A/N: Despite the fact that I've been obsessed with this show for the better part of a year, I never had any motivation to write fic for it. Then I woke up this morning after watching Reichenbach and this scene was in my head waiting to be written down.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, and Moffat and Gatiss own my poor, broken heart.

When he had gotten past the anger, the feeling of betrayal, and the fact that he still really wanted to punch Sherlock in the face sometimes, the central emotion John felt was protectiveness. He wasn't ridiculous about it; after all, no one could truly protect Sherlock, especially not after what had happened, but he did his best to keep him out of harm's way; to keep him home.

It was late evening, two weeks after Sherlock had returned—returned from the dead, returned to Baker Street, returned to John—and John had just made tea. Sherlock was standing, looking idly around the room, until his gaze came to rest on John, sitting at the table. Sherlock took a breath and opened his mouth, but John stood up abruptly and so Sherlock didn't speak.

He stood still as John rounded the table, stopping in front of Sherlock and staring into his eyes. If anyone could see into Sherlock's mind, it was John, and he knew this and accepted it, returning the gaze.

A few seconds went by, then John reached forward and grasped Sherlock's shirt below the collar with both hands.

"John?" Sherlock said, and in reply, John lightly placed his thumbs in the hollow of Sherlock's throat.

This was rather unprecedented, and Sherlock felt he should say something, or perhaps do something with his hands, but he needed to research this a bit more before coming to a conclusion, so he watched John's face and waited.

John's face was tight; he looked slightly panicked, and Sherlock couldn't imagine why. He was here, wasn't he? He wasn't leaving; John must know that.

And as though John had heard his thoughts, his face began to soften. He unclenched his jaw, light came into his eyes, and a small smile formed on his lips. Sherlock's own lips quirked up in reply, a half-smile of I'm sorry I had to do that to you but I am never leaving you again, and of course it wasn't enough, but John must understand.

John breathed out a long sigh before finally speaking. "You can't—don't—never again, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded, and then in a blur of motion, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and buried his face in his neck.

And Sherlock knew what to do with his hands.