If You're Reading This I'm Dead

John flops down on the couch next to Sherlock, who’s reading the paper.

“Anything interesting today?” he asks

“Of course not,” Sherlock responds. “How do people actually find this stuff interesting?”

John rolls his eyes, but in an endearing way.

“Not everyone has to be busy all the time,” he says. “Some of us enjoy doing nothing for a few days.”

“I could never,” Sherlock says.

“I know,” John says, smiling. “That’s why I fell in love with you.”

Sherlock laughs.

“I thought you loved me because of my cheekbones and mysterious aura?”

“That too,” John replies.

“Hoo hoo” Mrs. Hudson says, knocking on the door. “You boys want some tea?”

“That would be great, Mrs. Hudson,” John says. “Sherlock?”

“I’m fine for now,” he answers.

“Ok, I’ll be right back. Don’t get into any trouble now!” she says, winking.

After she’s gone, John looks at Sherlock.

“What are you thinking?” he asks.

“About getting into trouble,” he replies, putting down the newspaper.

He leans toward John and just as they’re lips are about to meet, the doorbell rings.

“For goodness sake, can I have one moment alone with my boyfriend?” Sherlock yells.

“We’ll have plenty of time later,” John says reassuringly. “This might be urgent.”

“Nothing’s more important than you,” Sherlock answers softly.

“Yeah, I don’t think that's true,” he replies.

“Sorry to interrupt your alone time,” Lestrade says, stepping into the flat, “but I’ve got urgent work for you.”

John sends an ‘I told you so look’ at Sherlock. He scowls, but leans back on the couch.

“What is it?” he says annoyedly.

“It’s about Moriarty,” says Lestrade.

Sherlock sits forward, intrigued.

“We’ve found his basis of operations in London, where he did all his work,” Lestrade says. “I thought you would like to take a look.”

“Have you already been there?” asks John.

“Oh yes, we’ve inspected the whole place, but I'm sure you’ll find something we’ve missed,” he says, looking at Sherlock.

“I’m sure I will,” he says, standing suddenly. “Let’s go John.”

A few minutes later, they were sitting in the back of a cab.

“We’re never going to be able to just settle down are we?” asks John, laying his head on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“No,” he responds, stroking his hair.

They’re silent for the rest of the ride, Sherlock staring into space and thinking about the case ahead, and John thinking how lucky he is to finally have Sherlock. He remembers the first time that he confessed his love to Sherlock.

John stares up at the man standing on the roof, his heart beating wildly. He would recognize the black overcoat with an upturned collar anywhere. He dials a number on his phone and sees the figure reach for his pocket.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?” he asks, his voice wavering.

“Something necessary,” he replies in a firm, but gentle tone.

“John, snap out of it,” Sherlock says, waving his hand in front of John’s face.

“When have you ever been the one to tell me that?” John asks.

“Since you went all murderous eyes at me.”

“I don't do ‘murderous eyes’.”

“Yes you do.” Sherlock replies, smiling faintly.

The cab pulls up to an unremarkable, low stone building on the edge of the city. The walls are spray painted and the door is boarded up. Anyone walking by wouldn’t take a second glance at the structure if there weren’t police cars and yellow ‘Do Not Enter’ tape surrounding it.

“This is the place?” John asks. “Pretty plain for Moriarty.”

“He obviously didn’t want people finding him,” Sherlock says in that smart ass way of his.

“Show off,” John coughs into his elbow.

“Simple minded,” Sherlock coughs back.

They get out of the car and walk toward Lestrade, who stands beside his car.

“Took you two long enough,” he sighs exasperatedly. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show.”

“Sherlock, not showing up for a case as important as this?” John gasps dramatically. “Never!”

“Oh, shush,” Sherlock responds, but he grins anyway.

“Ok you two, we have work to do. No flirting on a crime scene,” Lestrade says, rolling his eyes.

Sherlock and John exchange a glance but fall silent.

“What do we know?” asks Sherlock, all business. Beside him, John pulls out a notebook.

“We were doing a drug bust on the place when we came across this.”

Lestrade holds out an old phone with a cracked screen. A paused video is on the screen, with Moriarty’s face staring at them.

Sherlock hits play and the video begins.

“If you’re watching this, it means I’m dead.”

His face pulls into a comical frown.

“That’s too bad, I wasn’t planning it. Or maybe I was. You’ll never know now! Nonetheless, I wanted to congratulate you, Sherlock. Yes yes, I know it's you. How’d you do it? Shoot me? Or did I shoot myself? I probably shot myself, didn’t I. Regardless, I want you to know that this isn't over. I will find you and kill every. Single. Person. You love. Anyway, gotta run. Byeeee!”

With that the screen goes dark and silence falls over the group. John looks over to see Sherlock frozen, his face a mask, revealing no emotions.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

“Of course,” Sherlock replies quickly, but John can tell that he isn’t. “Can we go inside?”

“Sure,” Lestrade says, leading them into the house.

They enter into the large, vestibule type room. John is surprised to see that the interior was clean and well-kept, with white-washed walls and navy carpets. The only signs of furniture are two wooden chairs surrounding a table, and a large, brick fireplace.

“That’s it?” John questions.

“Of course not,” Sherlock responds, walking confidently over to the fireplace.

John and Lestrade share a look.

“Are you going to tell us what you’re one about?” Lestrade asks.

“It’s much easier to just show you,” he responds, pressing a seemingly random brick in the bottom left corner.

He steps back as a piece of the carpeted floor slides back, revealing an iron ladder leading down into the darkness.

“How’d I miss that?” asks Lestrade, staring at the hole.

“Moriarty’s smart, but no match for Sherlock,” John says, smiling.

“Exactly,” Sherlock responds. “Shall we continue?”

“We don’t know what’s down there,” Lestrade says, wary.

“How are we going to find out if we don’t investigate?” asks Sherlock. “C’mon John.”

As they descend, John starts to regret his decision. The ladder seemed to stretch forever and the light from above was slowly fading. After what seems like an eternity, Sherlock reaches the bottom, closely followed by John. He steps onto the cold, concrete floor and switches on his flashlight. The beam reveals a small passage forward, a locked door at the end.

“Shall we continue?” Sherlock says.

“I don’t know. Maybe we should get Lestrade down here,” John replies nervously.

“I wasn’t really asking,” he responds, and starts off down the tunnel.

John sighs, but hurries after him. A keypad and eye scanner are situated beside the door, and John’s heart sinks.

“Please tell me you have some ingenious plan up your sleeve,” he asks.

In response, Sherlock pulls out his phone and holds it to his eye. He stares into the scanner, and after a few suspenseful seconds a green light flashes.

“Did you ever doubt me?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“We’re not done yet,” John reminds him.

“Well this is the easy part,” he responds, and quickly inputs a series of numbers.

There’s another green flash and the door emits a soft click. Sherlock gives John his ‘I told you I could do it’ look and pushes the door open. John wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t a room full of arcade machines. The only indication that this room belonged to Jim Moriarty was a small bulletin board with Sherlock’s face staring back at them.

“That's mildly terrifying,” John says gesturing to the board

“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” Sherlock responds, unworried.

“Of course not,” John says under his breath. “Any ideas yet?”

“I think that should also go on a shirt,” Sherlock laughs.

“Apparently I should start a t-shirt business,” John mutters to himself.

Sherlock walks toward a bank of computers that John missed in his first glance of the room. They are partially hidden in the corner, behind a dark grey wall. John follows him over and stands behind the gaming chair set up in front of the screens. Sherlock sits down and hits the power button, causing the dark monitors to come alive with light. A password box appears on the screen with ‘three guesses remaining’ below it.

“Any ideas?” John asks, then immediately realizes his words. “Damn it.”

Sherlock chuckles but continues looking at the screen.

“Not yet,” he replies, staring into space.

John has the sense to stay quiet as Sherlock travels to his mind palace. He watches as his eyes dart around and his brow furrows. After a few tense seconds, Sherlock returns to reality.

“I’ve got it,” he says, typing in a word.

“Supernova,” John reads. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“It would take me too long to explain,” Sherlock says dismissively.

He presses enter but the screen turns red. ‘Try again’ appears on the screen and the words now say ‘two guesses left’.

“What about this?” says John, laughing.

Reaching over, he types ‘Boo’ into the computer. Before Sherlock can stop him, he hits enter grinning triumphantly. To his surprise, the screen flashes green and a home screen appears.

“Well, that was… unexpected,” Sherlock says, looking up at John. “Good job.”

“I didn’t think it would actually work,” he replies, shocked.

“A pleasant surprise then,” Sherlock says.

He scrolls over the files littering the screen to one simply labeled ‘Death’. The file includes at least a dozen names, some familiar and some not. ‘Sherlock’, and ‘Me’, were the ones that immediately drew John’s attention. As if reading his mind, Sherlock clicked in his name and they were bombarded with information. John didn’t read it all but got the impression that Sherlock’s profile was definitely the fullest, filled with small details and plans for his death.

“Hmm,” Sherlock says, eyes quickly skimming the information.

“What?” John asks.

“He didn’t know nearly as much as I thought he did,” he responds, closing the profile.

“You call that not much?” John says, raising his eyebrows.

“Yes,” Sherlock answers, opening the ‘Me’ tab.

It’s not quite as packed as Sherlock’s, but still has a considerable amount of information.

“Only a psychopath would plan for his own death,” John says.

“I’ve planned my death,” Sherlock says, looking affronted. “Are you calling me a psychopath?”

“Of course not. I already know you’re a ‘high functioning sociopath’,” John replies with air quotes.

“Glad to see you did your research,” Sherlock says.

“I didn’t-that’s not- nevermind,” John mumbles. “What’s in the file?”

“The usual, friends, family, backups, different plans essentially.”

“Do you have me in your backups?” John asks.

“You’re part of my initial plan,” Sherlock responds. “Why wouldn’t you be? We are dating, you know.”

“Well excuse me for having trust issues. You’ve broken my confidence in you one too many times,” he replies sadly.

“I apologized,” Sherlock says. “You kissed me for heaven's sake!”

“You made me-!” John starts, but takes a calming breath instead. “We’re not going over this right now.”

“Ok,” Sherlock says. “There’s not much in this file, but there are a few names to go off of.”

“Write them down and let's get out of here. There’s a weird feeling in this place.”

“Of course there is, it’s Moriarty’s hideout.”

Sherlock jots down four names and stands up from the computer. He stands up and begins to head toward the door.

“John, are you coming or not?” he asks, turning around when he doesn’t hear his friend's footsteps.

He stops in his tracks, his hand straying to his jacket. In front of him stands John, a gun to his head.

“So you’re Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective,” says the man holding the gun.

Sherlock stares at the man, trying to make sense of what he’s seeing. The man looks like an older version of Moriarty, with gray streaks in his black hair and age lines creasing his face. However, he has the same dark brown eyes, a tall, thin build and slick black hair as Moriarty.

“I’m Arthur, Arthur Moriarty,” he says, grinning.

Sherlock sees John’s eyes widen with fear as he recognizes the name. Sherlock stares at John, his eyes darting to the pocket where he knows a panic button sits. They had each gotten one to press if they were in danger after the whole Moriarty thing. Lestrade would be contacted directly as soon as the signal went out, and luckily he was right above them. Realization sparked in John’s eyes and he gave a tiny nod.

“Any relation to Jim?” Sherlock asks, trying to buy time.

“He got his talent from me. I’m his father.”

"Why am I not surprised?”

“Because you have some brains inside that head of yours, just not enough to be practical.”

“So why are you here? And how did you know we were coming?”

“I knew you would find this place eventually, and I have nothing else to be doing, so I waited. And look at this, you showed up!”

John coughs- slightly, causing Arthur to look down.

“You care about this man don’t you? Or you would’ve attacked me by now. That’s good to know,” he says. “I thought you didn’t like getting attached, Sherlock.”

“You can’t survive alone in the world,” he responds, quoting John with a smile. “I learned that the hard way.”

“Ugh you’re so predictable. Jim wasn’t lying when he said you were boring.”

He grabs John’s arm which was creeping toward his pocket, with his free arm. Sherlock’s heart drops as their only plan for escape fails.

“Try something more original next time,” Arthur clucks disapprovingly. “You’re too predictable.”

With that, he turned, pushing John in front of him. A panel opened in the back wall, revealing a spiraling staircase that led up to a grate in the ceiling. Arthur climbed the steps, stopping before he reached the top to look back on Sherlock.

“Follow me if you want, but I’m not promising that your friend will be kept alive if you do,” he says with a smile, and disappears from view.

As soon as he is gone, Sherlock runs back up to the first floor.

“Grant!” he yells, emerging from the hole in the floor.

“For the last time-” Lestrade starts, but stops when he sees the panic written across Sherlock’s face. “What happened?”

“John got taken,” he responds. “We ran into Jim’s father and he took John.”

“Well let's go get him,” Lestrade exclaims, starting toward the door.

“He threatened to kill him if we tried to follow them,” Sherlock explains. “We have to wait.”

Lestrade swears, putting his face in his hands. “Do you have a plan?”

“Of course,” Sherlock responds.

John sits in a bedroom. There’s nothing fancy about it, just a bed, some shelves with nothing on them and a chair. It didn’t look like a cell from the outside, but if he looked closely, he could see no windows, no keyhole in the door and nothing that could be used as a weapon. He had no way to tell the time and nothing to do, which was starting to drive him insane. In the beginning, he had shouted, tried to break down the door and look for anything that could be used as a weapon but he had eventually come to the realization that he was trapped. The only thing that keeps him sane is the hope that Sherlock will come and rescue him.

I hate being a damsel in distress, he thinks, sitting on the bed.

Then his mind jumps to the time that he first saw Sherlock after the fall.

John walks down the busy London street. He doesn’t realize where he’s going until a familiar brass door knocker is in front of him. His heart thuds in his chest, it’s the first time he’s been back since the fall. Taking a breath, he pushes open the door and walks into the familiar foyer of the flat. It’s empty, unsurprisingly, the only sound is Mrs. Hudson vacuuming down the hall. John walks up the stairs, taking in every intimate detail. He trails his hand over a scratch from when Sherlock chucked Mycroft’s cane into the wall. As he steps onto the landing, his breathing increases, hitching in his throat. The door swings open as he pushes it, letting out the smallest of creaks. John stops, dead in his tracks, as he lays eyes upon the figure sitting in the chair. Black curls, piercing blue eyes and cheekbones so sharp you could cut yourself on them.

“Hello, John,” Sherlock says without looking up. “Took you long enough.”

John stands frozen, not quite believing his eyes. Then he takes a wobbly step forward, keeping his gaze fixed on Sherlock.

The door opens, startling John out of his thoughts and his captor enters.

“I hope you’re finding your accommodations pleasant,” Arthur says. “I'm basically treating you like royalty here.”

“Where am I?” John demands, standing up. “What do you want with me?”

“Sherlock should have never gotten attached to you,” he replies. “It gives me an advantage.”

He walks over to John, who stands his ground and looks defiantly at Arthur. The man steps right up to him, towering over John, and grabs him. He forces him onto his knees and ties his hands with a thin piece of rope. Then he pulls out a wickedly sharp knife and crouches beside him.

“What should I write? Puny? Boring? Weak?” he says. “I’ll go with something simple.”

To his credit, John doesn’t struggle as the knife lowers to his arm. Arthur starts carving the first letter and blood dribbles down his arm. John manages not to scream but tenses, almost convulsing with pain. Arthur goes slowly, making sure every letter is deep and easily readable. Around the third letter, darkness clouds John’s vision and the world spins before he passes out.

Sherlock paces back and forth across the flat. It’s been two days since John was kidnapped, and there's still no way of telling where he is.

“You’re going to wear a hole through the floor,” says Lestrade from the doorway.

Sherlock whips around to look at him, coat swishing behind him

“How long have you been there?” he asks, looking up.

“Only for a few minutes,” Lestrade replies. “We know where he is.”

“Let’s go,” Sherlock says, sweeping down the stairs.

“We can’t just rush into this,” Lestrade says, hurrying behind him. “We don’t know anything more!”

“We’ll make it up as we go along. That’s what I always do,” Sherlock says.

There’s a cab idling outside waiting for them, and the men climb into the back.

“840 Eastwood Drive,” Lestrade says to the driver.

It only takes ten minutes to reach the address, a three story manor set back from the road by a winding driveway.

“Looks like we’ve got ourselves a drama queen,” Sherlock says, stepping out of the cab. “I can see where Jim got his flair.”

He starts up the road.

“Says you,” mumbles Lestrade, following closely behind.

They reach the grand double doors and Sherlock steps forward. He knocks once, twice, three times, and then steps back. It takes a few seconds before the door opens, but there’s no one in the foyer, it’s completely deserted. Sherlock stands there for a second, surveying his surroundings. Then a blood-curdling scream rings out in the silence.

“John,” Sherlock whispers, fear climbing into his voice.

He runs up the stairs in front of them, and then down a hall to his left. Another scream splits the air and he picks up his pace. After what seems like an eternity, but logically is probably less than a minute, he arrives at the end of the hall, a light blue door ahead of him. Lestrade pulls up behind him, panting and mumbling something along the lines of ‘why do you have to be so tall.’ Sherlock throws open the door and draws his gun.

His blood freezes as he sees John, sprawling on the floor in a pool of blood, with none other than Arthur Moriarty standing over him, holding a bloody knife.

“You took your time,” Arthur says.

“Get away from him,” Sherlock growls, an animalistic rage entering his eyes.

“Yes, yes. I won’t keep you from him but it is fun seeing you care for someone,” he replies, stepping back.

“See you later!” he says, voice peaking at the end.

He walks past Sherlock and Lestrade without even a second glance. Lestrade is too stunned to do anything but stare at John’s unconscious body. By the time he realizes what happened, the man is already long gone.

“Call an ambulance,” Sherlock says, rushing to John’s side and quickly assessing the situation.

“Already on it,” Lestrade replies.

“You’re the doctor, not me,” Sherlock whispers to John.

He rips off his scarf and ties it around John’s arm, just noticing the letters engraved in his skin. ‘Weak.’ The word crawls up his arm, from just above the wrist to his elbow, in a place visible yet hidden. Sherlock continues to wrap John’s arm, caring too much for his safety to be solving any riddles. And if a few tears of fear and guilt trail down his cheek, no one is any the wiser.

The fluorescent lights blind John as he blinks awake. It takes his eye a moment to adjust to the sudden brightness and take in his surroundings. White-washed walls, bouquets of flowers and an IV in his arm. He tries to raise himself up, but groans with the effort. His head is throbbing and there’s a stinging pain in his right arm. A familiar figure is curled up on a bench beside his bed, fast asleep.

“Sherlock,” he whispers, and Sherlock jolts awake.

“You’re up,” he says, a relieved look in his eyes.

“How long was I out?” John asks.

“Four days,” Sherlock replies. “You gave us quite the scare.”

“Well,” John says, smiling slightly. “I’m fine now.”

“It would’ve been my fault,” Sherlock mumbles, closing his eyes. “I can’t live without you John.”

“I know,” he responds. “Now you know how it feels.”

Sherlock scoots closer, his voice catching as he says, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t- I didn’t know how much pain I caused you. Please forgive me.”

“I love you, Sherlock. Of course I forgive you,” John says, then adds, “As long as you promise not to do that ever again.”

“I promise,” Sherlock says.

He gets up and crawls into the bed with John, wrapping his arms around him. John leans into him and lets out a breath, feeling safe for the first time in a long time.

“I knew getting together with you was risky, but I never expected to get kidnapped,” he says, voice muffled in Sherlock's chest.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” he replies, laughing softly.

“Worth it though,” John says.

Sherlock leans in with a small smile to press his lips to John's. As John kisses back they hear a soft chuckle from the door. They jump apart, almost falling off the bed, and turn to see Lestrade and Mycroft standing in the doorway.

“Sorry to… interrupt,” Mycroft says, smirking.

“Like you two aren’t any better,” Sherlock scoffs. “How many times have I caught the two of you? Three? Four?”

Lestrade turns beet red and Mycroft gives his brother the Holmes Stare ™ . Just as he’s about to retort, Lestrade puts a calming hand on his shoulder and Mycroft clenches his jaw, keeping his mouth shut.

“I see you’re doing better, John,” Lestrade says. “You had Sherlock in quite the state.”

“I knew he’d be fine,” Sherlock says.

“That’s not what you told me,” Mycroft mutters, a devious grin playing on his face. Sherlock glares in reply.

A knock on the door causes all four men to turn. A nurse carrying a clipboard enters the room, raising her eyebrows at Sherlock and John. Sherlock tries to climb dignifiedly out of the bed but trips over his feet and ends up sprawled on the tiled floor. As he scrambles to his feet, John sees Mycroft try to hold in a laugh. Sherlock dusts off his coat and walks over to his brother and Lestrade, giving the nurse room to perform a check-up.

“You’ve been out for a while,” she says, adjusting a clear bag that leads into John’s IV. “How are you feeling?”

“Not great,” John replies, wincing as he tries to sit up. “Everything is kind of painful.”

“Your arm is going to be permanently scarred,” she says, eyebrows knitting. “But it’s healing nicely.”

“What happened?” John asks, looking to Sherlock.

“We found you passed out with Arthur standing above,” he says, voice shaking slightly. “He managed to escape, but the important thing is that you’re safe now.”

“You’re looking okay for now,” the nurse says, stepping back. “But you’ll have to stay one more night. There’s a call button beside you, but just take it easy. No strenuous activity.”

She looks at Sherlock as she says this and he nods sheepishly. With everything taken care of, the nurse leaves the room, leaving the four men alone again.

“Well, we better get going,” Lestrade says. “Feel better soon, John.”

“You’re not staying here, are you?” John asks, once he’s sure they’re gone.

“Of course I am,” Sherlock replies, matter of factly. “I’ve been here for four days,

I’m not leaving now.”

John shakes his head but smiles, secretly glad that he’s staying.

The rest of the afternoon is filled with a flurry of visits. The table beside John’s bed is covered in every variety of flower and ‘get well soon’ cards are stacked on top of each other to make space. By the time the sun sinks below the horizon, John is exhausted.

“I never knew this many people cared about me,” he says to Sherlock.

“How many people came to visit me when I almost died?” he asks. “I bet it was

half this amount.”

“It was about the same, if anything it was more,” John replies softly. “People care about you Sherlock. I hope you know that.”

Sherlock blinks rapidly, staring intently at the wall. His mind flashes through a series of foggy memories.

John, crouched over him while Sherlock slowly bled out, a bullet lodged in his chest. John, sitting beside him in the hospital, tears flowing freely down his face. John, a small figure on the concrete below him, his voice shaking with fear.

“Sherlock,” John says, snapping him out of the memories. “Are you okay? I know this has probably been a lot for you.”

He smiles wryly. “Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that?”

“I know what it’s like to almost lose the person you love,” he replies. “It’s the worst feeling in the world.”

“Jesus, can we not talk about that right now?” Sherlock says, rolling his eyes.p />
“Alright, alright,” John says. “I’m going to try to get some sleep.”

“Can I join you?” Sherlock asks

John nods, scooting over to make room, and Sherlock climbs in beside him. He pulls up the covers and snuggles into Sherlock, wrapping his arms around him. In a few moments, John’s breathing slows, and he drifts into sleep.

It takes Sherlock considerably longer to fall asleep, his head whirling with information. He stares at the ceiling, retreating to his mind palace in hopes of turning off his brain for a few seconds. It must work because when he next looks at the clock, the time reads 3:30 am. That’s better than usual. Sherlock then feels John tense and start to shift around. John trembles, letting out a pained groan.

“No,” he mumbles, eyes clamped shut. “Please, no.”

“John,” Sherlock whispers. “John, wake up.”

“No, no!” John pleads, twitching violently. “Not Sherlock!”

Sherlock grabs him and shakes him awake. John’s eyes snap open and he pants, staring at Sherlock. His eyes are wild, crazed but he stops shaking when he sees Sherlock beside him.
“You’re okay,” Sherlock says, rubbing John's back. “It was just a nightmare.”

“Sorry,” John sighs.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Sherlock says. “Look at me.”

John meets his gaze. He sees nothing but love and compassion in Sherlock’s green-blue eyes.

“I love you,” Sherlock says. “And I’m here for you, no matter what.”

“Thanks,” John replies. “That means a lot.”

“Now try to get some more sleep,” Sherlock says strictly. “You need it.”

John exhales, leaning back again and closes his eyes. Sherlock pulls him close again and eventually the pair fall back into sleep.

John wakes up nestled between Sherlock and the bedframe. Sherlock is still passed out, his hair messy and the tiniest strand of drool hanging from his mouth. John stretches out, causing Sherlock to start awake.

“Whas happenin?” he mumbles, blinking sleep from his eyes.

“Did you know that you drool?” John asks, a smile pulling at his lips.

“I do not,” Sherlock says, yawning. “Much too dignified for that.”

“Uh huh,” John replies. “Sure.”

The room is lit by the morning rays of sun, and the clock reads 8:45. As if summoned by their awakening, a nurse bustles in and announces that John should be ready to go by the afternoon. This brightens his spirits and it suddenly becomes impossible to sit still. When John walks out of the building, hand in hand with Sherlock, the first thing he does is take a deep breath of air. He ends up inhaling a small bug and chokes, coughing and hacking until it comes free. Sherlock thumps him on the back, holding in laughter and trying to keep a straight face.

“Shush,” John wheezes.

“I didn’t say anything,” Sherlock responds, a grin pulling at his lips.

“You didn’t have to. I can hear you thinking,” John replies crossly.

Sherlock simply smiles in return and continues down the busy street. The couple bicker the whole way back to Baker Street, half flirting, half teasing. Ms. Hudson opens the door as they arrive at the familiar residence and lets out a cry of happiness.

“John! You’re back!”

“I am indeed,” he replies. “It’s nice to be out of there.”

“Well, I’ll bring you boys some tea,” she says, bustling off to prepare the kettle.

“We’ll take the tea upstairs, Ms. Hudson,” Sherlock calls and they head up into their flat.

John stops dead in his tracks as he sees the mess that is their flat. Books, file boxes and several flasks and beakers are strewn around the room. In addition to this, every wall is covered in pictures, notes and newspaper articles, all featuring Arthur Moriarty.

“I see you did your research,” John says, stepping over a precarious pile of books.

“Well, this is why I have you,” Sherlock says, collapsing in his armchair. “I suck at cleaning.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t try,” John retorts, already bustling around.

Sherlock watches him with a curious look on his face, head slightly tilted. In a few minutes, John lets out a gasp of pain and falls into his chair. Sherlock is up immediately.

“What’s wrong?” he asks intently.

“It’s alright, just my arm flaring up,” John responds, taking a deep breath. “Probably not the best idea to start cleaning right away.

Sherlock lets out a sigh of relief but doesn’t settle back down, causing John to grin.

“What?” Sherlock says indignantly.

“You’re cute when you worry,” replies John.

“I'm not cute!” he says, huffing indignantly.

“Definitely cute,” John says, nodding.

They enjoy steaming cups of tea in comfortable silence, John glad to be back and Sherlock happy that everything is back to normal.

“It was scary, you know,” Sherlock says suddenly. “Knowing you might not make it.”

John stares at him. “Did you just admit that you got scared? The great Sherlock Holmes got scared?”

“It’s not funny,” Sherlock responds crossly. “I’m not used to that feeling, and I don’t like it.”

“Me neither,” John says. “I don’t find almost dying very enjoyable.”

“John, this isn’t a joke. I’m trying to be… vulnerable,” Sherlock says painfully.

This quiets John immediately. For the first time, he sees real fear and pain in Sherlock’s eyes. He notices the dark bags under Sherlock’s vibrant eyes and the pasty quality of his skin.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I didn’t see how much this affected you.”

“That’s alright. I’m used to bottling up my feelings, not spreading them across my face,” Sherlock responds.

“That’s not a good thing, but I'm glad you’re coming to someone,” says John.

“You’re the only person I feel comfortable enough with,” Sherlock says. “And you should take that as a compliment. That’s not an honour most people have.”

“Oh I know,” John replies.

He stands up, walks over and gives Sherlock a big hug. Sherlock tenses under the sudden embrace but gradually falls into John’s arms. They stand like that for a while, breathing softly and enjoying the security that they bring each other. Baker Street is at peace once again.