It's been three months since his best friend, his colleague, everything he had left him. He was all alone, again. That lonesome apartment in 221B was quiet, dreadfully quiet. The silence tore the old soldier apart, from the inside. There's no-one to sit against him by the fire in the living room, no-one to make jokes in those long, sleepless nights, no-one to care about him. He just couldn't take it. Not much longer. He'd dream about that same day, when Sherlock jumped, over and over, causing him to wake up in sweat and tears. He truly wished for another miracle, for that only person he cared about to be alive. But miracles don't happen. Not in the real life.

A while ago, Lestrade asked for some help on a murder, that would Sherlock call rather fun. He took the case. Not because he wanted to, but because he needed something to make his mind busy, something to make his thoughts slip away from Sherlock's grave. At least during the day. At night, there was nothing he could do about it. The thoughts and pictures of Sherlock jumping off that building corrupted his head as the sadness tore his heart, making it almost impossible to breathe, to live. Then, he'd shed those painful tears, that no-one but Sherlock has ever seen.

A young man, in his twenties, has been found dead in his room. He was a son of a local landlord, well known for his wealth, but also as a very strict and overall cruel man. The young man had been gambling for a while, roulette, poker, and God knows what not. But he wasn't losing. In fact, he was always winning. Always. The gun was in his hand, but they think that he didn't kill himself. He wouldn't. He didn't have a reason why.

That wall in the living room, that took Sherlock's bullets oh so many times, was covered by the case-data, pictures, everything he could find. John was staring at it, over and over, trying to find the connection, who would kill him, why. He wished Sherlock was there. He'd take less than a minute.
"Okay… ", he said slowly, "What would Sherlock do?". He was watching the wall carefully, trying to observe, not just to see.
"I'd go for the father", a familiar voice across the room was speaking. That deep voice, so calming, so relaxing. John turned around. A tall, black-haired man with so cold grey eyes, curly hair, so pale face and sharp cheekbones was leaning onto the door frame, taking off his leather gloves, smiling down at his old friend he has missed so much. "I knew you'd get there. At some point. But it took so terribly long,", he added and approached his friend that couldn't move, whose gaze was locked on Sherlock's eyes. John's hand took a shape of a fist, one that he couldn't and wouldn't control. Soon after, it met Sherlock's jaw.
"That… was to insure that I'm not dreaming", he said while Sherlock tried to deduce whether his jaw is dislocated or not, placing his hand over his chin.
"And this…", said John while sending another merciless punch to Sherlock's face, "is for leaving me for so damn long and not even bothering to let me know". The other punch caused Sherlock to hit the ground with a small moan, the 'I-deserved-that' moan. He got up, his hand still pressed on his chin, a little bit confused, but after all, tried to talk. He would talk, if he could make John stop talking.
"How could you? I don't mean anything, do I? All this time, you were using me to show off. You are a show off, I know, but really?"
"John, I…"
"I can't believe it! I thought I meant something to you. A friend, maybe. I thought you had some heart, I believed. Hell.", continued John, disallowing Sherlock to say a word.
"John.."
"I really want to beat you to your dead name. What on earth have you been thinking? Three months, Sherlock, three months! You couldn't just call me? Text me?"
"Oh, hell", said Sherlock, deducing that John won't shut up in a long time. He grabbed his arms, and pulled him tightly to himself, until there was no air between them. He pressed his lips onto John's, making him silent, obedient. John shut up long ago, but Sherlock just didn't stop. He liked soft lips of the man he has missed so much, of the only person he cares about, of the only person that matters. He slipped his tongue into John's hot mouth, exploring it, puling him closer, making their bodies touch. He moved his hands to John's hips and hugged him tightly.
"Well, that ought to do it", said Sherlock parting the kiss and gasping for air. John stood in the very spot, frozen, not believing what has just happened.
"I missed you too, Sherlock", said John between the awkward coughs, still trying to figure out what was that all about.
"I couldn't tell you, John. I wanted to. I missed you. I still do. I don't want to miss you again.", said the consulting detective, slowly walking across the living room, with his hands folded together below his chin.
"Okay. Good. Fine. Why?", said John, crossing his arms, putting himself in a defensive position.
"Those snipers weren't meant for me, John. They were meant for you and Mrs. Hudson.", said Sherlock gazing out the window, insecure and still afraid for the one he loves. Sherlock approached John closely again, too closely, lowered his head to John's ear and whispered softly "I wanted to hear your voice. I need you. More than I need anything on this planet", he moved away just a little bit, making an eye-contact, "Besides, I was lost without my blogger!", he added and smiled, in a way only he could. John broke the eye-contact trying to look away, to escape from the heat they were both feeling. Sherlock grabbed John tightly and pressed him against himself, so tightly, that it was obvious he never again wanted to lose him. He pressed John's head against his chest, making John feel his heartbeat. "I want you to look at me", said Sherlock parting them, resting one of his arms above John's waist, "I missed you", he added and placed his hand below John's chin, the way lovers do when they cannot stand being apart anymore.
"Sherlock… This is not right… People will…", said John, while the voice of his rationality in his head grew more and more silent.
"I don't care about people! I only care about you", said the consulting detective, while exploring John's eyes, suppressing his passion, trying to get a hold of himself.
"You pull something like this again, and I'll personally insure that you don't get out of the grave.", said the soldier and a slight smile crossed his face, a long forgotten smile.
"How tremendously ambitious of you", replied Sherlock and pressed his lips against John's once again, but this time, John returned the kiss, letting their tongues dance with each other, but finally letting Sherlock slip his tongue in his mouth, between his teeth, then moved to his lips, licking and biting them passionately. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist, pulling them closer together, bringing up the heat, and that feeling, that feeling when they knew they'll never let each other go. Sherlock's long finger danced against the buttons of his man's shirt, unbuttoning it, revealing the muscular body of a trained soldier.
"Sherlock, how long haven't you had a shower?", asked John jokingly.
"A while", replied Sherlock while removing the shirt and slowly moving down his head to his soldier's chest. "Are you suggesting something?", said Sherlock, but without waiting for an answer, he grabbed John by his hips, making them slowly move to the bathroom.
"Fuck the shower", said Sherlock and unzipped John's pants which were suppressing his erection. Sherlock wrapped his hand around John's member, making the other man let out a mild moan. Soon after, John was gasping for air, and the only thing that was on his lips was his lover's name. He'd repeat it over and over, making Sherlock to look at him pleasantly.
"You like this?", asked Sherlock softly, as he moved his head to John's neck, licking and biting his skin, and leaving a small love bite there. John shrugged softly. Sherlock was pressing his body against John's, leaned against cold bathroom's wall.
"Looks like we didn't make it to the shower", said John and smiled again.
"You forgive me?", asked Sherlock as his hand went against soldier's wet skin, caressing it. All this time, he's been dreaming about this moment, when he'll be able to finally touch that skin he wanted so badly.
"Depends", said John and let Sherlock kiss him again, teasing him, licking his lips and biting them again.
"I'll take that as a yes", answered Sherlock as he moved them both to that cold bathroom floor, putting John on his hands and knees. He pressed his body against soldier's and slowly whispered, "Love me."
"I do love you", said John looking at Sherlock, drunk of lust and love.
"I don't need anything else, then", he whispered and softly placed himself inside John, making him moan loudly. He leaned against his back, making their bodies touch, thrusting a bit faster, placing his arm around his soldier, pulling them closer. He could feel John's gasp for air, his heartbeat. It was beating only for him, for Sherlock. He smiled and kissed John's neck, biting his skin once again. As the thrusts became faster, John's gasping grew into silent moans, as his lips drew his lover's name. Another moan, then a soft scream of Sherlock's name was heard to mark the end of the passionate reunion. Sherlock released himself inside his lover with a small groan and he parted them. He was happy. For the first time in his life, he was happy. Very happy. Happy by the man he loves. John's smile didn't disappear. It never will, not after this day. Sherlock laid on the bathroom floor, pulling John into his arms.
"And I'll never be bored again", he said and placed another kiss on his soldier's mouth.
"Poor me", said John and closed his eyes in the embrace of the only man he ever loved.

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Evy