John nods dumbly and moves to sit beside his friend. His knees don't lift high enough and his shoulders aren't the right height either, but he feels a little bit like the world's stabilizing itself just by being like this. They've spent a great many moments together with their backs against the wall. Despair and anguish have never been part of their repertoire (save, perhaps, for Sherlock's outburst by the fireplace the night he'd really cut John badly). It's about time that they share this new intimacy.

And it's about time that John get his head out of his arse and let Sherlock in. He'd done it before and if he thinks hard enough about it, he'll realize that Sherlock's never left.

He might never had completely mastered his techniques, but it's Sherlock that's pulled him through all of this. And John needs to be ready to return the favour.

"I missed you," John says, gazing straight ahead as he feels Sherlock's sorrow gently shake the mattress. "Nothing's been right since you've gone. But--" He wets his lips, an old nervous habit he's not done the entire time Sherlock's been at St. Bart's, "you're back now. And I do trust you. I ought to have never stopped. You managed to give me my miracle after all and I-- I'm not going to push you away again if you promise you won't take up any more jumping activities."