The flat on 221b Baker Street was amicable. Tranquil, even, on that late, drizzly September evening. No breaking glass, no shouting, no guns firing at the walls or wrestling with clients with swords. Not even the violin playing it's soft, lucid tones. Just Mrs.. Hudson soundly and deeply asleep in her warm bed on the first floor.

Amicable, that is, until the two upstairs tenants had come home from a long night of crime scene investigating.

"WHAT did I do now, John?" Sherlock prompted crashingly at the bottom of the stairs, which John had already begun ascending rapidly. The door slammed behind them and Sherlock started up the stairs after his flatmate. "You wouldn't speak to me the whole cab ride home and you will hardly speak to me now. All I had said was-"

John reached the top of the stairs and turned so abruptly that Sherlock almost fell back down them.

"All you said, Sherlock? All you said? You make it sound so innocent, You make it sound like no one was hurt." John turned and walked into the flat and bitterly threw his coat on the back of his armchair.

Sherlock looked a little perplexed at this statement, to which he replied, "No one was hurt, John. Well, except for the victim."

"Feelings, Sherlock. Feelings. Emotions. You know, those things you keep forgetting normal people have? It is not, nor has it ever been, okay to tell the woman who's husband of 20 years had washed up on the shore not 2 hours earlier that he was sleeping with three other women, one of which was her sister who was there with her at the time, and then proceed to tell her that his infidelity may have been caused by the shock and depression of their only child together dying at such a young age, and then just say 'Goodnight' and turn on your heel and walk away. In what country is that okay? On what planet is that okay?!"

"I was just telling her-"

"No." John held up his hand and had to close his eyes for a moment before the rage decided it wanted to get physical. "Stop. Sherlock. Just...stop." John's voice was tired now and, upon hearing his own tone, he suddenly felt as exhausted as he sounded. He decided it was already late enough, and that he should turn in for the night anyway. As much as he disagreed with what Sherlock did, he did not have the strength to stay up and fight until dawn. The ex-army doctor turned away from the consulting detective, walked up to his bedroom, and let the door close with a tiny click.

Sherlock stood in the living room of the flat looking up the stairs. He hated it when he and John fought like this. Lately it was happening more and more often, and he couldn't seem to pinpoint why. Changing seasons? Stress with girlfriends? But John hadn't mentioned any girlfriends lately. Did Sherlock leave the stove on again recently? Severed body parts in the fridge?

Sherlock took his coat off and picked John's up as well to hang them both on the coat rack. Then he walked over to the fireplace, started a fire, and sat in his chair, thinking over the events of that evening. He knew emotions played a huge factor in people's everyday lives, and he realized that what he said was indeed inappropriate. Sometimes he forgets, since he shuts his own away so often, and most times his timing is bloody awful, but he was feeling extra bitter tonight and just didn't seem to care about how what he said to the woman could destroy her relationship with her sister, and put her into even further grief than she was already in due to her recently and gruesomely murdered husband.

Sherlock was listening to the close crackling of the fire, the rain patter against the windows, and was thinking that maybe he should play his violin a little. It would take his mind off things, and it would fit the mood of the rain and fire perfectly; so relaxing. But before he even stood to retrieve his case, he heard the door to John's room upstairs click open again. John came down the stairs and sat in his chair opposite Sherlock's.

The two men sat in their respective chairs for a while in silence; John staring into the fire and Sherlock staring at John. The silence became too great for the taller man to bear. He leaned forward in his chair and kept staring at his only friend.

"I'm sorry."

John finally looked up at Sherlock and when he did, Sherlock noticed something he never had before. It surprised and confused him. When John looked at Sherlock, his pupils dilated.

He ignored the detail for now, working on the apology still.

"What I said was indeed inappropriate and wrong of me, and I don't like it when we have these rows. So maybe we should both go to sleep for now and start over in the morning?" The last part came out as a question without him meaning it to, and he inwardly cringed at the tiny twinge of desperation in his tone.

John leaned forward in his chair now, locking eyes with his companion. Sherlock was thrown off a little by the sudden closeness, but didn't back off.

"You wrecked that lady's emotions, destroyed her relationship with her sister, and caused her more grief than was needed." John finally said.

"I know." Sherlock replied, shifting his gaze to the floor, feeling guilty now that John was laying it out in front of him.

"And you embarrassed and disappointed me. I thought you were working on this. We have talked about sensitivity before and how important it is, especially with a case. What happened tonight? I don't like it when you're like this. It makes everyone look down on you, and when people don't like you, it doesn't sit right with me. It upsets me."

Sherlock looked up at John again, feeling worse now that John had said the "d" word. Disappointed. But lots of people had been disappointed in him before. Why did John's disapproval hurt so much and so deep? And why did John care so much about what other people thought of Sherlock, anyway? But there was concern in his voice, so Sherlock knew all wasn't completely destroyed between them.

"Do you forgive me, John?"

"After you tell me what's been going on with you lately."

"I was just thinking of asking you the same thing."

"Sherlock-"

"I'll tell you if you tell me."

John smiled a little at this. "Fair enough."

Sherlock sat up in his chair a little straighter, put his hands on his knees, cleared his throat. It was a little embarrassing to say out loud, but a deal is a deal. He looked at the floor.

"These rows we've been having lately...I don't like them. They seem to be getting more and more frequent, and I can't figure out why. It frustrates me. You've been distant. You've been disappointed. And it...hurts." He choked the last word out then looked up at John expectantly.

"So because you're hurt you hurt others." John gave a bitter little smile. "That's surprisingly human of you, Sherlock."

Sherlock frowned. "It also upsets me when you think I'm such a machine, John. Things do get to me and bother me. You get to me. You can get through my head. And there is something bothering me right now. Just a little detail I've noticed this very evening."

"And what is that, Sherlock?"

Sherlock leaned forward again in his chair, the distance between the two men's faces getting shorter, and looked straight into the eyes of his companion.

"You're pupils dilate when you look straight at me."

John leaned back, an almost alarmed look on his face. "What are you implying?"

"That's what I want you to tell me. It's your turn. What's on your mind, John?"

John only let his mouth hang open. He had no idea how to respond to the curveball the consulting detective just threw at him, and he was in no way going to let Sherlock drag something out of him that wasn't even true. Because it wasn't.

Was it?

It's true that he has been...thinking a lot lately. He enjoys Sherlock's company above anyone else's, and doesn't particularly like it when thinking of him alone in the lab with Molly or with Lestrade, and completely loathed that...that...woman. But would he call that jealousy? He cares a lot what other people think of Sherlock, especially earlier. But would he call that being...protective? A little. In that way though? He didn't know. But he wasn't- John wasn't...

"I'm not gay, Sherlock."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, surprised and not surprised at the same time to the quick denial. "I never implied that you were. I just pieced together that you have been having a tough inner battle recently, and then I saw your eyes do that just moments ago. I've told you what has been bothering me, and you promised to do the same. A deal is a deal."

John mentally weighed the pros and cons of telling the truth. He's not gay, that part is true. But something about the one man in front of him fascinates him. It has since the first day they met. But with the lack of recent girlfriends, the frequent battles inside and out, and finally, his damn eyes giving him away, he had come to the realization that the consulting detective had already figured it out. He just wanted John to say it.

"Sherlock, you-"

The taller man stared at his friend intently.

John took a deep breath. "You...you fascinate me."

Sherlock didn't reply, urging John to go on.

John shortened the distance again. "You fascinate me and I don't think anyone could fascinate me the way you do for as long as I am breathing. And that is the truth. I am completely and unequivocally enthralled with you."

Sherlock's expression softened almost into sadness. John drew in a breath wondering if this was going to turn out badly after all.

"I've never had anyone feel that way towards me before." Sherlock whispered.

Releasing the breath he had been holding, John replied softly, "Well...now you know."

"I don't think anyone has ever loved me before."

John's insecurity kicked in again. "I didn't say-"

"You didn't have to. It's written in your face and body language."

John didn't try to deny that. Sherlock was right, he didn't need to say it. Sherlock already knew.

"I must admit, John, that I have felt the same pulling enchantment with you. It makes me very happy that you told me."

The ex-army doctor smiled at this, his heart picking up speed and feeling light in his chest. There was almost no space between their faces now.

"How are you feeling now?" Sherlock whispered.

John whispered his reply. "I've never been more terrified in my life than I am right now."

"Not even when you were in Afghanistan?"

"Not even close."

Sherlock smiled. "Good. I feel the same."

The two men closed that last bit of space between them with a gentle and careful kiss, both hearts racing, while the rain still drizzled outside and the fire still crackling softly.

After a very long few seconds, the two parted feeling contented and warm and blushing like mad. It was a small, soft gesture of love, but it was exactly what they both needed, and it was enough for now. Sherlock reached over to John's hands and held them for a minute, rubbing his thumbs across the tough knuckles and studying them.

"So I'll see you in the morning, then?" John said quietly, smiling and still blushing like crazy, unable to look directly at Sherlock.

"Do you forgive me, John?"

John looked up. "Of course I do, Sherlock."

"So we'll start over in the morning?"

John smiled a loving smile. "Only if we can start like this."

The two sat gazing at each other for a few seconds before John got up, Sherlock releasing his companion's hands unwillingly.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, John."

John went upstairs to his room and Sherlock still sat by the fire for another hour, but both of them were so happy that they could barely sleep.