Thick billows of smoke emanated from the flames, surrounding the two coughing men. They remained low to the ground in an attempt to prolong what little time they had left. They searched frantically for Sherlock's mobile, it having fallen out of his pocket in all the chaos. The phone was their last hope – the only exit in the room had already been consumed by the growing fire.
"Sher- Sherlock! Any-," John cut himself off with a loud cough. "Any luck?" He couldn't see the other man due to the immense amount of dark gray smoke that had filled the room.
"No," Sherlock responded. He sounded closer than John had thought he was. "And where's yours at a time like this!"
"Oh, don't start!" John gasped, eyes watering. The flames still just licked the walls, but it wouldn't be long before the smoke stopped them breathing. John could feel it in his lungs, and it burned. If Sherlock had never taken this bloody case, they wouldn't be trapped in a burning warehouse in Berlin.
They continued their search for the phone, but both knew that their time was quickly running out. John stopped what he was doing and turned to where he had heard Sherlock's voice only a moment before.
"Sherlock…" He rasped, reaching out his arms to find his best friend.
"John. John! I'm here. I'm- I'm here. Right here," Sherlock spewed out words to help John blindly find his way to him, coughing even more than before.
John felt his fingertips brush against soft fabric and knew it to be Sherlock's shirt. He grabbed onto his arm and crawled over to him. They would not be separated again. The mobile would have melted by now, eliminating their only chance of survival. He looked up at Sherlock, whose face he could just make out through his smoke-burdened vision. He could see tears in the man's eyes. Tears of sadness or of agony, John did not know.
"I-," Sherlock tried to speak but was interrupted by his own gasping.
John realized that these would be their last moments together. That thought made his heart ache, though he didn't exactly know why. Sometimes it was difficult for him to comprehend the level of complexity there was to his and Sherlock's relationship. Holmes and Watson. Coworkers. Flatmates. Friends. But it was more than that, it always had been. Here they were, about to choke to death.
John put his arms around Sherlock, clinging to him in their last moments. He was surprised to find Sherlock rocking him in his arms, but he knew it was right. It was like everything had always been leading up to this. Nothing else mattered now, nothing but this one moment. He had so much to say, but he wasn't sure words would suffice.
"Sherlock," John sputtered out almost inaudibly, craning his neck to look up at the taller man. Sherlock struggled to respond but couldn't – it seemed the smoke had impaired his voice. Quite right. There was no need for words. John clumsily readjusted himself so that he was facing Sherlock. The man's green eyes pierced John's very core, leaving him disoriented. Or was that the smoke? He could feel consciousness leaving him. This must be what it felt like to die. He couldn't remember who he was or where he was. Sherlock leaned forward to rest his head on John's. Oh, right. Of course. Sherlock. He was with Sherlock. John tilted his head up and slowly pressed their lips together.
This was it. This was what John had been waiting for. He hadn't known that one kiss could make everything alright.
He felt the pressure of Sherlock applying a bit more force to his lips and holding him tighter. John was disappointed when he had to pull himself away. He tried to catch his breath, but found himself striving for oxygen amidst the smoke.
There was a crash and John turned, expecting to see the building collapsing. He thought he saw Lestrade in a fireman's suit, but that couldn't be right.
"I've got them!" He heard a voice shout. He didn't know what was happening, though he had the vague sense of being carried. He wanted to scream and ask what the hell was going on, but he blacked out before he could find the words.
•
When John entered the flat on Baker St, he didn't bother to ask why there was an amputated arm in a vase on the table. Sherlock had a habit of leaving severed extremities lying around.
"New vase?" he casually asked the consulting detective sitting across the room on the couch. Sherlock didn't look up from the computer screen. "Oi! Have you got my laptop again?"
"Mine is on the table," Sherlock responded curtly, still focused on whatever it was he was doing.
"You really are lazy. I don't know how you get anything done," John said, removing his jacket and placing it on the back of a kitchen chair.
It had been two months since the Berlin incident, and neither of the men had spoken of it. John thought it best not to, and Sherlock had probably pushed aside all thoughts of it. Surely it had been a mistake; it wouldn't have happened had they not been choking to death. That was right, wasn't it? Sherlock continued tapping away on the keys, oblivious to John's God Sherlock couldn't read minds. He was brilliant, but not that brilliant.
"Well? Aren't you curious as to why I came home early?" John asked.
"Not particularly, but you're about to tell me anyway," Sherlock said with more than a hint of impatience.
"You know Cindy and I went to see a film? That new cowboy one? Well, it had a sad ending, and Cindy was really worked up about it, said she needed to get home straight-away to be with her cat," John put an emphasis on the last word.
"Leave it to you to pick the nutter, John," Sherlock replied, smiling at John's expense.
"She seemed perfectly sane at the coffee shop!" John defended himself. At least he actually tried to find a girl. Build a relationship. What had Sherlock ever done in that area? "Anyway, I'll not be going out with her again."
"Like the next one will be any better!" Sherlock scoffed.
"Next one? How do you mean?" John shot the man a quizzical look from where he was standing in the kitchen.
"I'm sure she'll be around within the next few days," Sherlock mused while typing something on the laptop. "They always are." He risked a glance in John's direction, to see if what he'd said had gotten to him yet.
"What's wrong with me taking a girl out every once in a while?" John demanded.
"Once in a while?" Sherlock laughed, finding the whole thing extremely humorous. "John, you have a new girlfriend nearly every day!"
"I don't see how that's any of your concern!" John was fuming at this point. Sherlock didn't understand. He'd never had a girlfriend, or anything of the like. "Just leave me be, alright?"
"Fine, fine," Sherlock replied, a hint of defeat in his voice. That wasn't Sherlock at all. He never gave up- he always made sure he won. It occurred to John that Sherlock may not have been arguing just to be an arse. Quietly, cautiously, John said, "Is this about Berlin?" Immediately, John saw a flicker of emotion in Sherlock's eyes, but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared. So that's it. "We can talk about it."
"Talk about what?" Sherlock asked, sounding indifferent. John knew better.
"You know perfectly well what," he calmly replied. He didn't want to upset Sherlock, not now. He edged a bit closer to the couch, as though approaching a frightened animal. What a thought. The great Sherlock Holmes, and here he was, like a deer caught in headlights. It wasn't that his expression had changed, but John could read something in his face that hadn't been there before.
"There's nothing to talk about," he stated simply.
"The hell there isn't!" John said, wishing, for once, that Sherlock would act like a normal human being.
Sherlock sighed rather loudly. "How much longer is this interrogation going to last, John? I'm in the midst of analyzing the Jethro Case, and I believe I've finally determined what the umbrella was for."
"You can't just keep running away, Sherlock," John said. "I know, I've tried," he added hesitantly. Sherlock finally made eye contact.
"Is there a point to your incessant rambling?" Sherlock asked.
"Well, erm, there might be. I don't know," John stuttered, feeling his face growing hot.
"Clearly…" the taller man replied rather rudely.
Sometimes John wondered why he bothered with Sherlock. Then he remembered. "You know, you push everyone away. I don't know why that is, and I'm not asking you to tell me. What I am asking you to do is open up a bit more. For me? Sherlock, I'm your best friend. I care about you," John said. In fact, he cared more than he ought to. Sherlock's eyes bore into John's for a moment and then he suddenly stood up. This surprised John, because he hadn't thought his words had made any impact at all. John took a step closer, but Sherlock remained still.
"You don't honestly believe that I don't care about you, do you?" Sherlock asked, a new tone in his voice that John couldn't translate.
John thought about that. "Well, I suppose you do, yeah." Sherlock gave John a curious look, like he couldn't believe what he was hearing. That was odd considering how obvious it was to everyone that, for the most part, Sherlock only cared about his work.
"Am I really that good?" Sherlock asked, throwing John off guard as he inched closer.
"What's that?" John responded.
"I've been told how great of a detective I am, but never how great of an actor. This is new," Sherlock answered, if that even qualified as an answer.
"I, er, I'm not sure I understand," John said, completely lost at this point. "An actor? What's that got to do with anything?"
"Oh, John," Sherlock replied, smiling and walking towards his confused companion. "I honestly don't understand how you've gotten this far in life."
"Now you're insulting my intelligence? Well at least you're yourself again," John said, disgruntled. He stood staring at Sherlock expectantly, waiting for the man to say something. Their faces were only inches apart. In one swift motion, Sherlock reached out to put his hands on John's face and then kissed him full on the mouth. John's eyes widened for a moment and he didn't know how to react. Then, his shock subsided and he put his hands on Sherlock's waist. Closing his eyes, he leaned into the kiss. His mind emptied of all thoughts except for one. Sherlock.
They finally pulled away, their breathing slow and heavy. They stayed there with locked eyes for a moment.
"Right then," said John, because he didn't know what else to say. Had that really just happened? It had. Sherlock kissed him. Just now. And God, could he kiss. He thought about what this meant for the two of them. Were they… a couple? John didn't know what to do next, so he looked to Sherlock. The man simply smiled back at him, with his hands in his pockets. As if on cue, Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door and then let herself in, a tray of biscuits in her hands.
"I've brought snacks, boys!" She said brightly.
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," replied Sherlock, taking one off the tray. The woman looked surprised by Sherlock's manners, and shot John a questioning look. He shrugged in response, as if to say, 'who ever knows with that one?' Mrs. Hudson nodded in agreement, and then returned to her biscuits.