It was the months after Sherlock came back that were the hardest. The three years of mourning were nothing in comparison to the three months of tension. Sherlock had explained himself, John had explained himself, and they'd gone back to their lives. But it wasn't that easy for them, was it? This was the final problem. During their absences from each other, they had both come to realize their growing feelings for each other. Sherlock was sure he could repress them until he began to stare longingly enough at John for Lestrade to notice. It was a problem. John was sure he could ignore his feelings by shagging nameless girls until he'd screamed Sherlock's name in bed. It was a problem.
Both men walked around each other on tiptoes, taking into careful consideration their own words before speaking; refusing to egg the other on or accidentally say anything too forward. The were at an impasse merely because of miscommunication. John was afraid Sherlock thought him too ordinary, too mundane and would lose interest, if he were even interested in the first place. It was a big problem. Sherlock was afraid that if he got to be too attached to John, John would get tired of Sherlock's childish behaviours and leave. It was a big problem.
John began to go out every other night with Mike or Lestrade or even Sarah, just for drinks at a pub. They all knew it was to avoid Sherlock's knowing looks. They all knew both men liked each other. It was a question of who would admit their feelings first; the broken army doctor, or the cold detective. It was a big, huge, giant problem. Sherlock began to take any case the Yard threw his way, taking his time to analyze facts he'd understood the very second he laid eyes on them and carefully following procedures. Cases that took ten seconds suddenly took a whole day. The entire Yard was backed up in case files so high it was declared a fire hazard. It was a big, huge, giant problem.
It was by the end of the third month that John couldn't handle it anymore. He was tired of feeling like an alien in his own home. He carefully planned out the speech he wanted to give Sherlock to explain that he wanted to move out. It was a horrific problem. Sherlock sat, statuesque in the living room as he waited for the inevitable. He knew John had finally had too much of Sherlock's inexperience in relationships and friendships. John was going to leave him. The words clattered around his inconveniently silent brain like loosed bulls. It was a horrific problem.
Sherlock could barely breathe as he heard John's careful, measured steps coming from his bedroom down to the living room. This was it. He held his breath, trying desperately to look stoic and unaffected by the upcoming confrontation. He cracked a light blue eye open to look at John and actually felt his entire physical process except his heart come to a screeching halt. John looked miserable. John didn't want to go. He opened his eyes wide in a dawning understanding as he read all the signs written plainly across John's weathered, comforting face. The words didn't need voicing, they were all there. It wasn't a problem. John listened to the silence as he tiptoed down the stairs for the millionth time, it seemed, and into the living room, facing a stilled Sherlock. He watched as Sherlock's eye opened just a sliver to look at him, and then watched as a sort of horrified knowledge caused Sherlock's eyes to open wide and read his face. He stayed perfectly still, falling into a military stance as Sherlock read his intentions on his face. Maybe he wouldn't have to say anything at all. Then, he saw something flicker behind Sherlock's eyes, touching the corners of his mouth and his cheeks. Sherlock hadn't realized he didn't WANT to go until now. Now, Sherlock had finally realized that John was leaving because he had to. Because their relationship would suffer if he didn't. Then, Sherlock's high, pointed cheekbones took on a gentle flush of pink colour as he read into John's real reason for leaving. John blushed too, half out of sympathy for Sherlock's embarrassment, half because now he was sure Sherlock knew how much he wanted to be with the lanky idiotic genius before him... In every sense of the word. Then, Sherlock smiled. John let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. It wasn't a problem.
John sat next to Sherlock carefully, looking over at him with a neutral expression on his face. Not a word had been spoken, but they'd just overcome a milestone. Sherlock gave him a slight nudge with his elbow and he focused on the angular face again. He slowly read the expressions there, the hidden shadows behind bright eyes. Sherlock didn't want him to go. Sherlock didn't want him to leave. Sherlock … was okay with John wanting him. John nodded once, a quick jerk of his head and turned back to face the wallpaper. Now what? If it wasn't a problem, what was it? Sherlock watched as John carefully read the emotions he showed, baring everything. He showed how desperately he wanted John to stay, and why he wanted John to stay, that it was okay for John to want Sherlock because Sherlock wanted him too. But when John turned away, almost dejectedly, Sherlock realized he'd have to articulate his feelings. If it wasn't a problem, what was it?
Sherlock sat, mulling over his speech in his Mind Palace as he wondered how to broach the topic of his need for the doctor beside him. It almost didn't register to Sherlock as he spoke, his true base instinct for emotion kicking in.
"Me too."
Came the hoarse whisper into the broken silence, causing John to turn sharply and look at Sherlock in what appeared to be complete surprise. Sherlock nodded slowly, gentle movement of his neck to ensure that yes, he did mean it. It was the answer. John blinked once, twice, three times, as he slowly ingested what Sherlock was saying. He wanted John too. John suddenly had the twin urges to laugh maniacally at their shared stupidity, and kick himself for the unneeded tension for the past months. He reached out a steady, careful hand, running worn knuckles over a pale cheekbone, breathing in quickly in shock as Sherlock pressed back against his touch. He pressed his entire warm, calloused palm against Sherlock's right cheek, cupping his face as Sherlock voluntarily pushed against the touches, turning to face John with a look of pure innocence painted across his features. John leaned in steadily, not allowing his movements to scare Sherlock as he planted a kiss – the first kiss Sherlock had ever received – on Sherlock's pouty lips. A chaste brush of soft, supple lips that made everything burn slightly. It was the answer.