(AU-ish. Everything as normal, set after Season 3's episode one, except John didn't meet Mary.)

"So…did you really love Irene Adler?" John watched as Sherlock's head lifted from the newspaper and it was a testament to how long he'd known the man that he could see the pure confusion in his face. He wasn't sure if it was because of the question or the fact that he'd spoken to him at all.

It had been six months since Sherlock had been back after his two years on 'holiday'. The atmosphere in the Baker's Street apartment had been tense ever since because John hadn't quite forgiven Sherlock from never once sending him a text or a word to let him know he was alive. Even worse, it felt as if he was the only one out of the loop. Mycroft had known, Sherlock's family had known, Molly had known… He felt like the biggest idiot in the world. Sherlock was his best friend, the one he cared for most in the entire world, and he'd been the only one that hadn't known.

"So are we speaking now?"

John played with the cup of tea he had in his hands and met those silvery eyes with just a hint of blue in them. It had taken more effort than he'd imagined it would to remain in that flat for two years, but Mycroft had told him that it had been Sherlock's wish…and that the man had a trust fund paying for it regardless. He'd thought so many times that he should move out, move on, and felt like such an idiot even more when Sherlock was alive. He'd wanted John to stay because he'd anticipated coming back and wanted his blogger there, ready for his return.

"I'm attempting to make conversation, but if you'd rather we go back to the silent treatment…"

"No," was the almost too quick reply, followed by a slightly calmer repeat of the word, eyes going back to the page he'd been reading. "No."

"So then…did you really love her?"

"What makes you think that I did?"

He shrugged, sitting down in 'his' armchair across from the sofa where Sherlock was at. "Just the way you acted, that's all. It's been something I've wondered about." Before his partner could answer though, John shook his head. "Probably not, though. You were the one that said you were married to your work."

There was almost a suspicious silence as Sherlock gave him a probing look. "Do you really believe that?"

"Do I really believe what?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but the ringing of John's mobile interrupted him and he dug it out of his pocket. A heavy frown touched his face and he set down his tea, standing up and heading into the kitchen. "What do you want?" he muttered, trying to keep his voice low so that Sherlock didn't overhear.

"Is that any way to talk to your big sister?"

"Harry…"

"Are you still angry with me?"

"Yes," he hissed. "You were the one that said that you were going to clean up your act and you begged me for money and I found that you'd spent it all on—"

"I didn't spend it all on that," she interrupted. "I actually used a lot of it to keep myself afloat. I would have lost the flat without it, so it's not like I don't appreciate it, John."

John pinched the bridge of his nose, glancing over his shoulder, but Sherlock hadn't moved and seemed not to be paying a lick of attention. "You didn't call to argue with me, Harry. What do you want?"

There was a pause on the other end. "I was wondering how you were getting on. I've read he's back."

"He was back six months ago." Yet rather than hold Harry up even more at her general inability to pay attention to something other than herself, he continued on. "We're fine." It was most definitely not true. He was in no way fine with any of this. Sherlock waltzing back in like he deserved a place in John's life after what he'd done; realizing in those two years that maybe his feelings were not as platonic as he'd thought they were; this strange limbo that they were in right then where he wanted to completely forgive and yet found a part of himself resentful still.

"So are you going to be continuing your little crime-fighting side job?"

He sighed. "I don't know, Harry, and I'd thank you to keep your nose out of it for right now."

"Fine, fine." There was the sound of someone calling Harry's name and she abruptly said, "Got to pop out for a bit. Talk to you later, John."

"Yes, talk—" A dial tone hit his ears and he sighed. "…later."

When he dropped back in his chair, Sherlock said, "That hasn't changed."

"No, it hasn't." After a minute, John straightened from his chair. "Look, Sherlock, if this is going to work, there's something that has to be out there first. Things are…different now."

"Yes they are. You have more gray in your hair now."

"Sherlock!"

With a sigh of petulance, Sherlock closed the newspaper and folded it, tossing it on the nearby desk. "Fine, say your peace."

John was about to demand a serious apology…but stopped just seconds before the words slipped out. Sherlock had come as close to one of those as possible the night he'd returned. It had been defensive and reluctant, Sherlock not appreciating being forced to say it, but given that he was not the type to apologize ever, it was probably the best John was going to get. "You know what? Never mind."

"Oh, you're not going to go back to the silent treatment again, are you?"

"I will if you keep whining."

Sherlock pouted at him, as close as the man could get to that expression anyway, and shrugged. He surged out of his chair and began to pace. By the very way he held himself, John knew that he wanted a case and wanted one bad. "Still no girlfriend, John?"

"I don't even need to ask how you know that," he muttered. His love life had been dead for two years. He'd been so busy grieving over Sherlock, feeling like he was the only one that believed in him, and between that and his feelings…he'd just felt no desire to find himself a girlfriend. Maybe if Sherlock hadn't come back, he could move on in another six months, consider it…but now his attention was back on the detective like someone had super-glued it to him. "Are you trying to change the subject?"

"I believe I once explained how dangerous 'love' is. It's a trap, a quagmire, and people rarely behave rationally once it's in their head. It causes uncontrollable bouts of jealousy and even the most level-headed people can't see straight." Slowly Sherlock was walking around his chair, staring at him, and John stared right back, masking his feelings so the man wouldn't know. It felt as if the detective was talking about him, though that seemed impossible. How could Sherlock know of his feelings when he hadn't until a year ago?

"She was a cunning woman and connected to Moriarty. Do you believe that I would let myself lose my head over her?"

"Nope," he told him promptly. "But Sherlock, love doesn't listen to your head. It happens, whether you want it to or not half the time."

"So you do believe that I loved her."

John shifted in his seat just by the slightest bit as he fought a wave of jealousy at the thought of Sherlock and Irene Adler together. "Like I know what goes on in your head."

Sherlock looked at him almost pityingly. "It must be so wonderful to be so dull."

"Sherlock," he growled warningly.

"How long have you known me, John?" Sherlock asked abruptly.

"Including the two years you spent ignoring me, I'd say four."

"I didn't do it to ignore you, I had no choice. If I hadn't—"

"Yes, yes, I'd have given you away," he spat, still angered at that sore spot being prodded. He could keep a secret!

"You're an open book, John. You couldn't have kept it a secret. Anyone just glancing at you would be able to tell."

He turned and glared, shifting as he watched the detective still slowly stalking around the chair in a circle. "If it came to your safety, I could!"

"Don't misunderstand. Your intentions would be obviously to keep it a secret, but anyone just looking at you could tell." Sherlock stopped in front of him, still in his pajamas and dressing gown, and he looked out the window. "Just like I can see the fact that despite your attempt to hide it, you're in love with me."

John stiffened until it felt he was made of ice. He should have known better than to expect he could hide it from Sherlock of all people. This time his voice was soft and quiet though, not at all like it had been when he'd announced Molly's affections for him by analyzing his Christmas present. Sherlock was at least aware that what he was saying would be awkward for them and wasn't rubbing his deductions in his face.

He cleared his throat the way he did when he felt awkward and was trying to figure out the right words for what he wanted to say. A blue-gray eye shifted to look at him and he tried to shrug casually. "You're right, as usual," he said, wishing it didn't feel as if he had a stone in his throat. Sherlock looked at him fully, tilting his head silently. "There's no point in denying it, Sherlock. It's a fact. I realized what I felt a year ago and I haven't forgotten what you said when we first met, either. You've likely figured out that I was jealous as hell of Irene Adler, though at the time I didn't know why." John blessed his soldier background that allowed him to cross his arms and meet that silent stare evenly.

"…That's it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Don't people normally…want something after that?"

"Sherlock," he said, not annoyed at the question because he honestly didn't believe the man understood the impact of what had just happened, "we're not most people. You're not interested and I know that; right now, I'm just glad you're alive. I'm glad I have the person I care most about in the world alive. That's more than enough for me."

John stood up and headed into the kitchen, missing the complicated look that flashed across Sherlock's face.

-0-0-0-0-

"Well it was about time."

"What are you on about now, Mycroft?" Sherlock spat, twanging the strings of his violin and glaring balefully through his lashes at his brother sitting in John's chair. The doctor was at work at the moment, leaving him alone and if that hadn't been bad enough, dealing with Mycroft was only an added layer of unpleasantness.

"John Watson. Did he tell you, or did you tell him?"

He flicked his gaze down to his violin, but didn't play it. Though he didn't want to, this time he might actually need Mycroft's…opinion. Sherlock had never been in any relationship before, though he knew the basics. Yet once again, like no other, John Watson had threw him for a loop. He'd boldly looked up at him and agreed with his deductions. No blush, no stammering, no attempted denial. That had been unexpected enough, but that he didn't even ask for anything. He merely acknowledged the truth and left it at that.

So what did he do? He knew that now it was his turn, but he wasn't sure what that was in this social dance. His words from what felt like a lifetime ago in Angelo's were still there, lying between them. John hadn't forgotten them. Yet it was a tad perturbing that he was considering whether that long ago statement was still accurate after all this time. He knew that less intelligent people, like most of the population on the planet, would say that his possessiveness of John was a high indicator that he 'returned the feelings', but was that true? He was possessive of the doctor, yes, without a doubt, but then he had always been so over things he'd liked ever since he was a child.

"How long have you known?"

"About his feelings? Long before he figured it out himself," was that superior voice that always managed to grate on his nerves. Yet, just trying to imagine a world without Mycroft annoying him was almost impossible. "However, I also know that nothing came of the admission to you because he was walking correctly this morning. Something—"

"I know how it works," Sherlock spat and interrupted whatever cutting remark Mycroft had been about to say.

Despite the patented disbelief on his brother's face, done purely to annoy Sherlock he was sure, Mycroft only continued on. "So what are you planning on doing about it?"

"Doing about it?" he repeated, as if that was the most ridiculous thing in the world that he'd ever heard. "Why should I do anything about it? He merely acknowledged that I was right and that was it. What need is there to do anything about?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Because, Sherlock, no matter how many times I tell you not to get involved, you inevitably will. As your brother, I thought—"

"There's the problem right there," he said snidely.

"Sherlock," came the exasperated sigh.

"Are you really attempting to bore me to death, Mycroft?"

"Sherlock!" The sharp word made him blink and look up. Very rarely did Mycroft raise his voice like that and only when he was feeling particularly frustrated. "I'm growing tired of your inconsistent behavior."

"Inconsistent?" he repeated, both outraged and stunned at the statement. "What have I done that has been inconsistent in any way?!"

Mycroft stood up with irritated eyes. "You figure it out. You're the 'genius', aren't you? I knew ages ago."

There was nothing Sherlock hated more than that supercilious behavior and he hated being shown up in general, but no one burned him more in that regard than Mycroft. He would find out what Mycroft thought he saw, if it killed him.

-0-0-0-0-

When John walked in, he knew that something must have happened. The atmosphere in the flat was all but electrically charged and he cautiously entered, spotting Sherlock with a blow torch and an eyeball in the kitchen. "…Was Mycroft here today?" he asked cautiously.

"What gave you that impression?"

"The fact that you look like you're going to go on a killing spree?" he replied calmly and dropped his keys on the nearby counter.

"Yes, he was here, that insufferable—"

"Did he have a case?" John interrupted before Sherlock could go on a tirade.

"No and even if he did, I wouldn't have taken it."

"Uh huh." Deciding not to comment, particularly with the burning blow torch in Sherlock's hand, he shrugged out of his coat. He could feel those piercing eyes on his back as he did so, knowing that he was being analyzed. "Are you working on a case now?"

"No." There was a pause. "John…"

"Just going to pop into the shower," he replied, deliberately not turning around to look and heading down to the bathroom. He didn't want to know what Sherlock was going to say, didn't want to know if the man might ask him to leave now. With a mental sigh, he was content to avoid the issue that lay between them for as long as Sherlock let him. It had taken more courage than he thought he'd possessed to agree with the detective, to let his feelings out verbally for the first time since he'd realized them.

As he turned on the shower to let the water warm up, he undressed. As he reached the final button on his shirt, the door flung open. "John—"

"Jesus, Sherlock!" he spat, almost jumping in shock as the doorknob hit the bathroom wall. It sounded so much louder in the small, tiled room than it would have anywhere else. "What the hell do you want?! You don't just walk into the bathroom when I'm about to take a shower!"

Sherlock crossed his arms. "You left before I finished speaking. What else was I supposed to do?"

Now he was being deliberately obtuse. "Wait until I'm out!"

"Takes too long. You'll be in there for at least an hour today. Bad day at work?"

John rubbed his face with a sigh, his heartbeat finally calming down to a bearable level, only to rise again as he began to notice details: they were both in the bathroom and he was at least half undressed. He really shouldn't be so fussed about it, but it wasn't the same as before. "Fine, Sherlock. What did you want to say?"

"About what you said before…"

Here it comes, he thought and forced his eyes to calmly meet Sherlock's. They seemed to study him for a moment. "What about it?"

"You're not all right with it."

"About what?"

"Remaining as we have been."

He rubbed his eyes as the mirror slowly began to fog up. "Can't we do this later, Sherlock? We're wasting hot water." He deliberately turned his back on his flatmate, hoping that would be the end of the conversation. Part of him seriously considered diving into the shower with clothes on if it got Sherlock to leave.

There was the sound of a door closing and he glanced over his shoulder. He was alone and he sighed, quickly stripping before he lost the opportunity. The hot water felt good on his tense muscles and he ducked his head under the spray. He could still remember his meeting with a young teenage girl that had 'bulimic' written all over here and he knew that no matter what he said, his advice wouldn't stick.

John blinked as he heard in the silence the bathroom door open. "Sherlock?" There was no answer, but he could hear shifting on the other side of the curtain. Just as he was about to draw it back to peek around the edge, it was all but thrown open with the same dramatic flair that Sherlock gave to his dressing gown. His jaw dropped as he took in the sight of creamy and very naked skin. Without pause, suddenly he wasn't alone in the shower, the curtain smoothly being pulled back into place with the same motion. "What the hell do you think you're doing?!" he demanded, shocked that his voice seemed to almost crack at the high pitch. "What the hell is in your head, Sherlock?!"

"You," was the prompt reply and somehow it silenced him like nothing ever could. Much like when he'd boldly admitted his feelings, this was said without reservations at all. A long, thin arm wrapped around his waist and John found himself being tugged forward until their chests were touching.

"Sherlock, look," he muttered, feeling their hips touching and damned his immensely raised heartbeat. He looked up, seeing the water streaming down Sherlock's curls and flattening them against his head. Then all he could see were those beautiful blue-gray eyes and that they were getting remarkably closer. Their lips touched softly at first, Sherlock taking his damn time about it. He seemed determined to memorize every little dip and nook on his mouth, with a thoroughness to be envied if it was applied elsewhere.

When their first kiss ended as gradually as it started, John let out a shaky breath. That had been almost a religious experience. And damn Sherlock for smirking at him like that and was that a hand that just gripped his rear?! "Sherlock—"

"I know what I'm doing, John, and I don't mean physically, so don't ask."

He gave his friend a skeptical look, but Sherlock was looking both stubborn and sincere. "I thought you were married to your work. Are you planning on divorcing it?"

"God no…but I think I can live with two wives."

John rolled his eyes despite his smile. "Try boyfriend."

"What, you won't marry me? When I got Mycroft to legalize it? He'll be insufferable for weeks now," Sherlock joked with that grin he couldn't say no to.

He found himself laughing with Sherlock, resting his forehead against a thin shoulder. Speaking of that… With a sudden sense of dread, he looked around the room warily. "You don't think…he's bugged this room, do you?"

"Let him watch," Sherlock replied, kissing his neck down to his shoulder and the hand on his rear shifting a little more intimately, fingers exploring.

"Sherlock, I am not putting on a show for your brother!" he protested, but it came out a bit breathier than he intended it to as his knees grew a tad weak.

"You're not," was the reply, almost vibrating against his neck. "You're enjoying yourself."

Before John could argue some more, he felt a hand grip him lightly between his legs and he let out a soft shout. This time his knees did almost buckle and he felt Sherlock brace him against the wall. Suddenly if there was surveillance on them, he didn't care. Sherlock's intent explorations were giving way to passion. He was all but devouring his mouth now. Moaning against that limber tongue, John reached and found an answering hardness in front of him. "I love you, Sherlock," he muttered as they were forced to break for some air.

In truth, he fully expected Sherlock to tell him how stupid and dangerous love was, but instead their foreheads touched. "…I know. I hope my actions…have conveyed my response."

"Crystal clear," he moaned and gasped when fingers found what they were looking for. "Sh-Sherlock! Wait, I'm… I'm on the bottom?"

"Of course." Sherlock blinked at him, as if that was the most obvious answer in the world and somehow it sent John laughing almost hysterically. He didn't know why, maybe he was just relieved that not only were his fears of being asked to leave unfounded, but that it had turned into something a lot more. Taking advantage of his preoccupation, Sherlock's finger invaded him, curiously exploring, and he shouted in surprise. "You…know how…this works, right?" Blue-gray eyes were narrowed at him at that question, a half-glare. "What?"

"Why does everyone stupidly assume that just because I haven't done it before, I don't know what I'm doing?" As if to punctuate his point, he turned his fingers in such a way that he deliberately touched John's prostate and he had to bite his lip to remain silent.

"Wasn't…meant…to be…an insult, Sherlock. Just…that…I only know…the basics." The annoyance cleared from his friend's face and suddenly their lips were nuzzling together, almost like an apology. Well, it was the best he'd ever get. "M-Mycroft…say something…to…you?"

"Stop…talking about him," Sherlock muttered. "Or I'll start to assume…that you'd rather it be him…doing this to you."

Okay, now that image was just downright wrong, John thought as his mind helpfully conjured up the slightly taller brother in the shower with him and felt his stomach hit his feet. "Definitely…not." He managed to get his shaking hand with some coordination in it and he began to stroke the man in front of him as he leaned up for another kiss. The water was going to grow cold soon, but he didn't care. A second finger slid in and he moaned heavily as they began to thrust in time with his hand, but was it his imagination or did Sherlock look a tad…discomposed?

"John," Sherlock moaned in his ear as he sped up his pace and his flatmate did the same to match. "Do…you like…it?"

"Thought…you knew everything…"

"Kind of…hard…to think…right now." John would have laughed if he thought Sherlock wouldn't take it the wrong way. So there was something that could short-circuit that usually infallible brain? "You…make it…hard to concentrate…"

"At least…it's me…and not…just the sex." He was getting close now and he gripped one of Sherlock's arms with his free hand to steady himself.

"'Course…it's…you."

John's eyes were soft, albeit hazy, on Sherlock. He knew that the man viewed his body as secondary to his mind. A relationship with the detective was much more mental than physical. No one would get anywhere with him with just physical lust. His fingers dove into those wet curls as he squeezed his hand around the man's throbbing arousal, instinctively clamping around those fingers as he released fiercely. A tongue invaded his panting mouth as Sherlock came seconds later.

"I think I can see…the attraction…of doing it in the shower."

He tried not to blush, at least too much, and cursed that Mrs. Hudson turned out to be right after all. He squirmed out of the arms that held him and hid a squeak as he stumbled when his knees didn't want to support him after that. "If this was being recorded, you've got to get it from Mycroft."

There was the sound of agreement from behind him, but it seemed absentminded, as if Sherlock wasn't paying attention. "You're not working tomorrow, are you, John?"

"No. Why?"

When he looked over his shoulder, Sherlock was smirking with unholy glee. "Good." With economized movements, the shower was quickly turned off and an arm wrapped around his waist, pulling him from the shower. "We're going to continue this, and if you happen to ne unable to walk tomorrow, then so be it."

"Sherlock!"

-0-0-End-0-0-

(I'll probably make one more chapter, but it'll just be their first time. Feel free to ignore if you like.)