Dr. John Watson stepped out of the airport and took a deep breath, reveling in the cool, London air. His month long trip to Afghanistan to help with the set up and organization of a military hospital had been marginally preferable to his previous time there, he wasn't getting shot at a least, but it was still distressing. Bodies came in horribly scarred from the battlefield, the heat and dust oppressed everything, and the flood of memories and worry had been so strong that his hand had shook so badly he could barely hold a pencil for the first few days until he sunk into soldier mode. In short, he was very happy to be home.

Hoisting his bag onto his shoulder, John peered around for a taxi. He had entertained a ridiculous idea that Sherlock might have come to greet him, but there was no sign of the tall detective. Sherlock had been quietly opposed to John's going, sulking for days and having to be reminded of the fact that John was leaving for, yes, four weeks Sherlock, yes, it's for a good cause, no that's not ridiculous, and no, you can't get Mycroft to change it.

John really shouldn't have expect any airport greeting. Even if Sherlock did, when he was in a good mood, consider John up a friend and bestowed a few more smiles on John than he did to most people, Sherlock was not one for sentiment. Still, it would have been nice to be welcomed home. And it would have assuaged John's fear that Sherlock had managed to blow up the flat and himself in John's absence.

Sighing, John began looking for a taxi. At that moment though, he spotted a plain black van car with a certain British government official's assistant leaning against it, texting. Well, apparently John was going to be greeted at the airport, even if the gesture did come from the wrong Holmes. And anyway, Sherlock would be waiting at home. At that thought John couldn't help but smile and began to make his way towards the car.

"Sherlock?" John called, a bounce in his step even as he dragged his suitcase up the steps. "Are you in?"

No reply from 221B. Deflating slightly, John pushed open the door, only to find Sherlock Holmes himself lying on the sofa in his thinking pose, fingers steepled under his chin and eyes fixed unblinkingly on the ceiling.

"Hello there," grinned John, dumping the bag and making his way over to peer down at Sherlock. "You managed to survive on your own then?"

He waited for a reply, but none came. Sherlock continued to mimic a marble statue. The happy warmth that had been building in John the closer he had come to the flat started to dissipate.

"Sherlock?"

Nothing.

And there continued to be nothing for the next hour as John gave up, took a shower, unpacked, and started to wash some of his clothes. John was just about to make himself a cup of tea, when he heard Sherlock finally speak abruptly from to sofa.

"John, could you hand me my phone?"

John leaned out of the kitchen to peer at Sherlock curiously. Had he heard him correctly?

"Sorry?"

"Phone. It's on the table."

Nonplussed, John went over to the table and passed Sherlock the phone. With barely a nod, Sherlock took it and began texting rapidly. John watched him.

"Is that all?" he couldn't help but ask.

"Yes, thank you," Sherlock said absently. He stood and started towards his bedroom, still texting. "Oh and we're out of milk."

It wasn't that John had expected some elaborate welcome home or emotional reaction, but he had expected Sherlock to... well, react. After all, John had been gone a month in a warzone, didn't that merit a hello or something at least? When Sherlock had returned after a two-year absence, John had certainly reacted to the tune of a serious right hook and an hour of shouting, although the circumstances had been slightly different. John hadn't been pretending to be dead and had set a date for his return.

Nevertheless Sherlock went on as if nothing had happened. He did experiments, complained he was bored, played violin at odd hours of the night, and frequently demanded John fetch him items or make tea. After a couple days, John realized he was just going to have to accept the fact that Sherlock hadn't seemed to notice his absence.

Then, three days after John had returned, Lestrade phoned with a particularly strange murder involving a woman and her two cats. Sherlock of course was overjoyed, and John happily tagged along, feeling some of the tension from being back in Afghanistan slip away in the wake of the familiar routine.

Unlike Sherlock's complete lack of reaction at John's homecoming, upon seeing John walking towards the crime scene, Lestrade looked like he might cry with joy.

"John," he said, shaking his hand. "Welcome back. Blimy it's good to have you here."

Slightly, bemused, John noticed a number of the Yarders also smile and nod approvingly at his return.

"Thanks very much Greg," John replied, "but hang on, am I missing something? Why is everyone so pleased I'm back?"

Lestrade looked at him like he should already know the answer.

"Sherlock," he said. "He's been in a right state. Honestly, it's been worse than I've ever seen him. Insulting everyone, picking fights, terrifying witnesses, going off on his own, and generally wreaking even more havoc than usual. He and Anderson got into a row about a week after you left, shouting and everything. We had to bring in someone else to do forensics. Sherlock then went and made the replacement cry in about five minutes, and we had to get Anderson back and just accept the shouting."

John stared at Lestrade. "Are you serious?"

Lestrade nodded. "It's been terrible. He's hasn't said anything yet today, now that you're here, so naturally everyone's glad to have you back."

John shook his head. "Don't think it's me. I don't think I have much of an effect."

Frowning slightly, Lestrade turned to look at John. "What do you mean? Of course you do."

"Well, Sherlock barely seemed to notice when I walked in the door, and so far, hasn't given any sign he noticed I was gone."

"That's odd." Lestrade continued to frown. "He acted like he really—"

"Of course!" Sherlock suddenly shouted, "Come on, we've got to catch him before he gets the man with the dog down the street!" and bolted from the scene as the Yarders tried to figure out what was going on, and John followed right behind.

The next day, John entered the flat, laden down with groceries. Honestly, Sherlock didn't even seem to have bought bread in the month John was gone. If it wasn't for a takeaway box from Angelo's in the trash, John would have worried that Sherlock had not eaten anything in that time.

The flat was very quiet and tense as John pushed his way inside to fine the reason standing in the middle of the sitting room, staring down Sherlock.

"Come now Sherlock," Mycroft Holmes said exasperatedly. "You've got no other cases." He glanced at John. "Good evening Dr. Watson."

John nodded, said hello in response, and continued on into the kitchen.

Mycroft returned his attention to his younger brother, who was sitting in his armchair and resolutely ignoring him. "It's a small matter."

"Then why don't you do it?"

"Because I have other things to do. You on the other hand, do not."

"No."

"You were willing to help last week," Mycroft sighed.

"That was different. Good evening Mycroft." Sherlock's voice took on a note of warning, and John heard him stand up and retreat into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. Mycroft sighed.

Curiously John poked his head into the sitting room.

"Everything alright?"

"Fine thank you," replied Mycroft in a clipped tone as he turned to leave.

"Thank you, by the way," John called after him. "For the car."

"Yes, of course. My brother insisted, in repayment for a few favors, though I had already ordered one."

John blinked and came the rest of the way out of the kitchen to stare at Mycroft.

"Sherlock's been doing you favors so you'd send a car for me?"

"And give him frequent updates on your condition, yes."

"Oh. Ok."

Slightly dazed, John didn't notice Mycroft bid him goodbye and leave. Frequent updates? Wreaking havoc at the Yard? Feeling as if he needed a bit more information, John found Mrs. Hudson down stairs making tea.

"John dear," she smiled at him. She had given him a warm hug when he returned and had being bringing them tea much more frequently, despite not being their housekeeper. John also suspected it was only due to her that the flat had not been overrun completely by dust in his absence. "Fancy a cuppa?"

"No thanks Mrs. Hudson," John smiled back. "I was just wondering... what's Sherlock been like this past month?"

Mrs. Hudson peered at him. "I don't think he's been using if that's what you're worried about."

"No, no, I— just was curious."

"Hmm, well he hasn't been pleasant, that's for sure. Messing about with experiments, firing bloody holes into my wall again, shouting at anyone who came near. He was in a right strop. Kept playing sad songs on his violin at all hours. The things he's been playing now are much nicer, though I do wish he wouldn't play them so late. Doesn't it wake you up, John?"

"I don't really mind it," John shook his head. "Since I've been back, I've only heard him playing when—" John paused, considering, "when I wake up from a nightmare." In fact those soft, sweet song were what had led him out of his nightmares, renewed by Afghanistan, since he'd been home.

"Well that's nice then, dearie." Mrs. Hudson patted John on the arm and bustled off, leaving John to make his way up the stairs, lost in thought.

Sherlock had emerged now that Mycroft was gone and was pacing about the sitting room, muttering to himself. John watched the detective move, all long limbs and bouncing black curls, his silk shirt shimmering slightly in the light.

Then, as Sherlock passed close to him, John stepped forward and did the craziest and most natural thing he had ever done in his life.

He kissed Sherlock Holmes lightly on the lips.

It was very quick, and then John stepped back and calmly went past a frozen Sherlock into the kitchen to put the kettle on. He supposed he should feel more awkward or be having an identity crisis or something, but he felt very at ease, as if what had happened was inevitable, and well, John had always had the sense there might be something more to his feelings towards his flatmate ever since he defended him from a homicidal cabbie.

John heard Sherlock enter the kitchen very hesitantly.

"John?" he asked quietly, but with a hint of curiosity, like he was not quite sure what had just happened.

Not pausing in his task, John answered with the sentiment that had been on his tongue from the moment his plane had touched down on English soil. "When I was in Afghanistan, I didn't miss cool weather. I didn't miss the lull of traffic noises, I didn't miss tea—"

John caught Sherlock's raised eyebrow at that and grinned.

"Alright, I did miss tea, but I didn't miss going on dates with women or even really my own bed. I just missed you. And I thought I should let you know."

Sherlock didn't move, his eyes glazed over in the way he did when he was thinking about something and a slight frown on his face. Now John did start to feel a bit hot under the collar, but he had no regrets and damn it if he was going to back down now.

The kettle whistled, and John poured the hot water into a cup and added a teabag.

"You can do what you like with that," he said, picking up the tea and moving to go back into the sitting room. "It doesn't have to be mentioned again."

But John only got two steps from the doorway to the sitting room when the tea was unceremoniously plucked from his hands, he was seized by the shoulders, and Sherlock was standing very close, his forehead pressed against John's, looking down at the shorter man.

"I missed you too, John," Sherlock whispered, moving even closer, his breath just ghosting over John's lips. "I'm not good at saying it, but I did. More than you can possibly imagine." Then he leaned in and kissed John for all he was worth.

John for his part was caught by surprise and couldn't do much more than wrap his arms as tightly as possible around Sherlock's waist, pulling their bodies closer. There was a flash of teeth against John's lip and he let out a small moan, and unconsciously bucked his hips. Sherlock gasped and pulled back.

"I—" Gasping for breath, John seemed to be having as much trouble scrambling for words as he was for air. "Um, I didn't mean that you had to... you don't have to—"

Sherlock shut him up with a deep kiss, this time his tongue sneaking into John's mouth in a way that made John's knees go weak and the doctor glad he was suddenly pressed solidly against the wall.

"I don't do anything I'm not sure about John," Sherlock murmured, pulling back with a hint of a smirk. "I want to. Do you?"

John took one look at that know-it-all smirk, the pale, gleaming eyes, and those damn cheekbones, and grinned.

"Oh God yes."

Sherlock grinned back and started placing kisses along John's jaw and neck.

"And," he murmured in between, as John ran a hand through his dark curls. "Just so it's clear, you are never going back to Afghanistan. However many favors for Mycroft it takes."