John Watson met Mary Morstan. Mary made him smile, laugh sometimes even. He couldn't say that Mary made him happy, not at first at least, but Mary made him cope and she made him forget and that was good. Really good. And slowly, she started making him happy as well, or well, she created the illusion of happiness around him by making him forget all about Sherlock Holmes and most days that was enough. He was stable. A little bit broken on the inside, put together with messy stitches and band-aids. There were still nights when he thought about Sherlock and cried. But Mary held him. She never said anything, didn't tell him to stop crying. Just held him and it was good. Sometimes it just made it all so much worse because John knew that Sherlock would've done something exactly like that. Just held him in silence. He never pushed Mary away though, because he wanted to love her and yes, he did, in his own way. Mary made him forget and that just had to be enough. Of course, she was lovely and beautiful as well and John felt attracted to her, but the forgetting was the best part. Sometimes he didn't think about Sherlock for days and that was what made him buy a ring and take Mary to that way too expensive restaurant. Because he was sure that if they had a ring to bind them together, he would really truly start loving her and never think about Sherlock again. He was sure that if they were engaged, married, he would get that same thrilling feeling than he had when he'd looked into Sherlock's eyes before. It just had to work. And even if their engagement wouldn't do that, Mary would still keep him pleasantly numb and falsely happy and that just needed to be enough.

He stammered, stumbled over his words when he tried to get his proposal out. He was nervous, of course he was. He liked Mary and wanted her to say yes, of course he did. Otherwise he wouldn't have asked. If that annoying waiter wouldn't have interrupted, he could've finally finished, but no, he'd come over with that stupid French accent of his, to talk about wine, like John gave two shits. Then John had looked up, ready to blow up at him and his heart nearly stopped.

He couldn't mistake those eyes for anyone else. Sherlock Holmes was standing in front of him, smiling. He had to be dreaming. He felt faint and he wasn't sure if he was even breathing. Sherlock was saying something but John couldn't hear him. All he could think about was that after two years, Sherlock Holmes was alive and he was here. John didn't even register that he'd stood up and slammed his fist against the table and asked 'why?' his voice shaking. His whole body was shaking. Two years. And Sherlock was alive. Two years of crying. Two bloody years of contemplating suicide. And Sherlock fucking Holmes dared go stand there, grinning at him, making sarcastic comments at the woman who had saved him after he'd left him all alone.

The last straw was when Sherlock made a joke. John saw red and before he even noticed, he was grabbing Sherlock by the jacket, pushing him back as hard as he could. Sherlock stumbled and fell backwards and John felt extremely satisfied to hear his pained groan and see how he was trying to cover his face. It was scary how much he wanted to hurt Sherlock. He wanted to cause him the same amount of pain he had caused John by fucking faking it. And if he couldn't do it emotionally, he would do it physically. He raised his hand to punch Sherlock, just as he was pulled off of him. He snapped out of it only when they were thrown out of the restaurant. He looked at Mary, who looked back at him and then they both looked at Sherlock.

They found themselves in a much worse, smaller restaurant, more like a diner really. And John asked who else knew, truly not caring how Sherlock had done it. And Sherlock answered truthfully. And it hurt so much John thought he was going to faint from the pain. It was like Sherlock had sliced his heart in half and stepped on it with a pair of dirty boots and then just neatly placed it back in his chest. The fact that Sherlock trusted a few hobos and Molly Hooper, of all people more than John made his blood boil. And John attacked him again.

The next place they went to, after being kicked out of the previous one, was a smaller, shitty little coffee shop and now Sherlock was making jokes again. John couldn't believe it. He had never, in his entire life felt so conflicted. At the same time he wanted to hug Sherlock, tell him that he was forgiven, kiss him and just ask him to hold him, back at Baker Street, back at their flat. But at the same time he wanted to kill Sherlock. Really kill him and make sure that he didn't come back. Instead, he headbutt ed him and feeling his nose crack almost made him smile. He told himself that Sherlock deserved it.

After that he called a taxi for himself and Mary. And in the cab, Mary said that she liked Sherlock. John looked at her in disbelief and though she said nothing out loud, her eyes and soft smile spoke for her. They said: "I know how you feel about him and that's alright. I will not push you to make any choices now." And John was thankful.

He told Mary that he wouldn't see Sherlock again. Yet, he shaved off the mustache. Yet, he'd attacked a client and somewhere in his mind, he had really wished that it was Sherlock. That Sherlock would've come to see him. And Mary had been right, like she always was, because after work John had headed towards Baker Street. He really needed to see Sherlock and talk things through. But he never did make it to 221B. When he felt the drug going into his system and hands grabbing him it was too late to scream for help. And then everything went black.

When John woke up, he had no idea where he was. He felt disoriented and his limbs were too heavy to lift. He could see twigs and such around him and a heavy weight was on top of him. Was he somehow in the woods somewhere? Was there a tree on top of him? Then he heard people. Laughing, talking, ordinary people and then there was a flash of something through the twigs. Then he felt the warmth. Fire. There was fire. He was inside of a bonfire. He screamed. It hurt his lungs. He couldn't die like this, not without seeing Sherlock again. He had to see Sherlock again. Somebody had to hear him, save him. Somebody. Anybody. Sherlock. Please, Sherlock, he had to save him. John was sure that he was hallucinating when he heard a voice calling out to him and felt hands grabbing him and pulling. Fresh air. A gentle slap on his cheek. Somebody was hovering on top of him, calling him by his name. John blinked. Sherlock. Sherlock was there, looking down at him with those bright, beautiful eyes and John fainted.

John woke up in the hospital. Sherlock was asleep in a chair next to his bed, his hand resting next to John's on the bed, like he wanted to hold it but wasn't sure if he was allowed to. John smiled to himself. He was still angry, obviously, but Sherlock was back, he was alive and he was with John now. He had stayed.

"Sherlock," John said quietly, his throat was sore, and brushed his fingers over Sherlock's. Sherlock snapped awake and almost fell back on his chair. He blinked quickly, looking around for a while, his eyes wide and weirdly scared and then his eyes landed on John and he relaxed visibly. Then he tensed again and grabbed John's hand with both of his, holding it tightly as he said John's name softly. This wasn't his normal behavior, it was strange. He seemed jumpy, scared that John would disappear or punch him. But the look on his face, the way he was holding John's hand so tightly, his soft voice made John's heart melt.

"John, I'm sorry. Believe that I'm sorry. I wanted to tell you but I couldn't," Sherlock told him, and was his voice actually shaking? His grip on John's hand was nearly painful: "The plan was so carefully planned, yet easy to fail and I couldn't take the risk. If I hadn't jumped... They would've shot my friends. They would've shot you, John. I couldn't let that happen. You can hate me if you want, but I will not regret what I've done. I protected my friends and I protected you. Telling you would've but you at a risk. "

"You told Molly Hooper," John said, silently and Sherlock chuckled slightly: "There wasn't a gun aimed at her head. Moriarty didn't count her as someone who mattered to me."

"Does she? Matter, I mean?" John asked, before he was able to stop himself. Sherlock looked at him for a moment, before replying: "She's my friend." John nodded in reply. He tried to understand that this had been necessary.

"Why didn't you contact me? At all?" He asked and Sherlock looked down: "I was...afraid it could be traced back to me from your phone and they would just shoot everyone when they found out I was alive. And often I didn't even have a phone for... Various reasons." Sherlock bit his lip. He wouldn't mention the torture to anyone who didn't already know. So nobody but Mycroft and a few of his men. John didn't need to know. John nodded again and very gently squeezed Sherlock's hand back as a silent "I'm glad you're back" as he couldn't say that out loud. Not yet at least. Sherlock smiled and it was one of those, small, shy and genuine smiles of his, instead of that self-righteous grin he had plastered on his face most of the time. John couldn't help but smile back slightly.

"You shaved it off then," Sherlock said and John looked down: "Yeah. Nobody liked it so..." Sherlock laughed softly, brushing his fingers against John's knuckles. It was inmate. Way too much so, but John didn't pull his hand away, instead pushing it towards Sherlock's calming touch. Then the door clicked open and Sherlock pulled his hands away, both of them looking up at Mary who'd stepped into the room. Sherlock smiled at her, or at least tried and stood up, saying: "I'll leave now. You two must want a moment of privacy." He walked up to the door, past Mary and turned around once more, hesitating for a moment, like he wasn't sure if what he was about to say was appropriate, but said it then: "John. Meet me at Baker Street when you're ready."

"Yes," John replied, nodding at him. Mary said her goodbyes to Sherlock and sat down next to John. She told him that he would get out today and asked if he was going to see Sherlock. John replied truthfully: "I don't know."

----------------------------------------------------

Greg Lestrade was walking down the street, back to his car, tired from today's work. He had gone back to work after a few months of basically just staying at home. Work was a surprisingly good distraction from his thoughts and whenever he caught a criminal, he felt like he was somehow proving himself to Sherlock. That he was a good person. Though, just a few months ago he'd been close to a panic attack when a patrol had been sent out to stop a teenage girl from jumping off a bridge. He had been shaking and terrified for her and when he got word that they had got her down safely and she was alright, though shaken up, he had nearly fainted from relief. But he coped and that was enough.

He heard a crack behind him, in the seemingly empty parking hall and turned around. He saw nobody. He was just being paranoid. He scoffed at himself and took a cigarette and a lighter out of his pocket, placing the cigarette in his mouth. A bad habit he hadn't been able to get rid of just yet. He lit the lighter and brought it up to the end of the cigarette, when an all too familiar voice said: "Those things will kill you."

Lestrade's lighter fell from his hand and the cigarette fell to the ground as well, when he turned to face the person who had just spoken. And it was Sherlock. Lestrade wasn't sure if he was dreaming. His breath hitched and he nearly jumped to hug Sherlock and he didn't disappear. He was really alive and here. Lestrade squeezed him tightly and he wasn't sure if Sherlock could breathe. After a moment, he pulled away and looked at Sherlock. He looked just like Lestrade remembered him, perhaps a bit thinner, but it was still unmistakably him.

"You have so much to explain," He said, laughing and wiping tears from his eyes. Sherlock smiled slightly, one of his rare real smiles and promised that he would explain everything in detail right now if Lestrade wanted. And of course he did. Every small bit of tiredness he had felt was completely gone. He and Sherlock started walking towards the car together and when they got to it, Lestrade opened the door. Sherlock did the same, but instead of getting in immediately, he said: "Oh, I nearly forgot. Lestrade?"

"Yes?" Lestrade asked him, confused. Sherlock flashed him a bright grin, one Lestrade had never seen as it was not sarcastic or mean at all and said: "I promise."

Then he got in the car. Lestrade took a moment to think what Sherlock had just said and then he realized. Finally after all of these years Sherlock had made him a promise to never do that again. The waiting had been so, so worth it. He snapped out of his thoughts when Sherlock spoke again: "Well? What the hell is taking so long?"

Yeah. It was good to have his friend back.