**I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters within it.**

He stood stock still on the pavement and stared, the gold lettering of 221B glittering back at him from the unusual London sun. He'd never before been nervous to walk through that sleek black door, normally feeling relieved to finally cross the threshold after a particularly long, or stressful or Sherlock-free day. Those were probably the worst. Sherlock-free days were the absolute worst.

But today, things were different. Well, sure, things might not be that different. Sherlock was most likely upstairs right now bent over a microscope, measuring how much mold had grown since the last time he checked the week before. Or maybe he was lighting up the Bunsen burner John had warned him not to use in the flat because he really just wanted to see what eyeballs looked like when they were held to a flame. Or maybe he was on the couch, eyes closed, fingers steepled under his chin, dressing gown splayed out around him like a giant silk puddle.

Christ, John could only pray that he wasn't in his Mind Palace right now. That could throw this whole plan off entirely.

He didn't want to have to coax Sherlock into listening to him. He didn't want to have to ask and wait for eternity for Sherlock to reply, sigh heavily, then slowly roll himself up to a sitting position and stare at John with such irritation that there was no way it didn't physically hurt him.

Today, John prayed that Sherlock was in the process of blowing up the kitchen. Or cooking a liver in the microwave. Or even dipping one of John's jumpers in acid, claiming it was an experiment when really he just wanted the bloody thing destroyed. At least then Sherlock would be on high alert and not deep in his head. At least then he would be coherent enough to respond immediately to John's voice. At least then John wouldn't feel miserable right before he popped the question.

That's right. Today, John Watson was proposing to Sherlock Holmes.

He rolled the gold ring he'd just picked up from the shop around in his pocket with his thumb and forefinger, rubbing the precious, simple metal he wasn't even sure Sherlock would agree to wear.

He didn't have to.

John didn't care if he wore it or not.

He just wanted it to be in his possession. To sit somewhere near him, like a drawer or a tabletop. Somewhere Sherlock knew where it was and could know what it meant. John wouldn't even mind if he observed it under the microscope. As long as it was in his life somehow, John would be grateful.

And yet again, John's thoughts spiraled out of control for the umpteenth time in the past few months. He was nervous. So incredibly nervous, he found it necessary to go over their entire history in his head over and over again to make sure he hadn't missed anything. To make sure Sherlock would want this. To be totally and completely certain that Sherlock would say yes.

It had been five years coming and still, he felt uncharacteristically unsteady about the entire thing.

Well. They'd known each other for far longer then that, but five years was what they counted because for five years, they acknowledged their feelings and agreed to love each other fiercely.

John had been eighteen when he first met Sherlock. Young and dumb, John had all but foamed at the mouth when he laid eyes on the sixteen-year-old prodigy. He'd stared down at him, deciding he'd never seen anyone so gorgeous in his life, when he should have been extending a hand to the poor bastard he'd just laid out on the pavement. It had been an accident although Sherlock looked pissed off enough that John did wonder if he believed it had been intentional. John had been exiting a café and Sherlock had been texting furious on his phone, head down, not looking where he was going. John had always been a pretty solid bloke, all those years of football doing his center of gravity a great service, and Sherlock had barreled straight into his side, gone tumbling to the ground, stumbling back and landing flat on his arse, accompanied by a low oomph. John had barely waivered.

He'd felt so guilty, especially after the way Sherlock had scrambled back to his feet, shot him a glare, then took of in the other direction. Sherlock stood a head taller then him already as John straightened himself out and it didn't make the nasty look any less intimidating. It was, however, rather sexy.

They hadn't exchanged a single word, Sherlock too furious and John too distracted.

They didn't meet again until the following year.

John was just starting his second year at uni, plopping down next to a pretty blonde girl in his Chemistry lecture when a familiar dark-haired bloke waltzed in, taking a seat in the back of the hall and burying his face in a textbook. It wasn't difficult to recognize the still-gorgeous boy he'd almost knocked out.

"Hi," John had said after class ended, thinking this would be his moment to apologize for being a right prat…almost a year ago. Because that didn't seem moronic at all.

And Sherlock had clearly agreed that this was entirely moronic by the look he gave him. Icy blue eyes looked up at him from under dark curls, bowed lips thinning and eyebrows raising. "Do I know you?"

John's cheeks colored and he shook his head. "Uh…no… no you don't. I um…I sort of…well I-"

"Please do spit it out before you make me late for my next course. Although, it is Physics which I very much don't care for. But I'm beginning to think I'd rather be there then having this idiotic conversation."

"I…what?" John had been so thrown he couldn't recover what the point of this conversation had been.

Sherlock had rolled his eyes. "What. Do. You Want."

John had gaped for a full ten seconds before Sherlock had grabbed his bag, hoisted it over his shoulder and pushed right past John. It took him another thirty seconds to turn and run after him.

"Hey! Wait a minute!"

Sherlock had not waited even a second. John jogged to catch up.

"I just wanted to apologize."

That had stopped Sherlock dead in his tracks. "What?"

"I, uh, ran into you last uh…year. Well, actually, you ran into me, but I didn't really react appropriately or apologize… or even help you up. So I just wanted to say I'm sorry."

Sherlock had stared at him like he'd grown a second head and John had a terrible, sinking feeling. "I…sorry, I just wanted to… well, say I'm sorry."

"You ran into me," Sherlock said flatly.

"Well, you ran into me but…well, yes."

"A year ago."

"Yes."

"And now you're apologizing for it."

"Yes."

"A year later."

"Yes."

"Huh," was Sherlock's response, accompanied by a cocked head. "You're a bit odd."

John had actually barked out a laugh. "Seriously? You can say that to me after your little performance back there in the Chemistry room?"

Sherlock's lips had twitched. "Well you weren't able to form a coherent sentence. How was I supposed to know you weren't inherently dull like the rest of mankind?"

"True," John laughed again. "But in all fairness, I was trying to apologize for an incident that happened a year ago."

Sherlock nodded. "Well. I apologize that I do not remember said incident. Must have deleted it."

John furrowed his brow. "Deleted it? How can you delete falling on your arse?"

Sherlock had studied him for a moment longer and then said, "Want to see something interesting?"

And stupidly, at nineteen, John nodded and began walking with this strange boy. They exchanged names and ages on the way, and Sherlock explained how he'd skipped a couple grades and even though he was two years younger, technically he was in John's class. John nodded, fascinated already. John asked what he did for fun and Sherlock explained his deductions, his hard-drive of a brain and how he was able to delete things. John had been enthralled, exclaiming brilliance and excitement and John had thought he was making a friend. And maybe, if things went well, something more.

The boy was insanely good-looking and clearly very intelligent. He radiated mystery and curiosity and maybe a little danger. And quite frankly, it was doing it for John. He was becoming more attractive with every word that came out of his mouth. John had an urge to taste those words. Run his fingers through those unruly curls and touch the skull that encompassed such brilliance.

John was working up the nerve to ask Sherlock to dinner. A proper date.

Until Sherlock had deduced him.

It wasn't anything Sherlock said that put John off. John wasn't the one affected by the deduction.

Sherlock was.

"…and you want to be a doctor to help people because you're obviously a very caring person. But you crave a bit of excitement, maybe even danger, so being a general physician won't fulfill your needs. You don't come from money and you won't be able to pay off student loans with a simple job so you plan to…oh."

John had been so fascinated he had barely noticed Sherlock had paused staring at him wide-eyed. "What?"

"You've joined the army."

"Oh. Yeah. Well, not yet, I mean I have to finish my degree first and then I'll start basic training, but yeah I've been prematurely accepted and if I pass basic, I'm in. How did you-"

"I have to go."

"What? But I thought-"

"Sorry, got to dash. Good luck with everything. You'll make a great army doctor. See you."

And with that, Sherlock had turned toward the street, hailed a cab, and took off.

John had stared after, his stomach swooping in disappointment.

Sherlock had sat on the opposite side of the room in their next Chemistry class. He didn't look at John, he didn't acknowledge John, and he took off the minute the bell rang.

John ran after him, catching him by the elbow just as he turned a corner.

"Sherlock," John said urgently.

Sherlock tugged at the hold on his elbow. "Leave me alone, John."

"Come on, what's the matter? What did I do?"

Sherlock's frosty eyes softened slightly and John took the opening. "I'm sorry if I did something to offend you. It wasn't intentional."

"John, please. Please just leave me be, alright? It's for the best."

Sherlock transferred out of his Chemistry class the following week.

Or just stopped going. John couldn't be sure. And it didn't matter. Sherlock made it clear they weren't going to be friends. Or anything for that matter.

He saw Sherlock occasionally on campus after that, although he stopped trying to approach him after the third time Sherlock had ducked behind a building and disappeared when he would see John approaching.

It would be a lie to say it didn't hurt his feelings.

Although he didn't speak to Sherlock, he certainly heard a lot about him. Sherlock rapidly became a legend on campus, which made John feel even worse.

'Did you hear about that mad bastard Sherlock Holmes? He called my Biology professor an idiot and then proceeded to attempt to teach the class! Not half bad either. Although they did call security to escort him out when he refused to stop.'

'Is Sherlock Holmes in any of your classes? He's fucking insane, mate, but I gotta say, he's a genius. He finished our final assessment for the course in under ten minutes and got 100%. Kid is batshit crazy but he knows everything.'

'Did you hear about that murder over on Winchester Road? I heard Sherlock Holmes caught the killer himself. Tackled him in a restaurant. Fucking crazy, that one.'

A stab of jealousy pierced John's gut every time he heard a new story. It wasn't fair. Why was everyone else allowed to know him in some way and yet, he wouldn't even speak to John?

God but did his life sound incredible. This Sherlock, the one that everyone seemed to have a story about, this was the one John saw that day after Chemistry. This was the one that held excitement and danger and mystery. This was the one John wanted to know intimately, through and through, inside and out.

Sherlock never gave him another shot during uni.

The day after he graduated, John received his information for basic training. In three months, he would be off to begin his career as an Army Doctor.

So naturally, he would of course run into Sherlock Holmes a few days later.

Literally, run into him.

Only this time, it was John that went flying.

Sherlock was rounding a corner, sprinting as fast as his legs would carry him, and John was sauntering out of Tesco with a bag of groceries, which promptly ripped and spilled all over the ground as Sherlock drove John down to the pavement.

"Jesus Christ!" John yelped as strong hands pushed off of him, pinning him down.

"Move!" The voice boomed above him, long, spidery fingers using his chest as leverage to propel the body they belonged to back to his feet.

"Sherlock?" John asked breathlessly (having the wind knocked out of you can do that) as he focused on the tall body just about to jump over his splayed out form.

"John?" Sherlock said, glancing down. He stared for another second, then snapped his head back up. "He's getting away!"

"Who?"

"The thief!" Sherlock was already running again and John didn't even think twice.

He rolled to his belly, pushed up to his feet… and followed.

Sherlock chased an unseen figure and John chased Sherlock.

The start of their lives as partners.

John remembered that day most clearly. He could still feel the way the adrenaline pumped through his body as he followed that crazy boy down the road after an apparent criminal. It never even occurred to him that this wasn't smart. Or safe.

Sherlock tackled the man, sending his own phone skittering across the ground. "Call Lestrade!" Sherlock bellowed as John darted to grab the phone.

"Who?"

"Speed-dial four!" Sherlock was fighting hard to keep the struggling man on the ground.

John pressed four, shoved the phone into Sherlock's hand, then shoved Sherlock off the fighting suspect, wrapped his arm around the man's neck and very calmly settled him into a sleeper hold. The man crumpled to the ground within seconds.

He turned to find a wide-eyed Sherlock staring at him. A tinny voice could be heard shouting from the phone held forgotten in his hand.

"What?" John asked, furrowing his brow.

"How did you-" Sherlock seemed to stunned to complete that sentence, looking from John to the unconscious man on the ground.

John shrugged. "My dad taught me. You may want to, uh-" John motioned toward the phone and Sherlock looked down, seemingly stunned to see the mobile in his palm.

"Lestrade? Yes yes, we're at…"

And that's how it began. It took some convincing and a bit of stalking on John's part, texting and calling Sherlock, asking to attend the next case.

"Come on! You need a partner."

"No I don't."

"Yes you do. Come on, I'm fast and I can fight and I'm a doctor for Christ sakes. I'm perfect for this."

Sherlock finally acquiesced, mumbling something about how it couldn't hurt to have a doctor close by.

"Wonderful! Partners, then?" John asked hopefully.

Sherlock stared for a long moment, then nodded once sharply. "Partners," he repeated softly.

A month later, John made love to Sherlock for the first time.

A month of pure insanity, following Sherlock all over London, throwing on clothes and racing out of his flat to whatever address Sherlock texted to him, fending off attackers, stitching Sherlock up more then a few times, becoming an expert in Sherlock-speak. It had been the greatest month of his life.

They didn't speak about it the first time they kissed. It was after another chase, after another adrenaline rush. They were laughing as the police car pulled away, suspect in handcuffs in the back seat. John couldn't even remember what day it had been. It was shortly after Sherlock agreed for him to come along, he thought. Maybe a few days? To be fair, he never knew what day it was back then. Chaos will do that to your brain.

They were still laughing, turning down an alleyway, a well-known shortcut back to Sherlock's flat, when John caught Sherlock by the wrist, pressed him against the wall and snogged him into oblivion. There was no conscious thought. Only Sherlock and the light he emanated blinding him, and John wanted to kiss him. Wanted to very badly. Had always wanted to kiss him.

Sherlock paused for a moment, then responded in kind, both boys grabbing at and holding on to each other.

This continued for a few weeks. They didn't discuss it afterward. They didn't acknowledge it afterward.

But during.

Oh god, during.

Words were exchanged. Dirty, filthy words that should have been illegal coming from their mouths, but it couldn't be stopped.

"John, please," Sherlock would beg.

"Anything, Sherlock," John would respond.

"I want you so badly."

"Christ, you're so sexy when you say things like that."

"Will you fuck me John? Soon?"

"Soon, Sherlock. Oh, fuck yes, soon."

When one afternoon they ended up at Sherlock's small flat after yet another pulse-racing chase, John found himself stripped of his clothing, pushed onto the bed with a very naked Sherlock climbing into his lap.

"Today," Sherlock groaned, rubbing his cock against John's. "Please, John. Today."

"Today," John breathed against Sherlock's mouth, bucking his hips gently, moaning quietly. "Let me, Sherlock. Yes, god, let me fuck you."

A tube of lubricant and a condom was pressed into his hand and Sherlock's hands were on his own arse, spreading himself open, still sitting on his knees, straddling John. His mouth dropped open as John pressed kisses to his chest, sliding his slick fingers down the cleft of his arse. "Have you done this before?"

Sherlock nodded, already wrecked. "Yes," he breathed. "I know what I can take."

Three fingers later, Sherlock was a writhing mess in John's lap. "Now. Now, oh god, now John, I'm ready," Sherlock moaned as he wiggled against John's fingers.

John rolled the condom on, slicked his cock with extra lube, and pressed Sherlock's hips downward.

He thought it would be quick and dirty. He thought it would be over within minutes. He thought it would be much like a one-night stand.

It was none of those things.

The only word to describe it was beautiful.

Even now, it made John want to cry thinking about their first time. It had been so perfect.

Sherlock had rocked back softly, cradled gently in John's hips, whimpering the sweetest sounds John had ever heard. Sweat soaked curls stuck to his forehead as he tossed his head back, sinking further down onto John's cock. John had grabbed both his hands, lacing their fingers and Sherlock had looked down at him, biting his lip as John watched his eyes change color again and again.

It had been more then sex.

It had been more then fucking.

It had been connecting.

It had been seeing.

It had been…love.

They'd locked eyes, watching the other, both lips parted in pure ecstasy. They watched the other lose control entirely, Sherlock first, shuddering through his orgasm silently, tremors racking his body violently. John followed shortly after, thrusting up into Sherlock's body and crying out, squeezing Sherlock's hands.

They held each other until John fell asleep. When he woke, Sherlock was gone and he was alone in a flat that didn't belong to him.

John got up and walked home.

It had continued like that for the remainder of the summer. Crime solving, crazy snogging, loving sex.

They never discussed it.

John, at the time, thought it would be easier not to say anything. He'd thought with him leaving it would be easier for them to speak solely with their bodies, and it would all be fine.

It wasn't fine.

It wasn't fine when a week before he was supposed to leave, Sherlock stopped returning his text messages and calls.

It wasn't fine when John went to Sherlock's flat to find it empty.

It wasn't fine when John didn't sleep the night before he was to board a bus to his future without saying goodbye to his best friend and lover.

At two in the morning that last night, Sherlock had broken into his flat. He'd crawled into bed with John without a word, undressed them both and guided John inside his body. John took him heatedly on his back, driving long, deep strokes inside of him, barely separating their lips only long enough to breath before diving back in again.

Neither one of them mentioned the tears they both shed.

Neither one of them spoke of what would happen while John was gone.

Sherlock had wrapped around him, shuddered several shaky breaths, and fallen asleep as John stroked his hair.

John, as always, had woken up alone.

They didn't write to each other. John hadn't known what to say. Nothing would make it right. Nothing would make it better.

What he didn't know at the time was he was breaking Sherlock's heart for the second time in their lives.

John mused now that if he had known that, he would have done things differently.

But he hadn't. So he'd gone off to war. He'd become an army doctor and saved thousands of lives and trained to go into the field, to save lives while in action, and become quite the sharp shooter, and had laughed and cried and gotten drunk and never ever forgot about that beautiful summer he'd spent with Sherlock Holmes.

And then John had been shot.

Four years into his army career, John was invalided home on an army pension at age 26, scared to death of the boring and mundane life that lay ahead of him with a limp and a tremor. A life that would be outside of London seeing as he couldn't afford to live here on what he was currently being paid.

And then one day, as John was limping back to his tiny bedsit, an old friend had waved him down. They got to talking, and before John registered what was happening, he was standing in the same room as Sherlock Holmes inside of St. Bart's hospital.

"I'll leave you to it," Mike had murmured, slipping out and leaving the two of them alone.

John stared for a long moment, taking in a true sighting of Sherlock. He'd dreamed about this so many times but now, here they stood. John ran his eyes all over the man, no longer a boy, not in the least. He looked a bit older, though not much, still holding that boyish handsomeness. Still tall and gangly but somehow more built and solid. Still beautiful. Still undeniably gorgeous.

Those deep, ever-changing eyes had turned to him, flashing green suddenly and John barely registered his cane falling to the floor before his hands were on Sherlock's face.

"You got shot," Sherlock croaked, tears welling up in his eyes as he grabbed at John's body, trying to pull him closer.

"I did," John soothed, running his hands through those curls. "I did, but I'm okay. I'm home now."

Sherlock bit his lip, searching John's face. "You're not okay. You're… you're miserable."

"I was," John nodded. "I'm not now. Now, I think... I think I- I'm so sorry, Sherlock."

Sherlock shook his head, tears falling in earnest now. "I should be apologizing to you," he murmured.

"We were kids," John whispered back, pulling Sherlock's head down to rest their foreheads together. "We were young and stupid and I'm back now."

"I should have written," Sherlock whispered. "I should have…I should have kept tabs on you. I should have known."

"You were scared." And suddenly, they were saying everything they never said all those years ago.

"I was terrified," Sherlock whimpered. "We connected, John. That first damned day you spoke to me, we connected. And then I knew, I bloody knew you were going off to war and I couldn't…I couldn't watch. I couldn't be a part of it. Watching you go to battle and potentially never come home. I knew it would destroy me."

"I know," John said, because he did. He understood. He didn't back then. He did now.

"And then when school ended you were just…there. Just showing up in my life and I didn't want to say no. I didn't want to tell you to go."

"I know. I didn't want you to say no. I didn't want to go."

"And then…and then we..."

"And then we fell in love," John finished for him. Because it was the truth. And then his hands were in Sherlock's hair, and his teeth were on Sherlock's bottom lip and they were grasping at each other like teenagers. "Take me home, Sherlock," John murmured over his lips.

"221B Baker Street," Sherlock gasped. "I need a flatmate."

John had laughed and pulled back. "I need a place to live."

"Partners again?"

"Partners again."

And they had picked up right where they left off.

Only with a lot more talking.

And a lot more sex.

And now John stood outside that damn door, the one he'd walked through five years ago and promised Sherlock he'd never leave again, and now he was solidifying that promise. He was binding that promise legally.

He pushed open the door and hurried up the stairs because suddenly he wasn't so afraid anymore.

"Sherlock?" he called.

Footsteps came hurrying down the stairs from the upstairs bedroom and John had never been so happy to Sherlock's head bound in a gas mask, curls sticking out all over the place. "John?" he asked hurriedly, tugging off the mask. "What's wrong? Shouldn't you be at work?"

And just from those simple words, an emotional tidal wave crashed over John and he dropped to one knee, his eyes stinging already as he reached in his pocket and pulled out the ring. "Sherlock Holmes, will you-"

"Wait!"

John froze at Sherlock's outstretched palm, commanding him to stop talking. A cool fear ran through his body and John waited, praying to god this wasn't what it looked like. "Sh-Sherlock?" His eyes began to sting for an entirely different reason.

Sherlock glanced down at John's hand, then back to his eyes. Slowly, he dug his hand into his pocket, pulled out a small box, flicked it open and pulled out a thick, silver ring. "John," he murmured, dropping to a knee of his own. "John, I was going to…"

John glanced down at the ring in Sherlock's hand then back to his eyes. That gorgeous now-silver gaze was damp with happiness and John had never felt so much love for one person in his life.

"Husbands?" he whispered.

"Husbands," Sherlock repeated with a sharp nod.

"Yes."

"Yes."

**I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters within it.**