Chapter 1

Sherlock woke up on the couch to the sound of John letting out a petrified shriek. He jumped up out of shock and nearly fell face first on the floor while throwing the thin blanket across the room and rushing up the stairs towards John's room. He flung opened the door to see the dark silhouette of John sitting strait up and breathing heavily. Sherlock rushed across the room and embraced John. He was trembling and in the midst of a series of cold sweats.

"Night terrors?" Sherlock softly asked as he held John in his arms. He felt John nod his head as he felt quivering hands grasp the back of his shirt as if he were holding on for dear life. Sherlock sat next to John on the bed and reached over to turn on the lamp that was on the end table.

"Would you prefer to talk about it?" Sherlock asked with a note of concern in his voice, well aware what they were about. John shook his head, much to Sherlock's relief. Sherlock took John's hand in his two. He didn't like to see John this was: so obviously deeply upset. It reminded Sherlock of why he was upset and that was a road that Sherlock tried to avoid altogether although it still haunted John's nightmares even though it had been three weeks since Sherlock's return. Sherlock had hoped that things would get better sooner. He was wrong. At least he had the sense to come back to John in the first place. Now he owed it to John to make him feel better the best he could, but even more then that Sherlock just couldn't stand to see John, his very own blogger, so upset. It tormented his heart.

Sherlock looked at John with almost pleading eyes. Please don't be upset John. Things are alright now, see? I'm back. I'm not going anywhere. Moriarty is gone. I'm not going to leave again.

"Would you like me to get my violin? I could play if you think that would be of help." He was willing to do anything to make John feel better.

"No" John said in an almost silent whisper. "I just… I don't want you to leave." He looked up at Sherlock and Sherlock could feel his heart melt and break at the same time. John's eyes held so much emotion and depth. He could express a multitude of feeling just with a glance. Sometimes a glance was all Sherlock needed.

Sherlock nodded and pulled a chair over to the bed. John lay back down but never let go of Sherlock's hand. Sherlock didn't mind. He turned out the lamp and watched John sleep; watched the gentle rise and fall of his chest. He watched the flutter of John's eyes while he was dreaming and pondered what he was dreaming about. He could see the smile slowly return to John's lips and couldn't help but smile himself. I presume something good, he thought to himself. It's about time. Sherlock could feel John's grip around his hand tighten and he watched John for a moment to make sure he wasn't slipping into another night terror. After a few seconds John had calmed himself down and Sherlock himself was able to relax again and refocus on the rise and fall of John's chest.

Chapter 2

Sherlock sat on the couch with the Sunday paper as he saw John emerge from the doorway. John walked across the room into the kitchen with a dazed and somewhat sleep deprived look on his face. Sherlock took one last glance at his paper before tossing it to the floor. He walked across the room next to John.

"Good morning," John cheerfully exclaimed although his face seemed much less enthusiastic. Your hair is matted and chaotic as though you haven't slept in more than a few hours at best. The dark circles under your eyes would confirm that hypothesis. Your t-shirt (you own a t-shirt?) is wrinkled as though you've been moving around while sleeping or trying to sleep and overall, you look exhausted. You don't have a morning voice which tells me that you've been up for quite some time or that you never went to bed, although you obviously tried because you are dressed in only a t-shirt and boxers. And you slightly blushed when I walked up behind you just now which states that you are rather embarrassed about your appearance this morning although that's hardly necessary. I've seen you in much worse conditions. Why are you having trouble sleeping? Is it due to night terrors? Likely, although I didn't hear you wake up last night. It's possible that I slept through it; I did find that I needed rest last night, although given the state of most of your night terrors you probably would have woken up screaming and awake me from any sort of slumber. Either way, can we call this progress? "Good morning," Sherlock replied. He stared into John's eyes. He found himself fascinated by their simple beauty; the way that the deep brown looked so dark yet so inviting, like they invited you closer.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" Sherlock suddenly snapped back into focus and looked at John, who was obviously confused.

"Quite fine. Why wouldn't I be?" Sherlock found himself looking at John's face this time. His lips particularly, and it had occurred to him just how much he wanted to touch them with his own. Even to trace their outline with his fingertips would be enough.

"Well, you jumped up from the couch and then came over here apparently to stare at me." Sherlock watched as John's jaw moved while he spoke. He thought about how it would feel to trace John's jawline with his tongue, to kiss his neck even. Focus.

"Just thinking" Sherlock said in a hushed tone as he studied John. He tried to soak in every detail, everything he could. Whenever John thought he wasn't paying attention it was usually quite the opposite. Sherlock paid so much attention to John that he tried to mind every detail, every idiosyncrasy that he had. He tried to pay attention to the sound of his voice, the way that he spoke and the way that he composed himself, which happened to be slightly different around Sherlock then it was for other people. With Sherlock he was more opened and Sherlock couldn't help but wonder, fanaticize even, why that might be.

A soft buzzing came from the table and Sherlock looked over at his phone. "Lestrade has a case for us" he said without checking his phone. "He must be fairly desperate if he's calling at this hour." Out of the corner of his eye he say John look over that the time. It was a little before eight in the morning.

Sherlock walked over and checked his phone. "Come to my office ASAP. There's been a murder." Sherlock glanced back at John who was already walking back in his room, presuming to put on pants, and get his coat.

As they walked into Lestrade's office Sherlock couldn't help but feel excited. There were hardly ever any good cases and through the urgent tone of Lestrade's message Sherlock couldn't help but feel intrigued. But at the same time, he couldn't help but to have a weird nervous feeling at the pit of his stomach that had never occurred before. He considered the possibility that he might have been ill but there were no other symptoms. Had I been ill there would have been nausea, a fever of some sort, heat flashes perhaps…? Therefore, until other symptoms appear, I can rule out any sickness as to the cause. He looked down at his feet for a brief moment pondering the cause of his sudden sickness before brushing off the subject and entering Lestrade's office with the loud bang of the wooden door hitting the wall.

"God, Sherlock. Do you have to do that? I just got the last hole you made plastered up." Lestrade looked up at him annoyed. There was a paper in his hands, a cuppa sitting on a stack of paperwork, and his feet were rested on his desk.

"You texted about a case?" Sherlock got straight to the point. There was no such thing as time worth wasting and Lestrade looked as though he's just come to from a nap.

"Ah, yes." He took a sip of his cuppa. "We got a rather interesting case that you might want to hear about this time." He dropped his feet from his desk and started sifting through one of the many stacks of folders on his desk. "We got a call yesterday about an old abandon warehouse. The neighbors said that they started hearing things at night in there so we decided to go and check it out. It's been a slow week so we figured why not? Anyways, we had a stakeout going on when one of the officers noticed a light inside of the building. So we decided to go into it. Anyways, to make long story short the guy fled as soon as we opened the door and the only thing that was in the warehouse was a car. We don't know whose it is. Apparently its last registered owners died in 2009."

"This hardly sounds like your division, Lestrade. Why do you need me?" Sherlock's interest started to wane.

"I'm getting to that. Hold on. Anyways, so we examine the car and we open up the trunk only to find that there's over one million pounds of counterfeit currency." Greg's voice had a worried edge to it, the way it usually did when his own team of officers couldn't figure out the case for themselves and he needed to rely on the work of Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded his head. That was all he needed to know in order to figure out the rest on his own. "So you want us to examine the car and see who we can gather as potential suspects." He hardly waited for Lestrade to nod his head before walking out the door towards the evidence locker's in the below section of the building. Had he been able to see John from where he was standing he might have noticed how John had given a little grin when Sherlock said "us" or how his cheeks became a little rosier.

"So here it is" Lestrade announced with a lack of emotion as he gestured to the pale green Volkswagen Beetle to his right. Sherlock circled the vehicle a few times before returning to John's side with his hands in his trench coat pockets.

"What do you know about it so far?" Sherlock's tone wasn't necessarily harsh but it was defiantly skipping any formalities what would have been considered the acceptable way to behave.

"Um… not much," Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a heavy sigh. "It's just a 2008 Volkswagen Beetle. There isn't too much to say about it. Oh, but there is one thing. We can't find any of the registration for the car. It's like it wasn't even on the assembly line according to the company."

"Are the mechanics of it functioning properly?" Sherlock asked as he circled the car. Scuff marks on the driver's side door handle but not the passengers': the car was usually driven alone. The interior is in rather good shape for a car of its age, so it was cared for. Grey marks on the roof on both the driver's and passengers' side; a smoker. The car doesn't smell: must have been cleaned recently by a car dealership. A local cleaners wouldn't have done that well of a job.

"As far as we can tell they are. The mechanic won't get here till tomorrow morning but she starts up and seems to drive alright." Sherlock scoffed at Lestrade's less-then-adequate answer.

"Well that's a stupid mistake on your part. There are hundreds of mechanics out there, just go and yell for one." Sherlock's tone became harsh and John grabbed his forearm as if to tell him to stop.

"Why not allow me a look under the hood." It was more a statement then a question and Sherlock nodded in response, suddenly finding himself mute.

John leaded over to open the hood of the car and Sherlock couldn't help but stare at the tightness of John's jeans against his arse. In that moment his mind clouded with the thought of pulling John into him in a deep embrace. He wanted to hold him, to rest his own hands against John's waist and hips. He wanted John as close to him as he could possibly be and he wanted above all else to explore under his grey knit jumper with his own hands.

Greg cleared his throat, breaking Sherlock's already redirected thought process. Sherlock picked his head up quickly and looked over at Lestrade who had one eyebrow raised and a broad smile on his face. He gesture to John and then back at Sherlock with his eyes. Sherlock was about to protest when he realized that he was biting his bottom lip rather hard. Damn you Lestrade. I swear if you tell him…

"Well," John spoke with a firm conviction. "I can't find anything wrong with it so far. Of course I've only given it a onceover but still, nothing seems to be screaming out at me." He turned towards Sherlock and Greg while he smeared car oil onto his jeans in an attempt to clean his hands. Sherlock couldn't meet either of their eyes, an abnormal thing for the man who always gets in everybody's face, and Greg was giggling to himself off to the side. "Did I miss something?"

"No," Sherlock abruptly spoke out. "There was nothing wrong with the car?"

"Nothing, it seems perfectly fine to me." John's eyes seemed to darken into a nearly black whirlpool with traces of brown outlining detail in the iris and Sherlock felt his stomach tighten up into knots as he subtly studied the curvature of John's jawline. As John spoke he could see the muscles work in his neck and Sherlock found a nearly overwhelming urge to just brush his hand against the back of John's neck.

"Aright," Sherlock let out a frustrated sigh. "Lestrade, you're going to need to dust for prints upon the entire car, not just the door handle and wheel. The car hasn't been made by a manufacturer, although it has been made with seemingly quality parts so we're looking for a person who will have access to an auto body shop most likely. Have your team of monkeys work on that. Other than that the car is an open book. The scratches in the paint tell me that your driver is rather short male and often dressed for an office job; presumably one of management. Look for any highly paid workers with a criminal background." He shot a glance over at John and then looked back at Lestrade. "I assume we're done here now?"

Lestrade nodded, still with a smile on his face. Sherlock suddenly felt sick to his stomach and he looked over at Lestrade from behind John's back with pleading eyes. Don't tell him. Please, Lestrade. I've never begged for anything before in my life but I would beg you not to tell him.

Chapter 3

He sat in his chair, his knees pressed into his chest, as he watched John from afar. His mind raced through all the possible outcomes of expressing his feelings to John, reject being the most frightening of course. He worried what would become of their friendship if that was the course that this would lead to. Sherlock also thought of the other possibility. His feelings could be reciprocated, although he thought that that was highly unlikely. Still, if he weren't the one to tell John then he had reason to believe that Lestrade would be left to it and, while Sherlock liked Lestrade, he didn't trust him to be the one to give away Sherlock's secret.

Sherlock practically jumped out of his chair and strode over to John who seemed deeply engaged in his book. It took a few seconds before John could sense Sherlock's presents behind him and he turned around to see the detective staring at him, his eyes filled with a nervous dread.

"Can you help me with a social experiment?" His voice caught as he finished his sentence.

"I guess so," John put his book down on the table. "But no fire this time. I don't need you nearly burning down the flat again." Sherlock couldn't help but give a slight grin at that last remark. Sometimes John knew him too well.

"No fire this time." Sherlock's heart rate increased as he thought about what he was about to do.

"Fine then," John gave a nod. "What do you need me to do?"

"Stand up and come over here." Sherlock moved back a few feet into the center of the flat. The center window in the living room let in the vibrant sunset colors that seemed to paint the walls with pinks and oranges.

"Alright" John moved out of his chair and towards Sherlock until he was close enough so that he could see every detail of Sherlock's seemingly flawless face. Sherlock's facial expression resemled what John would call fear if he hadn't known any better but Sherlock Holmes fears nothing, sometimes to the point where it wasn't to his benefit. The facial expression had started to worry him. "What exactly am I doing, Sherlock?"

Sherlock closed his eyes for a brief moment. He always loved it when John said his name; as if the two syllables carried so much emphasis and meaning and affection. Abruptly he opened his eyes again and looked a John. "I need to just to stand here. Tell me when you feel uncomfortable and I'll stop." He engaged John in a deep stare as if asking him if he understood. John gave a meek nod and Sherlock let out a shaky breath.

He took a few steps towards John, invading his personal space enough so that he could feel the exhale of John's breath. He looked into John's eyes for a caution of some kind that would indicate John being in some sort of distress but found nothing; only blind trust. He waited a few seconds before leaning in his head so that his lips hovered just above John's. He let himself exhale onto John's lips that had parted ever so slightly and John, who had previously been holding his breath, inhaled deeply. Sherlock wanted to just pin John against a wall right then and there. He wanted to just hold him and feel John's teeth clash against his own in a deep kiss but he stopped himself, pulling back slightly to look at John again. There was something new, a different emotion that was held in the expression on his face. If it were anybody but John he would have called it a lust but this was John, his John, and he had to be sure before doing anything rash. Slowly, he leaned in again this time managing to brush his lips against John's. They were soft and warm and inviting and Sherlock wanted more. He was about to lean in again when-

"Sherlock" a soft voice called out. Sherlock pulled back, somewhat pained that he had reached the limits. He had so much of a lust for John and looked into his eyes almost as though it were a window into his soul. "In this experiment," John put air quotes around experiment. So he knew it wasn't real, not that it changed it from happening. "Am I allowed to touch you back?" There was a thirst in his voice that had Sherlock at a loss for words for a moment.

"If that's what you want." Sherlock looked at John who had a smile on his face. He placed his hand on Sherlock's arm and moved Sherlock's hand so that it wrapped around his waist. Sherlock felt his hand skim over the soft feeling of John's white jumper all the way to the skin underneath until it rested on John's hip. Even through the jumper Sherlock could feel the warmth radiate off of his body. His stomach tightened and he leaned into John until their lips collided into each other. Sherlock could feel John brush his hands through his own hair. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's waist and pulled him closer so that they were practically grinding. Sherlock let his hands explore John's back over the jumper and brushed his hands over John's shoulder blades. All the while John moved his own hands down to the small of Sherlock's back.

John broke the kiss and for a moment Sherlock thought he went too far, but John rested his head against Sherlock's chest and breathed in wisps of honey scent from his purple button-down shirt. "Sherlock," his voice was muffled by Sherlock's shirt. "Something's been bothering me for a while now. We need to talk about it before this goes on."

Sherlock looked down at John and rubbed his back between his shoulder blades with the palm of his hand. "And what would that be?"

John's eyebrows furrowed and he gripped Sherlock a little bit tighter before continuing. "You've been gone for a while: three years in fact."

"I am aware of that, John." Sherlock looked slightly confused as to what John was getting at.

"All I'm saying… three years is a lot of time, Sherlock. Haven't you established some sort of life somewhere else while you were gone? Won't you miss it?" There was an obvious pain in the doctor's voice. He worried every day and night that Sherlock would decide that he should leave or that one day he would walk downstairs to find a goodbye note of some sort with some sappy line about how 'their paths may cross again someday' but he couldn't help but ask. Perhaps the only thing worse than Sherlock leaving him was Sherlock staying because of guilt.

"John," Sherlock whispered the name as he kissed John's forehead. "I don't think you could ever know what it was like for me. I was never far, and I did try. I tried to move on but knowing how broken I left you made me realize how much I cared for you also. I never moved on. You were on my mind every time I took a breath. Every breath I took, I took it for you."