And his heart is John
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John closed his eyes. Sherlock’s breaths were like the tide beside him, deep and even. He started to count them. There was a music to them, all its own.
“I was afraid”, Sherlock murmured in the darkness.
Fear. Coiled and dormant. Waiting. In the image of a swimming red dot.
In the thrum of his heart.
He sought Sherlock’s hand, until their palms lay tangled above the sheets in the empty space between them.
When he woke up in the morning, 221B was empty.