actually dead and it was not all some sort of trick. I was worried that you might say something indiscreet; let the cat out of the bag." If looks could kill, the glare that John gave him would have had him dead and buried for real in a matter of seconds.
"So all of this is my fault then?" Although he was still royally pissed off, John's curiosity was starting to get the better of him. "What the hell happened up there Sherlock? All I saw was that bloody tiger push you."
"As you may remember from when we first encountered Moriarty, he threatened to feed you to Moran. That threat still stood, although this time it also involved a sniper. There were also gunmen targeting Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. The three people that mattered to me the most. "He decided against including the nature of Moriarty's demands, given how John had reacted at the pool when they had learnt the details of the drug that had been forced into Sherlock's system.
"The fall itself was unexpected. Moran rushed me and we both went over. My apparent demise then put me in the fortunate position that Moriarty's network no longer considered me a threat. I was able to infiltrate their bases all over the world, and take down his web one thread at a time. My last mission in Serbia was the final piece, and I was able to make my way home. Moriarty died on the rooftop when, let's just say things got a bit heated." With a flicker of pleasure he remembered the look on Jim Moriarty's face in the split-second before the fire had engulfed him and he had been reduced to nothing more than a charred skeleton.
John smirked at the image, relieved that the living nightmare that had plagued him ever since that fateful afternoon at the pool was finally over.
"But how could anyone survive that? I saw you fall, I saw ..." His voice cracked, unable to finish as the memory of Sherlock's broken body on the pavement floated to the forefront of his mind. Damn his curiosity, although maybe this would finally help him truly accept that the night's events weren't all inside his head.
"When I went up to the rooftop, I had planned out every scenario, but the one thing that I failed to take into account was that Moran would be there. When I killed his master, he shifted and charged me. Once I was over the edge, my body instinctively reacted, and my wings came out enough to slow my fall. I was still hurt; the impact fractured my arm and three ribs; but I survived. As I mentioned, I already had several scenarios ready to go. The members of my homeless network on the scene were able to improvise using details from a plan similar to what had actually happened; as I said, the tiger was a surprise, and were able to use some makeup and blood to give the appearance of a fatal fall. All that was left was to hide my wings and tail. The broken bones weren't nearly enough to be serious, remember that every time I shift I essentially suffer extensive bone fractures and organ failure while my biology fits to my shape. Any injuries I suffered falling from the roof would have healed in a matter of hours." Various captors over the past two years had taken full advantage of this particular physiological trick, and Sherlock winced at the memory.
"But I checked your pulse. I'm a bloody doctor, how could I have not felt it?"
"If you doubt your proficiency as a doctor, you needn't worry. One fascinating part of reptile biology that I can access in any of my forms is the ability to slow my heart-rate right down, which some reptiles do when they hibernate or when oxygen is in short supply. You aren't a vet, so you wouldn't know. Then it was simply a case of playing dead. See for yourself." He rolled up his sleeve and offered John his wrist, the same one that John had used to try and take his pulse the day of the fall. John found that slow, steady heartbeat, and gazed at Sherlock in amazement as he focused on the pulse that was growing steadily weaker until it couldn't be felt at all, before speeding back up to a normal tempo.
John was, temporarily, speechless. All he could say, all he could even think, was a whispered "You're really back." Under the relief there was something else, a spark that had been building since the pool incident: a realisation that this man; this mad, wonderful man, was his. But it was more than that; that despite his insistence that he wasn't gay, he loved his insane flatmate - he had known for a while that he had strong feelings of some kind, but only Irene Adler had been smart enough to see them for what they really were. Acting on impulse, John grabbed Sherlock by the collar, pushing him back into the sofa. Sherlock recoiled slightly, thinking that John was about to hit him again; John was still pretty angry so it was more than likely. He froze when instead of punching him; John pulled Sherlock's face forward and kissed him. It was hard and angry, but eventually mellowed out to something sweeter, almost tender. The anger that had been boiling away inside of John finally retreating under the relief and joy that the man he loved was alive, and sitting in front of him. All of this was transmitted in the kiss, and it made Sherlock's head spin.
Never had he dared imagine that John could feel this way about him. After all, he had always quickly corrected anyone who mistook them for a couple. Having got over the initial shock, his brain switched back on, cataloging the sensory input as he sank into the kiss. John's lips were chapped from where he worried his bottom lip with his teeth, and the rough stubble on John's jaw scratching his cheek betrayed John's more relaxed attitude to shaving that had developed while he had been away; there was at least two days of growth. Then his cupid's-bow lips were parting and he was kissing John back, adding his own emotions so that the kiss was a complete conversation it itself. Sherlock letting the years of pent-up longing, the loneliness and pain of the last two years, the joy of being back in London, of being with John spill like a tidal wave from the heart he had kept locked away for so long and flood into the kiss; all while John's lips told a similar story.
Both men were growing breathless, and they finally, and very reluctantly, broke apart gasping for breath. Sherlock's pupils were blown wide and he was panting heavily.
"How long have you known?" Sherlock asked. He knew the chemistry of attraction, the physical signs, but having seen those from John from the first day, he had put them down to the adrenaline and excitement that came from the cases; the trill of the chase, the amazement he never failed to display at Sherlock's deductions. Never, with the small exception of that first night at Angelo's, had he thought, or dared hope, that John could feel this way about him. He could have kicked himself for turning down John's fumbled question all that time ago. 'Married to my work' indeed!
"Actually, I had no idea. I just hoped that you wouldn't punch me or mercilessly shoot me down like that first night, a bit like you've more-or-less done to poor Molly on a regular basis for years. You must have noticed that she has a massive crush on you? Even if you had noticed, stop flirting with her so that she gives you body parts! I've told you before that it's unfair to her." Sherlock blinked a couple of times, almost as if he was a computer re-booting.
"In case my display not even a minute ago wasn't obvious enough, Molly Hooper is most certainly not my type. I was under the impression that I had made my position clear to her, although people do so often pretend not to notice things that go against what they want or think. Speaking of which, why didn't I notice this sooner? We've been dancing round each other since the time that I nearly killed you, although in my own defense I had just been drugged." John laughed, remembering Sherlock's look of horror when he had learned what had become of the man who had injected an early version of the experimental drug of Moriarty's into Sherlock's system,
"Because you're an idiot. Don't worry, practically everybody is." It had been the first thing that Sherlock had called him, that night sitting around Jennifer Wilson's suitcase, and now he used it as an endearment.
They had both got their breath back, and John was starting to lean forward again subconsciously. "Now, where were we?" He said with a smile, hands reaching out to cup Sherlock's face. The second kiss was no less passionate than the first, and John felt like he was drowning in it, but had no desire whatsoever to surface. There was a slight rustle, and then an extra weight as Sherlock's wings - those huge, leathery, beautiful wings - materialised and wrapped themselves around John's shoulders in a hug, pulling him closer in a cocoon until they were pressed so close that one could absorb the other. There was a soft thud as Sherlock's tail hit the floor, and John chuckled; Sherlock had never managed to get just his wings out, the tail always followed. He was reminded of all the times he had nearly tripped over the damn thing, and the way that it would writhe about like a dog's when he got excited.
When Mrs Hudson came up later that morning, she smiled at the sight of her two boys curled up together asleep in each other's arms on the sofa. Sherlock's wings were draped protectively around John, who was sleeping more peacefully than he had in two years. Sherlock had come to her yesterday and, once her hysterics had subsided, he had told her everything. It had been her idea to call John over under the pretense of cleaning their old flat. With one final glance at the slumbering couple and a fond smile, she silently closed the door to 221B Baker Street. She had a strong feeling that the empty flat would once again be filled with the sounds of Sherlock's violin and John's occasional rants about health and safety brought on by Sherlock's latest experiments.
The click of the door woke Sherlock, who opened one blue-green eye and looked at the man sleeping in his arms. He smiled, and let out a contented sigh before gently shifting his wings (John had been lying on one and it had gone dead) and curling his tail around John and closing his eyes, the happiest he had been in over ten years.