There didn't really seem to be a reason for anything the Sherlock did, let alone reason for any displays of affection that were so rare and short lived that propelled out of desire just to remind himself that John was still there by his side, and not alone, depressed, or attached to any unnamed woman that might have suited his fancy in the absence on three years that they were apart.
John felt, well, rather delighted at the small displays, each ranging from a small pet as they watched crap telly late at night during a case free period, or how John would look up only to be greeted by an unshielded smile from his best friend, the smile projecting the rightness that they were together, functioning as one again.
The behavior did, however, worry him. Most notably when he went on dates with women that scarcely entertained him, where he expected a call, or text perhaps, asking permission to run across London, or perhaps the other parts of the UK, with Sherlock. Ultimately they didn't come, and when he returned home, either that same night or the next morning, he felt as though Sherlock avoided him, refusing to speak, not only to him, but to Mrs. Hudson on anyone else that might try to share a talk with the man.
Mainly, John hated leaving because every time he returned from long absences, rather it be a date or a pop around the corner to pick up the ever needed milk, Sherlock looked so lonely when he returned, as though he was filled with the fright or prospect of being alone for another three years or more.
And every time he heard John's footfall on the stairs or his keys hitting the stained kitchen table, his eyes glanced from his present activity to see, to observe that his friend was still here by his side, still with the look of lonely longing that John had come to expect after being gone that long. And after a particular long absence, normally after he returned from a date where he ended staying the night, Sherlock would lift his eyes from the microscope placed haphazardly on the edge of the kitchen table, or perhaps let his violin fall from its rest on his slender shoulder and stare at John as though he wasn't a tangible person standing in the same flat as himself.
The rest of the day, or the next few, given that Sherlock had decided that John was really there and therefore should not be ignored, would be spent with passing glances of reassurance, mainly from Sherlock himself, that the other was still there, and gentle and subtle touches from either man to be assured that they weren't alone. A brush against fingers that went out of its way if handing object between each other, or wondering fingers across shoulders or arms if one was standing directly behind the other, explaining something from the newest chase to solve a case.
Neither Sherlock nor John was sure what to do with the other man back in their life after three years, each used to merely feeling a presence from memory, yet never touching or sensing the other. John, stumbling from work at the surgery, monotonous, and falling into the motions that had been ingrained during the time Sherlock had lived with him in 221b.
He kept close to counters in the kitchen, though he needn't, he wasn't sharing the space with whatever experiment that might have be pulled from the dredges of his friend's mind at the time, he sat in his chair, and read his paper, occasionally stopping to comment to a ghost that wasn't present in the flat, and her often still caught himself with two mugs of tea, and he would place it next to the empty chair before remembering that its drinker was not to return. Small habits that had become routine seemed to have the biggest impact on his life after Sherlock, and forgetting them seemed to be what most of his days where spent doing.
Sherlock, through his endless travels through the world would find himself without the familiar tinkering of tea being made, or papers being moved to a more suitable location than the floor. He himself would realize hours after he talked and asked John his opinion on a person of interest that he remembered that his blogger wouldn't be answering the question, or be left days without being handed his phone until he remembered John was no longer part of his life. He lamented the nights he spent in cold, drafty hotel rooms, where it was all quiet, and he couldn't hear other signs of life rather than his own low breathing. But what killed Sherlock most of all during his three years of absence was the fact that he was alone and didn't have a stout, grey-blond man with piercing army blue eyes following in his wake.
Each man wondered of the other missed the tea they shared in early mornings or after they finished a case at horridly late hours into the night. They shared the sentiment of sadness and how better they were when they were together (though Sherlock was sure to deny any feeling of it, as he continues to protest it as a logical reasoning of the situation.) Most of all, with John thinking Sherlock was dead, and Sherlock thinking John had moved on to someone else or forgotten him, they wondered if they were ever going to be able to live without the other.
And now that they were both together again after three years, this fleeting wonder had become an ever occurring thought in their minds.
It happened one day, on his return from spending the night at a dead end date's house. Sherlock had been present in John's life no more than a month since returning. He followed through the habits he had grown used to, hanging if jacket in the stairway, toeing his shoes of in the doorway, and tossing his keys onto the kitchen table. Sherlock looked up, his eyes full of questioning, before smiling slightly and letting his fingers reach out and play with John's keys, as he focused back onto the microscope lens.
John smiled and turned his back for a second, just to check the fridge for milk, and a chime of metal hit the floor, along with the louder thunk of what John presumed was the microscope. He turned only to see Sherlock looking confused at the whole situation, eyes flitting back and forth between John and the fallen objects. John had simply moved toward the mess, cleaned it, and continued making tea as though nothing had happened. And as he turned to give Sherlock his cuppa, Sherlock had done the same thing.
And that was that.
Three months into the timid new thing that they had started to rekindle, they were both comfortable talking to each other for great lengths of time. It was more than just a simple sentence or one word answer that had plagued their short lived conversations the first month or so when Sherlock made his reappearance. They talked at great lengths about their days, John was almost certain that the constant stories of a cold, of a sore throat, or of a case of the flu that he retold daily after returning from the surgery were sure to bore his intelligent friend, but Sherlock simply seemed to be happy just talking to John, so he dropped the thought all together.
And on the rare chance that John could not accompany Sherlock to a crime scene, Sherlock would jovially fill him in, with great detail, all the while pushing pictures into his lap, and asking his medical opinion on why a bruise was formed here, or why it seemed rather plain that so and so had been showing signs of such and such, and why he thought it seemed relevant to the case. John smiled, and returned his opinion to Sherlock in detail, sure that his friend had already come to the same conclusion, but happy to help nonetheless.
Eight months after Sherlock's infamous return from the dead, John was heading out on a date. He noticed the taller man pouting in his familiar blue cotton robe under that smile that John couldn't bring himself to plaster over. Sherlock kept close watch over John has he prepared to go out into the cool night of London, and when John walked to the door, he whispered one word.
"Stay."
It wasn't loud, and he barely thought John heard it. But John turned and gave him a quizzical look before continuing down the stairs. Sherlock sighed unhappily, and huddled onto the couch. He hadn't realized he had been crying until he felt John's thumb against his cheek. John pulled him from his sulk, made tea, and together the theorized reasons for the murder that they were currently involved in.
John smiled as Sherlock became more animated about the case. He was glad he stayed.
The affectionate gestures increased in number as a year had passed since the return. John had found himself more enraptured by Sherlock, and found himself going on less dates, and spending more time with his flat mate. He didn't really seem to mind the pointed glances from Scotland yard as he walked close to Sherlock, and the smiles from Angelo's as they talked animatedly over dinner that only John ever seemed to eat.
They walked back from Angelo's in companionable silence, walking close to conserve heat as the harsh London winter wind ripped through their jackets. John had been happier since the man's return, and he was fairly certain that Sherlock had been too. They walked through the door of 221b and collapsed in their respected chairs, gabbling about the case and about how neither of their opinions had changed on the idiocy of Anderson.
Then, as though the words had left them both, they simply stopped talking and stared. Each man at the other, smiles on their faces, and worries in their minds about the loneliness they had both experiences, and had not wanted to after their return to one another.
John just smiled, knowing that he needn't say anything, because he knew Sherlock, wonderful, brilliant Sherlock, already knew. He looked away as he pulled out of the comfy confines of his chair to make tea for the both of them. He went about filling the kettle with water and placed it on the stove, reaching to turn the burner on when he felt a warm breath ghost across the back of his neck. His hand froze, and he whispered out into the silent flat.
"Sherlock?"
He felt hands grasp his waist and lips move against the side of his neck, asking the obvious, and promising the world. His head moved of its own accord, his lips connecting with the taller man's in silent apprehension, both of himself and Sherlock. The trepidation of a year, no, more than a year, of wanting the other man's touch was passed through each man, Sherlock pressing his body closer to John's, and John turning around to put them chest to chest and press them closer together.
Their lips moved in an unhurried passion, moving soft and sensuous against the others. John tipped his head up, and Sherlock ran his tongue tantalizingly against the newfound lower lip in silent begging, pushing his tongue into the army man's mouth when he opened his lips in a silent gasp.
The kiss became too much and not enough, each man pressing their body into the other, in hopes of leaving an imprint of themselves on the other's soul, their teeth scraped against the others, their tongues weaving together and apart, each searching deeper into the other's mouth. Hands roamed backs, fronts, and necks, nails bit into skin, in earnest attempts to keep the other man from fleeing.
When they finally pulled away, out of breath and rosy faced, each stared at the other, their arms and bodies still tangled in an attempt to keep the other there by their side. Sherlock pulled way, John's hand clasped in his own, and pulled them both through his bedroom door, and down onto the bed. They divested each other's bodies of clothing between stolen kisses and wandering hands, until skin touched skin and they lay flush against each other, still and unmoving, their shallow breathing the only noise in the room.
"John…" The whisper landed in his ears and shot strait through to his groin. John allowed himself to touch the nakedness of Sherlock, and rut against the arousal he felt. Sherlock's hands roamed down his back, hesitating before continuing to ghost over his entrance. John buried his face in the shoulder provided as another hand, fingers slick with cool oil, moved against the tender flesh, teasing noises out of John's mouth, whines and husky pants filling Sherlock's clavicle. The fingers circling before pushing in, slowly moving in and out of John. Sherlock planted kisses along the side of his neck, hand slowly pumping John's erection.
Sucking on a newly found sensitive spot behind John's ear, he pushed in another finger inching in the tight ring of muscle; thighs opening wider as the finger delve deeper, finding a certain spot, procuring sharp gasps from the stouter man beneath him. John was meeting his fingers thrust for thrust, grinding their arousals together, both men letting a groan at the friction.
Sherlock hands moved down john's body, tracing invisible lines across his skin. He slicked himself, and aligned his throbbing member to the puckered hole before slowly pushing in. He felt John claw at his back as he continued forward, each man holding their breath until Sherlock full seated himself in the velvet heat, and John felt a surge of fullness, his body pushing back onto Sherlock, his leg wrapped around the thin waist, urging delicious movement. Sherlock slid out, thrusting back in at a slightly upward angle, causing john to release a strung out moan, his back arching up.
Sherlock picked up the pace, moving in and out of the tight body beneath him, grasping John, and pulling in time with his thrusts. John called out, releasing whimpers and moans, grinding back against the oncoming thrusts, filling the room with the sound of begging and sex, the movement of skin on skin. All too soon each man found release, and slumped in a breathless pile.
Tired, John opened his eyes and glanced at the man above him. He had missed this man, his words, his bite, and his touch. Never the one to say anything, wonderful, brilliant, and completely mad, Sherlock smiled, and bent down to whisper quietly into John's ear, the breath warm against his cooling skin.
"I missed us. This. All of it"
John smiled and returned the sentiment with a kiss. He thought about the loneliness and the pain, they had both endured, and the slow return to normalcy they both had shared. He chucked to himself, and kissed away Sherlock's confused look.
Life was moving on.