You came out of nowhere,

Stealing my heart and brain,

Flaming my every cell,

You make me feel myself

— M83, "Reunion"

John Watson found himself looking over his shoulders as he walked down Baker Street, approaching 221B. Twice now he had come to the flat to talk to Sherlock Holmes about something important. And twice that he'd been prevented from doing so. The first time he'd been stabbed in the neck with a syringe, abducted, and nearly burned alive in a bonfire; the second time he'd had to run off with Sherlock and they'd nearly been blown to bits, along with Parliament and a good chunk of London.

Third time's the charm? He thought ruefully. Not that this was a conversation he particularly wanted to have. But it needed to be done. Mary was also encouraging him to do this.

Sherlock Holmes had come back from the dead. His best friend. His former lover. The man with whom John had once thought he would spend the rest of his life. That was how it was supposed to be, wasn't it? Sherlock and John, solving crimes and having adventures until they got old and tired and then they would settle down quietly somewhere together to spend their golden years. Sherlock would take up some new hobby to pass the time — he'd spoken several times of bee-keeping. John wanted to try his hand at gardening. He'd wanted to watch Sherlock Holmes get silver hair and become soft around the middle and have to wear spectacles to read the paper. But before that, an exciting life of adventure and the simple thrill of being with Sherlock Holmes. In every sense of the word. Friend, lover, colleague, and companion.

It was no wonder it had felt like John's world had ended the day Sherlock bid him goodbye from the roof of Bart's and plunged to his death. John would never lose the image of his love's crumpled, bloody body on the pavement. His cold, limp wrist in John's hand, yielding no pulse. The funeral, John's speech at his gravesite. Seemingly endless grief. There had been days where John could barely see the point of carrying on. But carry on he did. Day after plodding day until it started to get a little easier. Where the crushing weight of grief seemed to life a little. To allow him to breathe again. To notice things like a sunny day or a pretty girl. A woman. One woman in particular. When Mary Morstan had come on board at the locum, it was like someone had opened the curtains and let in the light.

Indeed, she'd marked the beginning of a new life for him. A life completely different from the kind he had shared with Sherlock. They did ordinary things together: sharing meals, going to the cinema, picking out new linen for the bedroom, taking a mini-break abroad for a change of pace. John had seen what "excitement" brought: death, injury, and despair. He wanted none of it anymore. He'd been blessed with another chance at happiness and he was going to grab on to it and hold on for dear life.

And then the night when he'd been ready to propose to Mary … and there he was. Sherlock Holmes, larger than life itself. Now that some weeks had passed and John had more or less recovered from the sheer rage and betrayal he had felt after realizing he'd been duped for all that time, he was reminded of Sherlock's childlike side. And his often complete inability to judge appropriate behaviour for a situation. Posing as a waiter with that ridiculous little pencilled-on mustache — for God's sake! He'd been excited, like a little boy, eager to surprise his friend and resume their life together. Only it hadn't worked out that way. John had moved on. Sherlock's return changed nothing for him. Of course he was happy that Sherlock was alive. Of course he was. And … of course John would always care for him. Would love him. Always. And John missed him, of course. He'd be lying if he said he hadn't thought about Sherlock in a romantic way since the news had broken. A sexual way. Of course. They'd had a very active and passionate sex life. Much of it revolving around John's ability to "reboot" Sherlock's hard drive with a good, solid shagging. He'd have to be made of stone not to ever think about that again.

John shook his head and gritted his teeth. Mary. He loved Mary. He loved sex with Mary. He loved his life with Mary. He wasn't going to toss that all away simply because Sherlock Holmes had decided it was finally time to return home. It simply didn't work that way.

John fumbled for his keys, found them, and stared at them for a moment. I haven't lived here in over two years and I still have a set of keys. And everyone else — Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson — seem to think it's perfectly normal. But it's not, is it?

He opened the door and climbed the stairs. Violin music sang down the hallway. John smiled a little, feeling a twinge in his chest. Sometimes it still didn't seem real that Sherlock was alive. Back at Baker Street, mixing potions, and playing his fiddle like nothing had happened. Only everything had happened. Nothing was the same for John anymore.

He knocked on the door to the flat before opening it. Sherlock acknowledged him with a nod and finished the final few bars of the movement before ending with a flourish.

"Hello, John." He gestured to John's chair, which the doctor sank into gratefully.

"Tea?"

"Yes, yes please. That would be very nice."

Sherlock stared at him for a moment.

John cocked his head. "You don't actually have any tea, do you?"

Sherlock frowned. "I … don't actually know. Lately it just seems to appear when I wake up."

John chuckled briefly. "Ah, the tea fairy, of course."

Sherlock put away his violin and bow into the case and gathered his burgundy dressing gown around him before settling into his chair opposite John. "So. To what do I owe the honour of this visit? Overwhelmed by wedding plans already?"

"Ah, no. No. It's early days yet. And you know Mary. She's got a firm handle on things so far. Actually, I'm come because I feel like we need to talk. We've need to talk since you decided to come back from the grave."

Sherlock feigned ignorance. "Talk about what?" he asked, his words clipped.

"You. Me. … us."

Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly. "It was quite clearly impressed upon me that there was no longer an 'us' as I saw you attempting to propose to Mary in the restaurant."

John threw his hands up. "You were dead, Sherlock!"

"Two years!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Is that all it took for you to mourn me and decide to marry a woman? Two years? I have bacteria cultures that have lasted longer than that!"

John pointed at Sherlock. "You will NOT rewrite history to make this my fault. You left me, remember? You left me! You made me watch you 'die.'" John's eyes flashed. "You made me bloody watch! Have you any idea what it's like to be forced to watch the person you love jump off a fucking building and bleed all over the pavement? Hmm? To bury them? To speak at their funeral … I wrote a bloody eulogy for you, Sherlock! I agonized over it for days. I could barely get through it without going to bits. Stamford was on call to take over if I couldn't keep it together."

Sherlock's pressed his lips together in a hard line. He couldn't quite meet John's eye. "I had to, John. You know that."

"Yes, I know that! You've impressed that quite clearly upon me. But you didn't tell me what you were going to do. Not a word. Because you couldn't trust me to keep your secret? That was what you said, right? I trusted you, Sherlock." John was shaking now. "I trusted you with everything. With my life! Why couldn't you trust me with yours?" He swallowed hard. "If … if I'd known … I would have waited. I would have waited for as long as it took. I … I loved you. I love you."

Sherlock looked at John. "I thought you hated me. You know … the punching." He waved around the vicinity of his face. "The bleeding. But then in the train you said that you forgave me. And now you're angry."

John stood up and began to anxiously pace the sitting room. "I may have forgiven you for leaving, but I never stopped being angry about it, Sherlock. That will take time. But it doesn't mean that I don't love you." John swallowed around another lump in his throat and cleared it roughly. "I wish you'd loved me enough to trust me."

Sherlock's nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed. He stood up as well and stalked after Johen. "For god's sake, John, you know I trusted you. I've always trusted you. And I loved … love you." His pale cheeks pinked slightly. Even in the best of times, they'd never had an easy time of talking openly about such things. Their affection had been more of a physical one. And now Sherlock had been away from all of that for two years and the language felt foreign and rusty and uncomfortable in his mouth. "Can't you see?" He implored. "I couldn't take any chances. There had to be absolutely no way for you to be compromised. I did what I had to do to ensure that. Because I couldn't be there to watch over you. To be sure you were safe. Because I couldn't … I couldn't bear …"

"Losing me?" John finished the sentence. "Sherlock, I could write a bloody novel at this point about things that are unbearable. You made sure I experienced all of them."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, his gaze burning into John's. "I am. That you had to experience that. It … would be logical that you would move on and meet someone else. Mary … she's … good. It's just that I … I haven't … I …" Sherlock took a step closer, his eyes pleading.

John felt himself take a step closer as well, in spite of himself. "You haven't what, Sherlock?"

Sherlock closed his eyes for a mind, the movement pained. "… been touched. By someone who didn't want to kill me."

John hesitated, then lifted his hands to cradle Sherlock's thin face. Sherlock's eyelids fluttered and he leaned just slightly into the touch.

"You mean in two years, you haven't … within anyone?" John asked softly. "Before I wouldn't have found that surprising, but, you know, with us …"

"John Watson," Sherlock whispered. "I told you more than once that you're the only one. Will only ever be the only one."

John took a shaky breath. "And what exactly am I supposed to do with that declaration, Sherlock? You ruined me when you left. I was lonely. Lost. Grieving. I had no employment. No one would exactly want to hire John Watson to solve a crime without Sherlock Homes even before Sherlock Holmes decided to let the world shit all over his reputation before topping himself. I had to start all over again." John went to pull his hands away, but Sherlock's hands circled around his wrists and held them in place. Their gazes locked and John felt a familiar heat building between them. The kind of heat that once made him feel invincible and alive and now it just made him feel confused. And guilty. Mary …

"You went back to medicine. I knew you would." Sherlock turned his head ever so slightly, so that his soft lips grazed across John's palm and the other man shuddered, feeling it through every nerve ending.

"Yes. I did. If I couldn't help myself, then I could at least help other people," John said through gritted teeth. "And then I met Mary. And she saved me. I was dead inside and she brought me back to life." And with a guttural noise in the back of his throat, John wrenched free of Sherlock's grasp and lurched back a step. "And she deserves better than me letting myself be seduced by you again. I'm glad you're alive, Sherlock. And, contrary to my initial reaction, I'm glad you're back, but —"

"Seduced again?" Sherlock interrupted. "I beg your pardon. Now who's rewriting history?"

John exhaled through his nose and pressed his lips together. "Not to have this devolve into a petty argument, but I believe it was you who came to me and asked if we could, um … experiment together. The thought hadn't crossed my mind before."

Sherlock snorted derisively.

"All right, all right, perhaps I'd thought about it, but I never would have acted on it. It would have remained platonic between us because when we first met you'd made it quite clear that was how you wanted it."

"And the fact that I changed my mind … you call that a seduction?" Sherlock scoffed. "I had no practical experience, John. I didn't even know if it would … work."

"Well, it did!" John sputtered, sinking down into his chair. "Like bloody gangbusters. I don't think either of us expected that to happen."

"Sometimes I wish I'd never learned about it," Sherlock muttered, lacing his fingers behind his back and pacing around the sitting room. "You can't miss what you haven't experienced. It was never a bother. I never wanted it until I had it and …"

"Lost it," John finished sadly. "Tell me about it." He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Bloody hell, it's just like Mycroft said it would be."

Sherlock looked over sharply at John. "What? What did he say to you? When was this?"

"Years ago," John continued tiredly. "You remember that day when he tried to bribe me to leave you?"

Sherlock strode back to his chair and sat, staring down John with rapt attention. "Of course. Go on. What did my brother say about how 'it would be.'"

"That … you'd chosen me. And you would have only me. And that made you my responsibility. One I couldn't take lightly. He made me choose between you and a future where …"

"… where you get married and have a family. Like what you want to do with Mary," Sherlock finished.

John pursed his lips and exhaled noisily through his nose, staring down at his hands. "I chose you," he said, his voice roughened.

"I know you did," Sherlock replied softly. "And do you regret your choice?"

"No," John said swiftly and firmly, shaking his head. "No, never. In spite of it all … how could I …" he looked up helplessly at Sherlock.

Sherlock shrugged. "There you go. Not as if you considered this to be 'do-over' for a regrettable choice. Though I'm sure many would agree that it was precisely that. As for Mycroft, you know my brother still likes to treat me as if I were still a child. I assure you, John, I am no one's responsibility. I am my own keeper, contrary to what he may believe."

"You certainly proved that the day you took a swan dive off the roof and disappeared," John murmured. "You say you did it all to protect us, yet we were completely cut out of the conversation. It didn't occur to you that we could help."

"Because you couldn't. I'd already considered and discarded that option," Sherlock said evenly. "Oh, John, still operating from a place of sentiment and misguided camaraderie when logic clearly indicates another course."

John shrugged and slapped his palms on the arms of the chair. "So what now, huh? Where do we go from here?"

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. "There's something else from that day. The day Mycroft tried to buy you off," he said quietly.

John made a small sound in the back of his throat. "No, Sherlock," he whispered. "Don't …"

"You told me you were in love with me. And I had to ask you to explain what that meant."

John took a shaky breath. "I remember, Sherlock. I was there."

Sherlock pursed his lips slightly. "You were the only person who was able to explain love in a way that made sense to me. Maybe because you were the first person I'd met for whom I was able to experience those defining factors. You said earlier you still love me. But I assume not the same way as before."

John sighed, staring down at his hands helplessly for a moment before meeting Sherlock's gaze. "It can't be the same as it was before. You have to understand that."

"I understand that."

"No, Sherlock," John insisted. "I really don't think you do. I think you expected me to just go into some kind of … stasis … until you could come back. It doesn't work that way. My life didn't stop because you went away. I didn't go looking for Mary, but she found me. She filled in the holes that were left behind when you left. She gives me what I need. And that's what makes the difference. I can't … I won't leave her. I love her. I am in love with her. But yes, I love you, too. But it's different. I still think you're brilliant and extraordinary and I'm so incredibly glad that you didn't die that day. Also that I don't have to carry that memory around with me anymore. Not in the same way."

"Then tell me," Sherlock said suddenly and sharply. "Tell me — to my face — that all you feel for me now is friendship. Come here and tell me that. Like you did the day when you said you couldn't be without me." He swallowed. "… please."

John exhaled shakily. "Sherlock … don't."

"You can't, can you?" Sherlock, seeing that John wasn't going to move, rose from his chair and sank to his knees in front of John, mirroring that night so many years ago when John had assumed the same position to declare his love.

"Sherlock …" John muttered helplessly, his hands twitching, eyes darting about, wanting to look anywhere but into Sherlock's fervent gaze.

This time it was Sherlock who gently held John's face between his hands, forcing the other man to look at him. "Don't you understand? I'm not asking you to be rid of Mary. I see what she … she … you need her."

"I do," John whispered roughly.

"But you need me, too. And I need you." Sherlock moved in closer, his eyes burning. "I need you, John. I've always needed you. Even before I knew it to be true. Even before we met. I'm not suggesting you give up anything you've gained in the past two years. Only that you take back what is rightfully yours. So you can have everything. Everything you need. You've gone without for so long …"

John made a broken sound and when Sherlock leaned in to kiss him, John kissed him back.

John kissed him back.

Sherlock's senses exploded and his mind flooded with familiar data. The taste, the smell, the feel. The sound — oh, but that soft, low, helpless moan belonged to him. There had been so many times where he had craved this simple connection. So many nights on the run. Hiding from Moriarty's operatives in dark, cold places. Wondering if this might be the night that he died for real. Running, always running. Often running for his life. Chained and whipped in that Serbian dungeon. Two years of seeking out people, but always being alone. Two years without John. Sherlock's hands moved from John's face and wrapped around his shoulders and John held him back. They grabbed at each other, the kiss becoming hungrier, more desperate.

Sherlock. Their mouths met and John was transported back to that first time. In his room. Sherlock lying on John's bed and simply offering himself up. Letting John touch and kiss him and peel back layers until Sherlock was naked, in all senses of the word, trembling and moaning under John's touch. Fearful of letting go, but trusting.

And he gave himself to John again and again. John buried his hands in Sherlock's thick curls and feasted on his mouth, tasting him and feeling the vibration of Sherlock's sighing moans of satisfaction and pleasure. Where have you been for two years? What's happened to you? Do I even want to know?

And with that, the expected backlash began in his mind. John remembered what it was like when all this was taken away. A cold bed and a silent flat. One lonely, heartsick day fading into the next. Everything gray. Everything hopeless. Until Mary. Mary, who had brought the light back. Mary, who wore John's ring on her finger. Mary … waiting at home for him right now, thinking how wonderful it was that John was reconnecting with his old friend. Trusting that the history was ancient.

John made a snarling sound. "… NO!" He pushed Sherlock back, knocking him onto his rear end.

Sherlock stared up at John, dazed, his hair mused, lips swollen and wet. "… John?"

John stood up and moved away from the chair. Away from Sherlock and his magnetic force. "Sherlock … it can't … it doesn't work like that! It can't be like this! Our time …" he paused, rubbing his forehead and clearing his throat. "That time has passed. I have to think of Mary. I won't betray her."

Sherlock stared up at John and said nothing. There had been so many times where John had wanted him to just shut up, but now that he had, John wished it weren't so. But what else was there to say? This wasn't going to work. He'd been mad to come over here. To think he could find a way to reconcile his old life with his new one.

And then Sherlock spoke. Quietly. Brokenly. "You said you would do anything for me. Anything that I needed. I need you."

John's eyes teared up. "Yeah, well, I needed you, Sherlock. I bloody well needed you. At least needed to know you weren't dead. And guess what — even marriage vows are nullified by death. I'm sorry, I really am. But I can't do this. I just can't." John threw his keys down on the table, grabbed his coat and left 221B. Possibly for the last time. Wondering how long it would take to forget the image of Sherlock sprawled out on the floor, mute and dishevelled, the knees of his trousers marred with dust, with heartbreak clearly etched onto his features. It rivalled the mental image he carried of his former lover bleeding and broken on the sidewalk in front of Bart's.