A/N: Hi guys, this is my first try at a Sherlock fanfic, so let me know what you think! I thrive on reviews… Have fun reading!

Sadly, Sherlock does not belong to me, but to the great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and BBC.

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My burned hands were shaking. Those normally so steady hands, surgeon's hands, did not seem to be able to stop. Well, after all that had happened, it was no wonder.

Meeting and moving in with the great consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes, starting to solve cases with him. Not only the cases but also the mystery that was Sherlock himself. Well, not that Sherlock Holmes could be solved by anybody… I knew I was one of the people closest to him and that Sherlock had started to care about me - granted, not very obviously and in his own way, but he did care. From the very beginning I had felt protective of the smart man, having to refrain from telling people off when they insulted him by calling him "freak" or even worse. I saw that Sherlock possessed emotions and how difficult it was for him to accept and process them. That was why he tried to suppress them, trying to convince everybody (including himself) that he had none. Only rarely he let them slip through and I was getting better and better at recognising and deciphering them.

When I shot the cabbie for example, he was so vexed as to why I would do such a thing for him (as if he wouldn't be worth it!), but also in a way flattered that I would go to such length to protect him.

And then at the Pool… How clearly I had been able to see! A split second of betrayal and "My god, please no, don't let him be Moriarty, I couldn't bear this, my only friend turning out to be my worst enemy" to doubt, disbelief to panic and fear when I had revealed the bomb strapped to my chest, frantically searching for a solution so that we could make it out there alive. I could tell how freaked out he was when I grabbed Moriarty and held on for dear life so Sherlock would get the chance to run. I didn't think about, just reacted on instinct. Then I simply remember how he ripped the vest off me, pulling me to my feet while his keen eyes wandered over every inch of my body to search for any injuries Moriarty might have inflicted on me. Apparently satisfied that I had sustained no more than a few minor bruises I found myself pressed tightly against him. I was so surprised I went rigid at first. Sherlock Holmes initiating physical contact? He even rested his slightly stubbly cheek against mine. I let it slide, though, dismissing it as one of his peculiarities.

Then came the day of "The Fall" as I had titled it. It still almost kills me to think about it… Hearing those vicious lies spoken by Sherlock's beautiful, silky baritone, sounding so broken and defeated will haunt me forever as will the overwhelming pain I felt believing him dead. I would have never believe those things about him, I couldn't! I'd known him well enough to be sure of that… And despite how angry and torn apart I had been, I had needed to make sure his name was cleared. It had seemed to be the last thing I'd be able to do for him.

The day of the funeral is and will always be a blur to me. The funeral service, the condolences, the casket being lowered into the ground, it all mixed together to one mind-numbing picture. All the grief I'd pushed down with every ounce of my strength roared back up and I was almost choking on it. If I hadn't always been busy trying to deny being gay I might have ben capable of recognising how much he had really meant to me. From the beginning Sherlock had fascinated me like no one else ever had, the combination of this brilliant mind with his social awkwardness was simply irresistible. Now I could see just how irresistible… Somewhere along the way he'd drawn me in, keeping me in his orbit like the moon orbiting around the sun. It was a place that felt exactly right, a place somehow specifically made and meant for me. I hadn't needed anyone else, I had just kept dating because it seemed the right thing for a Bachelor to do. Of course it had also been a lot easier to turn a blind eye to the depth of my developing feelings… How I had wished to have another chance to tell him, to show him how much he meant to me!

And then… Then he answered the desperate plea I had made in front of his headstone and came back into my life. With an impeccable timing, like always, interrupting my proposal to the woman I cared a lot about, even though I didn't love her. It was just the best I could do without Sherlock…

I had been relatively content, I had a good job at the clinic, a nice, easy-going relationship with Mary, a few good friends, what more could I ask for? All that was screwed with his return. Like he did once before, my life was turned upside down again. Being content was not enough anymore, I remembered how happy and alive I'd been with him, the rush when we chased criminals down some dark alley, that sense of belonging and joy I'd only ever felt with him. When I laid eyes on him in that restaurant, ridiculously dressed as a french waiter, a part of my wanted to throw myself at him and kiss him breathless (no, it did not care for the fact that a restaurant was not an appropriate place for such an endeavour). It wanted to release all the relief and pent-up longing for his closeness and satisfy the intense need to hold him again, to touch him, so I could be sure this was not one of the torturing dreams I'd had long after his "death". But the other part of me won, the part that was angry and bitter and hurt about having been kept in the dark for two unbearable long years. The simmering anger I hadn't even been aware of boiled over and just blinded me, even though not enough to miss the loneliness and pain clearly in his eyes. But how could I trust that? So before realising what I was doing I punching him right in the face, tried to throttle him and started yelling at him. His following attempts at explaining and apologising did nothing to appease me, how could he have done this to me? Letting me grief without a word?

I couldn't allow him to mess my life up again,to change it as drastically as he had once before, I wouldn't be able to handle that a second time. I was not strong enough to. So I clung to Mary and the life I had made myself, cutting him out as much as possible. It was safer, it was reasonable and better for me, no matter how tempting returning to my former life with Sherlock was. No matter he needed someone to watch out for him, making sure he ate and slept regularly and did not get himself killed. Okay, hypocritical, but if anyone was allowed to lay a finger on him, it was damn well going to be me!

Not to mention I had once again almost died because someone wanted to get to him, been burned to a crisp, dressed as Guy Fawkes no less! Granted, Mary and him had saved me and even the most stupid person could've seen how scared and agitated Sherlock had been, still, it proved that I was saver and far better off without him. And yet my mind kept nagging me. When I had been so sure I was going to die, I had regretted not welcoming him back with open arms, remembering how I had wished for him to come back. After all, a warmer greeting would not have meant I wasn't allowed to be furious at him… I had wished I had told him that I had fallen for him, that I loved him. And at that moment I would have given anything for that chance. So what does that say about me? In the face of death I did not think about my fiancee, no, I thought about my former best friend.

Mary and I had arrived home from the clinic where I had been treated for smoke inhalation and for the burns on my hands. She lightly touched his arm and let him to sit down at the table in their kitchen with a sad look in her eyes. She was hesitant to speak to I softly prompted her:

"Mary?"

She sighed and then she spoke:

"John, I've seen the two of you now. Even before that I had my suspicions about what you feel for him. I had no problems with it before, because I thought with time you'd accept he was gone and would start to feel for me what you felt for him. When I realised that it was him tonight, I knew that wouldn't happen. I knew I could never make you as happy as he does. Go, look for him. He needs you and I do believe he loves you too, even though he can't show it that well."

My attempts to interrupt her were to no avail, dismissed with a few quick gestures. When she'd finished I was too stunned to talk. What a woman! She would make any man proud. No accusations, no blame, just this simple understanding and letting me go… When I finally answered her, I made sure to meet her eyes to be sure she knew that I meant what I was saying.

"You're right. I never really dealt with or got over my feelings for Sherlock. It took his death for me to even realise how deep they were. I know it isn't fair to you and I'm sorry. But I do care for you and I'd never wish to hurt you. You truly are amazing, this just proves it. Thank you."

"It's okay. Now go, sort this out."

I squeezed her hand and then I left, quickly hailing a taxi. Instinctively I knew Sherlock would be at Baker Street and I didn't question this awareness. During the drive I was lost in my thoughts. What would happen? What would I do? Did Sherlock really feel the same? Where would we go from here? I was quite nervous, one way or another, this was a critical decision and it would significantly influence the rest of my life. Yet, this was somehow inevitable.

I still had my keys, so I soon stood in my former apartment. Two steps inside I stopped and took a few deep breaths to calm my nerves. I could feel his presence and didn't doubt he already knew I was there. Footsteps from the direction of the kitchen announced his coming. He came to a halt a few steps away from me. No doubt, already deducing the end of my relationship with Mary. When I saw him, he looked so lost and hurt, my heart almost broke and I could do nothing but whisper his name. This time, my love dominated the lingering anger and I rushed over to him. My arms wrapped around him and I buried my head in his shoulders, letting his scent wash over me. I held him tightly and even though he returned my hug, I heard him stifle a moan of pain. Instantly my concern rose and I ushered him into the bathroom, where I still kept a supply of first aid things, to take a look. Anything else could wait, since I knew he wouldn't have gone to a hospital. For once he complied without fidgeting, stripping down to his trousers. I was shocked once I saw the horrible torture wounds on his torso and how thin he had become. As gently as possible I treated those wounds and dressed them, then I led him back to the couch where we sat down. Neither of us knew how to break the silence, at least verbally. Our eyes had locked quickly and they did not seem to stop talking. His told me about having seen and lived through unspeakable things, about all the pain, how he had missed me and how much he cared for me and in turn I let him see how his death had almost broken me. When he finally saw and understood this, I could see tears threatening to spill. Had he really believed his death would not affect me that much?

I reached out to touch his hand and started caressing it. This small gesture seemed to be all the encouragement he needed, his arms wrapped around my hip and suddenly I found myself sitting in his lap, pressed tightly against his lean body. His lips attacked mine ferociously, allowing me to taste his desire, his want and his desperate need for me. I responded in kind, shifting slightly to give us a better angle. What can I say? It was all I could have ever hoped for and even more than this. It felt amazing to finally give in to this desperate longing, to touch, to feel, to taste and it wasn't nearly enough. My hands wandered over his body, mindful of his injuries and eager to get to know Sherlock's body, while his travelled over mine. In this moment it didn't matter how much pain he'd caused me, I only cared about getting closer to him. Since he had not dressed in his shirt again, I had more to explore than him, a deficiency he was eager to remedy.

Later I caressed his cheek and said seriously:

"That does not mean I have forgiven you. You still have to work on that."

"I know, and I promise you I will. I don't want to live without you ever again."

"I don't want to live without you either, Sherlock. I love you."

Sherlock smiled and whispered gently in my ear, like it was a secret:

"I love you, too."

- The End -

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A/N: Now, how was it? *insert shameless begging for reviews*