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“Did I ever tell you?” John asked. He laughed, looked down at
his hands. “About what it was like after your—well. After your miraculous
return from the dead?”

 John did not know why he had started talking. It was something about
Sherlock’s face, he thought. There had been something sad and fleeting in his
expression. It had been gone so quickly he could not be sure if it had only
been a trick of the light.

 Sherlock glanced at him, his brow furrowed. “My miraculous and
poorly timed return, you mean.”

 John shrugged. “I wouldn’t say poorly timed. Poorly executed,
perhaps.”

 Sherlock’s lip twitched. He made an amused sound. His face was sharp
and deeply shadowed under the streetlamps.

 "I barely slept that night, you know.“

 "Mm,” Sherlock said. He looked away, his lips pursed
thoughtfully. “Neither did I.”

 "I was angry.“

 "I know.”

 "I was also absurdly happy.“

 Sherlock blinked. Shook his head. Blinked again. He looked at John for
a moment, then away.

 Something lurched sickly in John’s stomach at the expression on his
face.

 "I was under the impression that you didn’t wish to continue our
association,” Sherlock said. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully.
He pressed his hands together, rested them against his mouth. He did not look
back at John.  

 "Yes, well, you caught the angry part. Not the happy part.“

 "Ah.”

 "I wanted you not to be dead.“

 "So you’ve said,” Sherlock agreed mildly. He went on staring off
into the distance.

 "So that next day. The whole day. I was—" John laughed, a
little self-consciously, scratched at the back of his neck. “I was waiting
for you to show up.”

 Sherlock was silent.

 "The way you always used to do when something came up.
Just—barging in, making a scene. Dragging me off somewhere.“

 "You—” Sherlock’s voice was uncertain. “You’d made it
quite clear that—”

 "I know what I said,“ John said. “But I also—well. I
guess I wasn’t expecting you to actually listen.”

 "You wanted me to show up,“ Sherlock said. Flat,
disbelieving.

 "I expected you to.”

 "But—”

 "Sherlock,“ John said.

 Sherlock stopped speaking. Turned to look at John, his face expectant.
Patient.

 John shifted where he stood, looked down at his hands. “I am,
apparently, utter shit at letting you know what you—how important you—”

 He stopped, pressed his knuckles against his mouth. Even now, he
couldn’t seem to say it. Even now, he couldn’t do it properly.

 I thought I was in love with you, once, he
thought, squeezing his eyes shut. Maybe I was. Maybe I still am. And
I would have followed you anywhere.

 "You’re always right,“ he said, instead.

 Sherlock looked over at him, surprised.

 John shook his head, held up a hand. “Just hear me out. You’re not
right about everything, Christ, sometimes you’re the biggest idiot I know. But
when it comes to me, Sherlock, when it’s me—you are. Always. Always right.”

 "What are you—”

 "You reach out,“ he said. “To me. Over and over and over again. You never let me alone. Even when I beg you
to.”

 "You hate it when I do that.“

 "No,” John said, and his voice emerged thick, choked. “I
really, really don’t.”

 Sherlock’s face had shifted back into that careful blankness, that
devastatingly still expression that John had come to learn meant he was terrified.

 I know that this is—this is a shit thing to lay at your feet, Sherlock.
It’s stupid. If I want—” he paused. Pushed on. “If I want something
from you, I should just say it. But I can’t. Do you understand? I
can’t. And left to my own devices, I keep on making the
wrong choices. Over and over again.”

 "I can’t tell you what to do,“ Sherlock said slowly. He had
drawn back into himself. He looked tense, coiled, ready to flee.

 "That’s not what I—” John shook his head. “I don’t want
you to tell me what to do. I just want—just—don’t fade away, Sherlock. Don’t
politely excuse yourself from my life. Because I’m afraid that I’ll let
you.”

 Sherlock stared.

 "I don’t want that,“ John said, and his voice had gone so quiet
he could barely hear himself. “I’ve tried that, and it’s not—it’s not
good. For me.”

 Sherlock nodded, and then stilled. He pressed his lips down into a hard
line. Tucked his chin. He seemed at war with himself.

 After a moment, he lifted his head, looked steadily at John. “Stop
telling me to leave.”

 John’s breath caught. Their eyes held.

 "John, I realize that my—vows are worthless to you,“ Sherlock
said. "But please believe me when I tell
you that I will always want—I will always want you by my side.”

 John rubbed at the bridge of his nose. His face had gone hot again, the
blood roaring in his ears.

 "But I can’t—I don’t know what to do. You’re the one who helps
with—” Sherlock stopped, frustrated. He waved an impatient hand in the
air. “You’re the one who does all of this. Feelings. Whatever. And there
are times when it’s quite obvious that you’re saying something you don’t mean,
like when you suggest salads for lunch but you really want Chinese, you only think you want a salad because you’ve stopped cycling to
work and you’re worried—correctly—about putting on weight, but—”

 "Sherlock,“ John said, helpless. He did not know whether to start
laughing or shouting. His throat felt tight.

 "—But,” Sherlock pressed on. “There are other
times—times when you say things like stay the hell away from
me, or I’d rather have anyone but you, and I
can’t tell—John, I have no idea how to tell if you actually mean that. If it
would be better for you, if I stayed away.”

 "No,“ John said. “It wouldn’t.”

 "I can’t know that. I can’t know that, John,
don’t you understand how—” Sherlock turned away, his shoulders rising and
falling with his rapid breaths.

 John looked at him and thought, oddly, of Sherlock’s face when he’d
asked him to be his best man. That blank, shocked expression. The endless
blinking. The confusion. He’d been stopped cold by the words best
friend.

 And no wonder, really. He’d been surprised, even now, to discover that
John had been happy about his return from the dead. All of
this time, had he truly been living with the perception that John had forgiven
him not for the deception, not for the dying, but for surviving? As if turning
up alive had been anything less than a miracle. As if turning up alive was
something he’d need to atone for.

 "Christ,“ John said. He moved closer, bumped up against
Sherlock’s shoulder. The night air was chilly against his face. He hesitated
for a moment, and then reached out his hand, twined his fingers through
Sherlock’s.

 Sherlock froze, rigid as a statue, unyielding. And then, slowly,
cautiously, he thawed. His fingers slackened, then tightened. A firm squeeze.  

 "Just—don’t leave,” John said, staring straight ahead. He
could not bring himself to turn, could not bring himself to look Sherlock in
the eye.

 "Don’t ask me to.“

 "I won’t,” John lied, and closed his eyes.

Bloody hell!