He could see the light pouring through the cracks between the door and its frame. It was a calm, golden light, seeping into the hallway from inside the room. He straightened his jacket once more and gripped the door knob. It was an odd feeling for him, as though he was invading someone else's space even though it was his own sitting room. The door eased open and he stepped inside hesitantly. Sherlock felt his heart flutter at the sight as he entered the room. It was the most relieving experience to be back to the normality of daily life, just as it had been before Sherlock left.

Sherlock mouth turned up in a slight smile as he gingerly leaned against the doorframe. There he was: wrapped in one of Sherlock's dressing gowns, gently breathing in and out as he slept. John. He was back in 221 B, as if the entire Mary debacle hadn't happened in the first place. Although John's chair was returned to its original position, John took any opportunity he could to curl up in Sherlock's leather armchair. John had been finding excuses to use any of Sherlock's things now that he was back; he borrowed his scarves, gloves, and pretended to have lost his own robe in the move, even though Sherlock knew it was tucked away underneath the jumpers in the bottom drawer of John's dresser.

He walked lightly over to John and kneeled down next to him, nuzzling his face gently into John's chest. John stirred, woken by Sherlock's light touch. He smiled and stretched a bit, keeping Sherlock's face still burrowed below the scar on his shoulder, right against his heart. Sherlock had also changed a bit since John had returned. As a predominantly stiff and reserved person, the detective had taken to physical interaction with John. He had hugged his flatmate several times within the past few days, and seemed like he couldn't get enough of it. Sherlock had also taken to dancing with John again, just like when he was teaching him to waltz for the wedding. But now, it was more genuine. Less instructive, more intimate. It was a feeling of safety for Sherlock, a warmth and comfort for him, fulfilling his enjoyment of the hobby and pleasure of holding John close in his arms.

John folded his arms lazily around Sherlock and breathed in, smelling the familiar scent of shampoo, stale cigarettes and chemicals from the experiments. Sherlock lifted his head and rose from the floor, lifting John out of the chair with him. He pushed a few buttons on the stereo remote and music began to fill the room. Sherlock pulled John close to him, one hand on his shoulder and the other cupping John's hand. He led John's free hand to the small of his back, letting him lead. John was still groggy from his nap, wrapped in Sherlock's blue dressing gown and still adorned in his pajamas. His hands were dwarfed in comparison to Sherlock's, which were large and calloused from burns and violin playing. But although his hands were strong and rough, they were gentle on John's shoulder and hand.

The music started out quietly, but John instantly recognized the tune. It sounded like a mix of Sherlock's compositions for Irene and the wedding, a heartbreaking blend of a lively tune with melancholy harmonies. John pulled Sherlock closer and rested his chin on his shoulder. His nose was tucked into Sherlock's neck, brushing the glossy curls behind the detective's ear. Sherlock pressed the side of his face to John's head, feeling the warmth radiating off of the shorter man.

They began swaying in small movements, slowly making their way around the sitting room. Both of the men shut their eyes, gripping each other impossibly closer, memorizing the feeling of the other in their arms. The light was still sneaking through the parting in the curtains, a beam of gold reaching out to touch John and Sherlock with its gleam and warmth. John smiled lightly as he gripped at the back of Sherlock's jacket even tighter. John's breath caught as Sherlock moved his head so his lips were pressed against John's ear.

"John."

John hummed in response, eyes still shut and head still resting on Sherlock's broad shoulder. His hand moved up and down against Sherlock's back slowly, and rubbed circles on the back of the detective's hand with his thumb.

"I love you," Sherlock murmured into John's ear, lighter than the quieter whisper but taking John by such a surprise that it was like Sherlock had shouted the three words at the top of his lungs.

Sherlock moved his head back further, locking eyes with John and leaning in slightly, as though to make sure John was alright with continuing. John nodded slightly, answering the unspoken question and leaned in closer so that their lips just brushed off of each other. Sherlock's heart swelled and he could feel the blush creeping up his neck and onto his face. John hesitated slightly before tugging Sherlock by the lapels of his suit jacket so that he was even closer.

Sherlock folded his arms around John's middle so tightly that his fingertips nearly touched the opposite side of his own ribcage. John slid his hands up to tangle in Sherlock's curls, deepening the kiss. Adrenaline surged through both of them, hearts throbbing together at a rapid pace. John had Sherlock's face between his hands, stroking either cheekbone with his thumb like a feather's touch. The detective didn't want this perfect moment to ever end. His eyes remained open, partially in want of intently watching John's face, his long eyelashes glinting with sunlight. But in actuality, Sherlock couldn't allow himself to close his eyes for fear of losing the moment.

As John continued to press kisses on Sherlock's lips, he couldn't stop himself. His eyes fluttered shut as he tried to pull John closer, but it was too late. He could no longer feel the shorter man wrapped in his arms, the pressure of his lips on his own, and the warm feeling that had been pulsing through his veins had ceased to exist. His eyes remained clamped shut, his mind becoming more and more frantic every second.

I have to get back I have to get back I have to get back John my John get back get back to John

But he soon realized that it was hopeless. He slowly peeled his eyes open, and it reality came flooding back to him. He was folded in John's faded red chair, in the darkened sitting room of 221 B. He looked around to gain back his directions.

He was wrapped in the comforter from John's bed, which still had that faintest smell of John on it.

The dizziness and groggy feeling usually associated with his drug abuse slammed in his head, unsurprisingly so. A needle stuck out of his right arm, bruises forming around it.

His leather chair was empty. Nobody had occupied it in ages.

The flat was empty. He sat alone.

And along with the drowning sensation of isolation, Sherlock too felt empty.