Hello! It's TheVenturer's birthday today, and in celebration I have written this little oneshot at her request, the prompt being:

"I'd love to see a fic where instead of John leaving Sherlock alone that night of their sad little fight at Baskerville, he comes back to Sherlock's room intent on proving he's his friend... but then Sherlock is so emotional he kisses John."

I've tweaked it ever so slightly, as you shall see, but I really hope this is good enough for an 18th birthday present, hope you have a brilliant day and I hope everyone else enjoys too. And as an extra-special gift for her, go and read her fics because they are excellent - especially her drabble series. Perfect if you like a lot of Johnlock. :)

Enjoy! x

"So just leave. Me. Alone!"

"Okay. Why would you listen to me? I'm just your friend."

"I don't have friends!"

"Nnnooo. I wonder why?"

Sherlock had dashed out of the inn a few seconds after John had left him, but there was no sign of him. Sighing, he collapsed back against the outside wall, feeling as if his legs would give way beneath him. The hound... he had seen it, seen it with his own two eyes. Exactly the way Henry had described it. He felt as if he was completely losing his grip on reality, unable to understand how and why the events of the past few hours had taken place. This was unknown territory for him, completely alien ground, and now, to make things just that little bit worse, he'd managed to completely piss off John Watson too.

He groaned and thrust his head back against the wall, not caring as the initial stinging pain in his scalp threaded through the rest of his skull. Why did he do it? Why did he continue to push away the one person that stuck by him consistently? John was offering support, a friendly ear. He wouldn't have mocked him – despite being very sceptical of what Sherlock was telling him, but how was that surprising? There was no way that that monster could exist in reality. John was right for being disbelieving, for trying to suggest reason behind the events – his reasoning might have been wrong, but he was just trying to help. And once again, Sherlock had reacted, bitten back, and hurt him.

He ran his hand across his face, wiping some of the perspiration from his forehead, trying to settle his thoughts. He knew why he'd done it, of course he did. But now he had to fix this, work out what the hell was going on with the Hound, find out what was going on at Baskerville... What to focus on? John. John was of paramount importance, yet he didn't stop to assess why. He could focus on that, focus on making things better, instead of allowing himself to ponder on the terrifying mystery of what he'd seen in the hollow. It just wasn't worth it anymore. There had to be a better way of dealing with the situation he had found himself in.

John was pacing angrily, back in his hotel room after a moody walk across the moors to try and clear his head. That bloody man got him so mad sometimes. John had always presumed that Sherlock at least thought of him as a friend – he knew, in his more honest moments, that he himself regarded Sherlock as the closest friend he had – and to be so angrily informed that he didn't even mean that much to him... well, it hurt. It hurt a great deal. Oh, John was very aware that Sherlock had the emotional integrity of a dishcloth, but he'd always harboured some secret hope that he was the anomaly in Sherlock's otherwise cold and friendless world. Apparently not.

He sat down heavily on the bed, running a hand through his hair, and closed his eyes, trying to think. Sherlock had been so upset in the inn earlier. John had never seen him so pained, so out of control. The detective always maintained the outward illusion of being in total control of any given situation, and it had slightly scared John just how far out of his comfort zone he had appeared to be. Maybe the fear, so evident in the way he shook as he held his tumbler, accounted for his snapping at John.

He pondered for a while. It was indeed possible. However, there was also the possibility that Sherlock had meant it, every single word. He didn't have friends. He didn't want friends. He was happy being alone, an island amongst men, not wanting to show any sort of vulnerability to anyone.

That word – vulnerability – clicked in John's mind, and he was immediately transported back to that night, by the poolside. A night that he didn't allow himself to ever think of, but he was unable to fight his brain at that moment, as the images came flooding back, almost as if he were actually there again. Sherlock pointing the gun directly at Moriarty, that sick smile creeping across the psychopath's face.

"I will burn... the heart... out of you."

"I've been reliably informed that I don't have one."

"But we both know that's not quite true."

John hadn't really thought much about those words at the time. He'd been too busy concentrating on how the hell they were going to escape the frightening situation they'd found themselves in. But now, they resonated in his head. What had Moriarty meant? Why had Sherlock not argued with him?

It was too ridiculous, too crazy a concept, to imagine that Moriarty had meant... him. Wasn't it?

Yet somehow, it all fit into place. The look that had crossed Sherlock's face when he had seen John appear, wrapped in Semtex. A brief glimpse of betrayal, before realising what was really going on. And then just pure, abject terror. It was a look that John had never seen before. Sherlock hadn't cared a jolt about the other people whose lives had been at stake during The Great Game. But he'd cared then. He had absolutely cared. And maybe, that amount of caring for someone else had frightened him.

Caring is not an advantage. He'd heard those words so many times. And maybe Sherlock had decided that he had to somehow stop caring, to stop himself getting hurt.

Suddenly rather impressed with his own deductive skills – presuming they were correct, of course – John hastily got to his feet, checking the time – not that Sherlock was likely to be asleep anyway – before making his way to his friend's hotel room.

Someone was banging at his door. Sherlock was vaguely aware of the noise as he stared at the ceiling, lost in his thoughts. He was tempted to tell them to bugger off, and opened his mouth to do so, when he heard the voice.

"Sherlock? Are you in there?"

John. John wanted to talk. Sherlock could feel himself start to shake a little again, nervous of confrontation but also eager to see his doctor, his blogger, to try and attempt to explain everything. How he was going to do that, he had no idea, but he guessed now was as good a time as any.

He sat up and rolled his head, easing out the cricks in his neck before making his way to the door and unlocking it, allowing John in. The man was bright eyed, looking excited about something and he pushed past Sherlock into the main area of his bedroom, turning on his heel and staring at him, almost hopefully, Sherlock thought.

"I've figured it out," he explained, noting the puzzled look on Sherlock's face.

He couldn't help but raise a sceptical eyebrow. "The Hound?"

John chuckled. "No, you idiot. I'm not that smart. No, I've figured out why you are... the way you are. At least, I hope I have."

Sherlock said nothing, feeling a knot forming in his stomach. He was keen to hear the doctor's interpretation of his ridiculous actions from earlier on. Maybe his explanation would amuse him, give him a small giggle, before he attempted to really explain how he felt, something that felt so frightening for the high-functioning sociopath that he was almost delighted that John had provided a welcome distraction, something to focus on before his inevitable failure.

"Would you... would you like to hear it?" John asked, suddenly unsure.

"Please, go ahead," Sherlock said, sitting awkwardly on the edge of his bed and motioning for John to continue.

John stood rather stiffly, suddenly seeming a little awkward himself as he realised he had just barged into his friend's room to explain his feelings to him – it maybe was a little odd, but Sherlock seemed happy to hear what he had to say, and so he continued on.

"It's all because of Moriarty, isn't it?"

That got Sherlock's attention, and he stared up at him. John, sensing he was at least on the right lines, gave a quick smile.

"At the pool, when he said he would burn the heart out of you... when he insisted that you had one... he meant me, didn't he?" Sherlock continued to say nothing, his sharp eyes piercing like daggers, making John feel suddenly very exposed and uncomfortable. "I mean, I don't mean that... I don't mean he meant that you... you know. But, if you have friends, if you have someone that you care about, then that's a weakness that Moriarty can manipulate. He can seize it and he can make your life difficult. And so, when you realised that Moriarty knew that you do have a friend, then you decided that you needed to step back. Become unreachable and cold again, in case anything happened to me... and then you wouldn't get hurt."

This was ridiculous. John had seen everything. Well, he'd got one tiny thing wrong, but that was beside the point. He had read Sherlock like a book, something no one else had been able to do before, and he'd seen how much the feelings that Sherlock had, had terrified him.

Sherlock assessed him, stood in front of him, looking breathless, excited but nervous, knowing that he had cracked it. Sherlock was under no doubt that John knew full well that he had hit the nail on the head. That amazing, wonderful man had crept inside of Sherlock's soul and analysed everything, seen past the fact that Sherlock had been so utterly nasty to him and tried to understand why. He hadn't given up on him, hadn't left him. He'd tried to understand him.

He stood up, taking two short steps towards John, suddenly stood right in front of him so that the doctor had to look up at him, his eyes focussed, a small smile on his lips, a questioning look about him. Sherlock felt shaky all over again, unable to process this new information accurately, that someone cared enough about him to, once again, try to help and fathom him out.

John looked suddenly nervous now. "Sherlock, are you okay?" he asked quietly. "You look..."

He had no time to finish that sentence, as in the space of not even half a second, Sherlock was suddenly upon him, lips pressed gently but urgently against his own in a chaste but still somehow demanding kiss. John was hardly aware of his own arms wrapping around the detective, bringing him closer and moving backwards slightly so he was pinned against the wall, one of Sherlock's hands on his shoulder, the other in his hair, deftly stroking through the short blonde locks as he ran his tongue along John's lip. Gasping, John instinctively opened his mouth a little, allowing their tongues to meet, hesitantly at first, before Sherlock became more demanding, pressing against John as his tongue explored his mouth. John could barely form a cohesive thought, could barely understand why on earth this was happening. He was vaguely aware of thinking that Irene and Moriarty were quite wrong – there was no way this man was a virgin. He groaned a little as Sherlock rutted against him, neither of them at the height of arousal by any means, but still able to feel the other.

And just as suddenly, Sherlock was away from him, looking like a deer caught in headlights, stood two feet back, just staring at John in horror. John panicked briefly, wondering if Sherlock regretted it, then immediately wondering why he didn't...

"John... god, I'm so sorry," Sherlock gulped, suddenly looking anywhere but at him. "I just... it's all these feelings... I can't... I don't know how to make them stop..."

John breathed a small sigh of relief, and, as if approaching a frightened rabbit, made his way slowly towards Sherlock, who was now once again perched on the end of the bed, looking distraught and guilty. He refused to look at John as he sat beside him, but he gave a small start as John gently took his hand in his own, interlacing his fingers through the long, white ones, and giving his hand a small squeeze.

"It's okay Sherlock, really."

"No it isn't," Sherlock moaned, still not looking at him. "You were right, John. Of course you were right. But I'd decided I couldn't let that man take from me the one person who has always been there for me, my only friend. And now I've gone and driven you away of my own accord."

"I'm still here, aren't I?" John reminded him quietly. "You haven't driven me away."

"Not yet," Sherlock sighed. "But once you've had time to process it, you'll go."

"I don't think so," John said, unable to help the small smile flickering at his mouth. Finally, out of curiousity, Sherlock hesitantly turned to face him, and was met with the warm, happy face of John Watson. He certainly didn't look scared, or angry. His eyes sparkled just as they did when he'd entered the room a few minutes before. His face was open and honest, and Sherlock dared to hope, just for one second...

"You did get one thing wrong," he said quietly. "I didn't try to push you away so that I wouldn't get hurt. I did it for you. I thought that if Moriarty decided you weren't that important to me anymore, you'd be safe."

Bizarrely, John was rather touched at that, despite the fact that the outcome would have been that he ended up falling out with Sherlock, if his original plan had worked out.

"I think I can take care of myself," John said softly, squeezing Sherlock's hand again. "I know you Holmes lot think that you're oh so clever and you work better alone, but I've always lived by the mantra that a problem shared is a problem halved. I have a feeling we'll be more dangerous as a partnership than you could ever be on your own."

"A partnership?" Sherlock echoed, and John grinned.

"One thing at a time, Sherlock. I wouldn't want to overwhelm your delicate emotions."

Sherlock huffed, but leaned into John, who put an arm around his shoulders and gently hugged him into his body, his fingers holding on tight to his bicep. It felt strange to feel this vulnerable in front of another human being but, with John, it also felt sort of... right. He knew that John would never abuse any trust, would always fight his corner, and would always be there. He'd proved that enough times now, hadn't he?