Just a little fic based on the prompt "sky."

Disclaimer: Not mine. Obviously.

The day it happened, the sky was surprisingly clear, and a soft blue. Sherlock found himself gazing up at it from the window of 221B Baker Street. It had been a while since he'd had a case – at least a month – and boredom was clogging his senses, slowing his mind. He groaned in frustration. Where were all the criminals of London? Surely somewhere, something exciting had to be going on.

He heard footsteps on the stairs – John's from the gait and weight of the footfalls – and then the opening of the door and the rustle of grocery bags. He felt John's stare on his back, and then a heard a sigh, as he trudged into the kitchen.

"Nothing yet?" John called warily.

Sherlock heard the unmistakable sounds of groceries being put away. The fridge opened and a groan echoed into the living room. A smile twitched on Sherlock's mouth. Oh, yes. He'd forgotten to clear that out. . . .

"For God's sake, Sherlock. Tongues?"

"Don't touch them," he warned. "They're covered with a highly acidic compound."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

Sherlock sighed, still staring out the window. John finished up in the kitchen and plopped down in his favorite armchair. After a moment, he asked, "There's nothing on the website?"

Sherlock bristled. His entire body visibly tensed up, and he stormed over to the couch, sinking down into it, his limbs jittery. "Nothing, John. Not a single murder, break in, or even a question." He brought his hands up to his mouth, palms together. "I'm desperate. I can feel my mind wilting like those flowers you bought your last girlfriend to try to appease her." He jerked his head to the desk, where a vase sat full of wilted roses. "At this point I'll take anything. Literally anything. A mugging, a stolen car, a lost dog. Anything would be better than this."

John sat back. His eyes flitted over Sherlock's arms, obviously searching for any signs of track marks or injection sites. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, honestly, John. As if anyone would sell to me after that warning Mycroft sent out."

Sherlock's eyes drifted back over to the window. Suddenly, he jumped to his feet. "Let's go out."

John's brow furrowed. "I just got in," he said, pointing unnecessarily over his shoulder at the door.

"A walk, John," Sherlock insisted. "Fresh air. Supposedly it does wonders for the mind."

John gaped at him. "You . . . want to go for a walk?" He shook his head disbelievingly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Did I not say that clearly enough? Yes, a walk. Come on." And with that, he strode out of the flat, grabbing his coat off the arm of the couch.

The walk turned out to be more of a jog for John, as Sherlock strode along quickly ahead and John struggled to keep up with his flatmate's longer stride. Finally, fed up, John cried, "Sherlock!"

He stopped abruptly, John nearly jogging straight into his back. "Something the matter, John?"

"Could you maybe walk a little slower?" John's breathing was slightly ragged, his slightly overgrown hair looking wind-blown. "So that average-sized people can actually keep up with you? Especially when you insist on them coming along."

Sherlock pursed his lips glumly. "Fine. If you insist on making a big deal about it."

John couldn't help the grin that slid onto his face at the pout on his flatmate's. "This walk of yours is pointless. It's not going to accomplish anything."

"I didn't realize walks were meant to accomplish things."

"You want a distraction, right? Something to take your mind off the lack of cases?" John asked, and Sherlock tilted his head in an affirmative. "Then come on," he said, slipping into a surprisingly wide alleyway.

Sherlock followed John through it, and a few more, until they found themselves across from a small park. John led the way into it, Sherlock close on his heels. They walked down a narrow dirt path for a bit until they happened upon a bench overlooking a small pond. John settled onto it with a content sigh, looking up at Sherlock expectantly.

Sherlock sat on the other end, not quite sure what to do with himself. "Is this where you go when you 'need air'?" he asked finally. He'd meant for the last few words to come out rather mockingly, but in his actual curiosity they simply sounded quizzical.

John gave him a wry smile. "Sometimes. If I need some peace and quiet to restore my sanity. The trees block out a lot of the city sounds. And not a lot of people seem to come here."

Sherlock nodded faintly. He took in a sharp breath of the crisp air, feeling it filling his lungs, and he stared up at that uncommonly clear sky. "So what now?" he asked, letting the breath out and looking back at John.

"Two options," John answered, that smile still on his face. "One of them, you're not going to understand."

Sherlock sniffed. "I highly doubt that. There are few things I fail to comprehend."

John ignored him. "Option one: sit here, silently, and utilize the quiet to think."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow doubtfully, and opened his mouth to tell John that he certainly didn't need to come here to think. He did that perfectly well on his own in the flat.

"Quiet, Sherlock," John ordered, and he snapped his mouth shut with another pout. "You'd be surprised what good thinking in a place like this can do. Sometimes the fresh air is all you need for a little clarity. So, that being said," John continued, not allowing Sherlock any chance to get a word in edgewise, "on to option two. Sit here, silently, and utilize the quiet to not think."

"What?" he asked sharply.

John raised his eyebrows in his customary I-told-you-so expression. "Maybe it's different for you, with your superior mind, and all," – Sherlock was instantaneously jealous of the mocking tone John had managed to insert into that phrase – "but sometimes, for regular people, there's just too much going on in our brains. Too many thoughts, too many ideas, too many obsessions. Whatever it is. Sometimes it helps to go somewhere quiet and not reflect on them. Just clear your mind of whatever's causing your headache, and just exist." He shrugged. "And sometimes, believe it or not, the answer to what's bothering you will just pop into your head once you start thinking about it again."

Sherlock shook his head. What good would not thinking do him? Or anyone, for that matter. Wasn't that exactly the problem with ordinary people? They didn't think? It was certainly what aggravated Sherlock the most about them. How they blundered about on this planet, never seeing the connections, unobservant, and ignorant.

John laughed at Sherlock's incredulous look. "Just try it, Sherlock. Five minutes, all right? And if you don't like it, you don't have to do it again. Just . . . trust me."

Sherlock let out a great, weary sigh. "Fine, John."

Silence fell around them. John leaned back, closing his eyes, a content smile playing on his lips. Sherlock mimicked his posture, letting his head fall back so that his eyes were staring up at that soft blue sky. He breathed in, trying to push all thoughts of cases and crimes from his mind.

Surprisingly, he found that it wasn't that difficult to do. The clearness of the sky was hypnotizing, and he found himself unerringly focusing on simply the color. He breathed deeply, staring, his mind blissfully clear. Honestly, he couldn't remember his mind ever being so still, so quiet. It was . . . peaceful. He rolled his head around to glance at John, and then, suddenly, everything shifted.

It was as if the world had just tilted 30 degrees on its axis. Everything was spinning, wrong, fuzzy. His mind was dizzy. He blinked, his eyes refocusing, and suddenly John was all he could see. He was simply sitting there, his head leaning back, eyes closed, but Sherlock could not take his eyes off him. Everything around John, the trees, the grass, the bench, the tiny pond, was blurred – out of focus. But John. . . . John was in perfect focus. He could see each individual eyelash, was conscious of the way his lips were parted slightly, the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest, the slight twitch of his fingers.

Sherlock stiffened, sitting up, his back straight as a ruler. John opened his eyes lazily, his brow furrowing. "You all right? This not working for you?"

John's voice. How had he never heard it before? It was so. . . . Sherlock couldn't even find the words to describe it. . . . He, who was normally so eloquent with his words. It was like . . . the most beautiful song, weaving its way into his mind. He could practically feel the rush of endorphins flowing through his veins.

He bit back a groan, turning his head away and cradling his head in his hands. "No," he started, but his voice caught in his throat. He cleared it, then started again. "No, it's . . . fine." He closed his eyes, his fingers digging into his temples.

He heard the unmistakable sound of John scooting closer to him. "Sherlock?" He bit his lip. How had he never realized it before? No one had ever said his name like that; like a caress. "Are you sure you're alright?"

Sherlock was about to answer with a curt, "Of course," but before he could, John laid a hand on his arm, and suddenly he was on fire.

He leapt up, taking a few paces away from the bench and whipped around, his eyes wild. He lowered his hands to his sides slowly, tingles still rippling up and down his arm, but fading quickly. John was still the only thing in focus, but even if he could see, his eyes would still have been drawn directly to him.

"Sher–"

"Stop talking!" Sherlock shouted, his hands clenching into fists. John jumped slightly, looking concerned and more than a little confused. Sherlock took a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself. "John. . . ." he started, then paused. He'd never noticed before how much he loved saying John's name. It just felt so right on his tongue, so natural. He shook his head, scolding it for getting off track. "John," he started again, "I. . . . I have to go," he declared suddenly. "You were right. I'll probably be late. Don't wait up for me."

He took off down the path, leaving John behind looking startled, worried, and utterly lost.

To his credit, Lestrade barely paused when he opened the door to his flat to reveal Sherlock slouched over his couch. He rolled his eyes, dumped his briefcase onto his desk, and settled into an armchair with a sigh.

"John called." Sherlock was disgusted with the way just hearing his name sent a chills running down his back. He shrugged. "He's worried. Said you were acting weird. And it could be a danger night."

Sherlock snorted at that. "Please. I doubt I'll have any need of substances for the foreseeable future."

Lestrade tapped his fingers against the arms of the chair and nodded. "Right. So I'll bite. What the hell happened?"

Sherlock didn't say anything for a long while. Finally, he started, "Normally, I would discuss something of this magnitude over with John. But, in these circumstances, as he's the subject and cause of this discussion, and it pertains to my relationship with him . . . I've had to settle for you." Sherlock turned his head to the side to look expectantly at Lestrade.

"Well, now that you've buttered me up," he said, his voice sarcastic, "d'you mind telling me just what is this discussion we're supposedly having?"

"Is it not obvious?"

He sighed. "No, Sherlock. Walk me through it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and grumbled about the ineptitude of the police force before sitting up and leaning forward. "I seem to have found myself with the predicament of having fallen in love with John."

Sherlock wasn't sure how he'd been expecting Lestrade to react to this news – possibly by gripping his heart in shock or choking on a beverage he'd been drinking; that always seemed to be how people reacted to surprising news on those daytime shows Mrs. Hudson forced him to watch – but he'd guessed that there would be some semblance of surprise. He certainly wasn't predicting the enormous grin that spread across Lestrade's face as he slammed his hand down on the arm of his chair.

"Ha! I knew it!" he shouted gleefully, jumping up. A devious look appeared on his face. "Oh, I can't wait to rub this in Brown's big fat nose the next time I see him."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. All that was missing from this picture was Lestrade rubbing his hands together sinisterly. "Do you mind?" Sherlock asked, a hint of annoyance in his tone. Perhaps he should have gone to Mycroft with this. . . . Although even the thought of it made him shudder.

Lestrade cleared his throat and sat down. "Right. Sorry. So, what's the 'predicament,' then?"

"Love!" Sherlock exclaimed. He stood, pacing around the small living room as Lestrade sat up, watching him warily. "I've always scorned it. Love is a weakness, a distraction. I don't need it. There is only the work, Lestrade. That was all that was important in my life, all I cared about. Only the work. Until this happened. Until he happened." He stopped, staring glumly at Lestrade. "I don't need this. I don't want it."

"Yes you do."

"What?"

"You need him. You're better with him." At Sherlock's blank look, he continued, "You remember how you were before? Druggie? Obsessed? Malnourished? You didn't take care of yourself at all. You were obstinately rude, almost to the point of cruelty. I didn't know what to do with you. Didn't want you on my cases unless I absolutely needed you. Sit down and stop that," he ordered as Sherlock stood, aggravatedly fiddling with the setting on his radio. Sherlock obeyed grumpily. "That's what I'm talking about. Before you met John, you never would have listened to me. He's . . . domesticated you, for lack of a better word, and you're better for it."

"'Domesticated' me?" Sherlock echoed with a scoff. "Ridiculous. John has no more domesticated me than he would a tiger."

Lestrade smirked. "Sorry, Sherlock, but you're just a housecat who thinks he's a tiger." Sherlock sent him a sour look and he laughed. "No, don't worry, I won't tell anyone. You can go on pretending." His face grew serious. "But, seriously, Sherlock, John's made you better. He takes care of you. He takes your mind off your obsession with criminals. He reigns in your rudeness, and you listen to him. You two work better together than you ever did alone. I mean, didn't you tell me when you two first met that, somehow, you thought better with him around?"

Sherlock's foot tapped agitatedly. "I may have mentioned that."

"So, what's the problem?" Lestrade asked, spreading his arms wide.

"The problem," Sherlock said, jumping up again, "is that earlier today, I couldn't think when he was there. He stopped everything. All of it. I couldn't concentrate on anything but him. All I could see was him. How am I ever going to be able to work if the only thing I can see is him?"

Lestrade blinked, apparently in surprise. "You really do love him," he said, somewhat monotonously, as if he hadn't quite believed it before.

"Yes," Sherlock snapped. "I thought I made that quite clear."

Lestrade sat back in thought. "Well, can you see me now? What have I done today?"

Sherlock's eyes flicked over him quickly. "Your right leg is a bit sore, judging by the way you're holding it, indicating that your shoes aren't as supportive as they used to be; time to replace them. You spilled coffee on your hand while it was still fresh: burn marks on your fingers. And, oh! Coffee, not tea. Odd for you, on a Thursday, but you obviously needed it after your late night out with Anderson, of all people, judging by the bags under your eyes. How do I know it was Anderson? Please, I can smell the stupid on you. His wife's found out about the affair with Sally and he needed someone to vent to. And, if your stiff back is any indication, he spent the night because his wife kicked him out. You're too kind to make a guest sleep on the couch, so you sacrificed your bed for him, leaving you to sleep on this godforsaken lump of furniture. And your ex-wife called again, desperate to give it another go."

Sherlock finished conclusively, and quiet descended upon them. "Well, there you have it," Lestrade said. "You're fine."

It was late – nearly midnight – when Sherlock arrived back at the flat. He glanced up at the window to see that the living room light was still on; John had waited up for him, then. He trudged up the stairs, not sure what to say when he faced him.

John shut his laptop the minute Sherlock stepped into the room and descended upon him. "Where the hell have you been? I've been texting and calling you. I called Lestrade, and I was almost to the point of getting Mycroft involved, for God's sake."

It was happening again. John was so close that Sherlock was being assaulted with his scent – tea and laundry detergent and a hint of cologne. How had he never noticed it before? It was lovely – and he couldn't think. The smell was intoxicating, wrapping around his mind soothingly, covering it like a blanket.

"You run off after acting all jumpy and skittish, disappear for eight hours, and don't answer any of my texts. I know you've been going mad without anything to do. What was I supposed to think happened? Here I am, picturing you lying in a gutter somewhere, shooting up, and you couldn't even be bothered to reply? I was worried, Sherlock!"

John's eyes were piercing into him, that soft, clear blue sparkling at him, and suddenly, Sherlock realized it. Why he'd been so fascinated with the color of the sky that day. It was the exact same color of John's eyes. Sherlock gasped suddenly, his own eyes widening. He reached out his hand, his fingers curling slightly around the curve of John's neck.

John's mouth snapped shut. He twisted his head down to peer at Sherlock's hand, then looked back up into his eyes. "Sherlock, what –"

His next words were muffled as Sherlock caught his lips with his own. John very nearly – literally – melted into him in surprise: his knees weakened, his body fell against Sherlock's, and Sherlock was forced to grab around John's waist to stop him from collapsing to the ground. John's arms wrapped around Sherlock's neck, his fingers finding their way into his hair and planting themselves there. Sherlock's fingers clenched in John's jumper.

Sherlock pulled away all too soon, his breathing heavy. John was staring at him with dazed eyes, his pupils dilated inside that ring of clear blue. "What. . . ." John started, breathless. "What was that all about?"

"I wanted to kiss you." Sherlock's eyes flicked down to John's mouth. "And I would like to do it again."

"Why?" John asked thoughtlessly.

Sherlock stiffened and took a step back, breaking John's grip around his arms. "Do you not want me to? It seemed like you enjoyed it." He looked away, but he was certain John saw the hurt look on his face.

"No!" John exclaimed, then shook his head as Sherlock edged further away. He stepped toward him, cupping Sherlock's cheek with his hand. "I mean, no, I don't want you not to." He laughed. "If that makes sense. I meant, why did you want to in the first place?"

Sherlock didn't answer, his head turned to the side, avoiding John's gaze. John reached his other hand up and placed it on Sherlock's other cheek, turning his face gently to his own. "I misspoke," he explained gently. "I'm sorry."

"What you said earlier," Sherlock started hesitantly, feeling unusually vulnerable. "About sometimes not thinking. . . . You were right. I cleared my head. It was . . . so quiet." His voice had dropped to a whisper, remembering how odd – and yet soothing – it had felt. "I turned to look at you. And suddenly, I saw you."

John's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?" His hands gently dropped down to Sherlock's chest.

"I saw you, John," he said, his voice no louder than a murmur. He stepped closer, his fingers reaching up to capture John's chin, tilting his head up. "For the first time, I saw you. I looked past all the observable facts, all the tells, all the deductions and I just saw . . . you."

Sherlock heard John's breath catch, a shiver running through his body. Sherlock's eyes flicked once again to John's lips. "May I kiss you again, John?" His thumb lightly traced John's bottom lip.

John swallowed, nodding. "Yes," he breathed. "Yes, of course. Anytime you want."

And, as Sherlock lowered his head to John's, John had no idea that in the coming weeks, Sherlock would prove just how much he had taken those words to heart. But at the moment, it didn't matter. They were together.

Truly seeing each other for the first time.