Never in his life did John Watson think that he'd be zipped up and packed away in a body bag, awake and alive.

Of course, he knew that Sherlock would turn up soon enough. He knew from unfortunate experiences that nervous breaths would only limit his time left in the bag. He just had to conserve the dangerously small amount of oxygen left until Sherlock could come and find him. John had an unreal amount of trust in that man. Hell, John could be held at gunpoint and still feel completely safe, as long as Sherlock was in the room.

"Once, just once, can someone try and kill me with a bloody shotgun?" John exclaimed and threw his hands up in the air as the two took a cab back to the flat. "I've been strapped to explosives, drowned, traumatized, and now nearly suffocated! Why is it always me?"

Sherlock snickered to himself because he knew the answer, and also because John had so easily forgotten that he had been almost killed with a bullet more than once. Serial killers never committed murders in normal ways, so what else could he expect?

"You're okay though?"

"Really funny." John rolled his eyes at what he thought was the emotionless detective sitting beside him in the cab. This was the last thing that he expected his best friend to say to him.

"John, I ask in genuine concern, you are okay?" Sherlock repeated himself, this time sounding a bit more convincing. Sherlock had remembered to take it easy with John; he understood how hard things were for him after the fall.

The past few months had been emotionally heavy for John. As soon as he received the call from Sherlock six months ago, his heart shattered and would take weeks before it could be mended again. John had spent only a night knowing that his best friend was dead, but spent six months sulking in Sherlock's chair at 221B Baker Street before being able to see him.

On the night of Sherlock's "suicide," John finally left St. Bart's and went back to the flat, but only because Mrs. Hudson had asked him to pick up some things. Just the sight of the place made John break down, but after seeing all of Sherlock's belongings around the flat, he spent his first night of grieving curled up in Sherlock's chair.

It felt like years before Mycroft had let himself into the flat in the middle of the night. John wasn't asleep, of course, and he sure was not delighted to see the disloyal brother of his passed best friend.

Mycroft had explained it, all of it. He explained to a weeping John Watson how Sherlock Holmes had faked his death for the only three people that he could call friends. He explained that he had never betrayed his beloved sibling, and that the two Holmes brothers had been working to stop James Moriarty for longer than he could imagine. He even stabbed another hole in John's bleeding heart by telling him that he wouldn't be able to see Sherlock until further notice.

"So that's it, you're just gonna keep him away after he faked his own suicide just to save me?" John remembered shouting at Mycroft.

"It takes time," Mycroft had replied. "There is a very enclosed group of people who know, so it is important that we keep things that way. Moriarty's little scouts are still out there, and we need them to believe that Sherlock is dead until we can imprison each and every one of them. It's for your safety. He wanted you to know, once it was all over, that he is sorry that things had to happen the way they did. You just have to remember what he did for you..."

"John."

He hated remembering that day, almost as much as he hated being away from Sherlock for such a long time. There was too much sentiment, too much drama, too much-

"John?"

The distraught doctor was pulled back into reality at the sound of the baritone detective's voice. It was alleviating for him to to realize that he was still in the cab with Sherlock, still on the way home after another case that had him nearly killed.

"I'm fine." John shook the thoughts out of his head.

Sherlock removed his hand from his friend's shoulder, with the same impassive expression painted on his face. "You're thinking about it again." He didn't have to deduce it anymore, because he knew.

There was an unquestionable amount of questions that John still had on hold, but he did not dare to ask them. Undoubtedly, Sherlock had changed during the six months, and John sure was not used to it. Sherlock previously never some of anything that was relatively emotive, but things were different now.

"John, I've told you before, if you'd like to talk about it, I'd-"

"No," John spat back immediately. "No, Sherlock, you know that I don't want to talk about it. Stop bringing it up; I'm only getting over it."

Lies, Sherlock thought, adding that remark to the list of John's excuses after they had been reunited. He collected that John had been lying to himself for weeks, an obvious sign that he certainly had not recovered from the six, dreadful months that they were separated for. Sooner or later, John was going to have to face his fear of talking about the day that Sherlock Holmes was supposed to die. 

As they finally reached the flat, John felt relieved to escape the rather uncomfortable situation in the cab. Sherlock, as usual, carried on with his night as if nothing had ever happened to the two of them.

As John laid in bed that night, he refused to let his mind wander off into dark waters. The last things that he needed were nightmares. He tossed and turned for hours on end, wishing that he could simply pause the world just for a good night's sleep. He told himself over and over again to stop thinking, stop feeling, and just sleep. But how could he ignore the loud violin playing in the dead of the night? He dragged himself out of bed, down the stairs, and into the living room.

As soon as Sherlock heard the first stair creak, he halted. John was never awake at this time, so he knew, right in that instant, that something was troubling him.

"No, no," John insisted as soon as he was down the stairs and slouched over in his chair. "Don't let me distract you. Keep playing."

Sherlock's eye twitched as he stood there, frozen in place. He was severely unconvinced that John was in here, awake at this time, just to listen to him play the Allemande of Bach's Partita No. 2 BWV 1004. Considering the fact that John had already yawned twice in the short duration that they were in the same room for and the drooping of his eyes, it was obvious that John was exhausted and had something important on his mind that couldn't wait until the morning.

John watched as Sherlock, still wearing the maroon button up shirt and black trousers from earlier in the day, slowly set the violin down on its stand. He suspected that his clever clogs friend was making deductions up in that enormous brain of his.

"What song were you playing?" John asked, hoping to draw him away from his deductions. The same, unconvinced glare stared John right in the eyes.

Sherlock sat in his usual position with his hands steepled and his right leg crossing over his left. He knew exactly what the desperate doctor wanted to discuss, but he wanted to hear John say it for himself.

"An attempt to create conversation of unimportant matters in order to break the barrier of an uncomfortable situation, or in your language: small talk." Sherlock spoke articulately and intimidatingly. "John, I really am shocked that you think I cannot read you right now."

John peered at the floor shamefully. "Sh-Sherlock..." he paused. "Sherlock, I'm ready to talk. About your suicide."

And so he began the next era with a newly sentimental detective, unaware that these next coming months would see the best and worst of both himself and his famous Sherlock Holmes.