A/N: I wrote this in literally 15 minutes, because I just found out someone at my school also writes and read fanfiction and so I'm dedicating this to her: Hungrysherlock-wink. I didn't even edit it, so it's probably horrible, but I want to welcome her and stuff...so yeah. Haha go check out her stuff!

Love Affair

John should have known that something wasn't right.

He was a soldier, for Christ's Sake, he should have sensed something.

He blamed the superfluous time he had spend at the Surgery for lowering his guard. For giving him a false sense of security. For blurring his eyes with exhaustion. He didn't see the hat-stand knocked into the corner. He didn't see the scuff marks littering the floor. He didn't see the smear of red on the stair banister.

He had thumped past all the telling clues without so much as a second glance.

"Sherlock." He called out, once he had climbed the flight of stairs and entered the flat. He didn't exactly expect to see his best friend tied to a chair, one eyebrow quirked in amusement. "Oh." John muttered just as the butt of a gun swung forward to hit his temple.

'Oh' he thought as consciousness escaped him and he sunk into a deep abyss.

Once the retired army doctor regained cognitive thought, he felt almost rested. The forced sleep doing wonders for his overworked brain.

"Ah John. Overestimated you, have I?" The voice was almost too smug to handle and John had the sudden itchy urge to punch something. He opened his eyes to black curls, crooked smiles and stormy eyes.

"Shut up, Sherlock." He moaned, the dull throb in his head sharpening to bolts of pain. "What the bloody hell happened?"

The fogginess in his brain slowly drifted away and John became aware that he was lying on the floor, less then two meters from the door. The door itself was currently standing open, making way for the various police officers streaming in and out. Detective Inspector Lestrade stood behind Sherlock, a worried glint in his eye and his forehead creased.

"You alright, John?" He spoke, unaware that his voice was worsening the headache.

"Fine, fine." John muttered. Two emergency personnel stopped in front of John and he couldn't help the small spike of annoyance. "I'm fine." He reiterated. At the disapproving glance from one of the medics, John explained, "I'm a bloody doctor. I know how to bloody take care of myself." They hesitated. "Oh for Christ's Sake, there are other people in the world that require assistance. Go help them."

They scuttled away. The disapproving looks never leaving their faces.

John balled his hands into fists and rubbed at his eyes, pushing away any lingering exhaustion. He needed to think.

He needed to speak to Sherlock.

He didn't get a chance with Sherlock alone, until two hours later when the last police officers trickled out and John reassured everyone that he was fine for the last time. He shut the door with a relieved sigh.

"I overestimated you." Sherlock said, his penetrating gaze stuck unwavering on John. John vaguely realized that Sherlock had said this before.

"What?" John asked. He side-stepped Sherlock and dumped himself onto his favourite unkempt chair. The springs sagged under his weight, comfortably adjusting themselves to their new – yet familiar – load.

"I thought that you would notice that something was amiss. I told them that you wouldn't enter the flat so blindly. I clearly overestimated you." Sherlock provided, the natural tone of his voice screaming superiority.

John's blood pressure spiked. Anger bubbled inside, frothing and spilling into every crevice of his being. "You know what, Sherlock?" He spoke, his voice a dangerous whisper. "I am bloody fucking tired. I have been working all day and then I have to come home and deal with your stupid cases."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh stop being so melodramatic, John. Nobody told you to get a job."

John was having an aneurysm. He was sure that the vein that was bulging and throbbing on his forehead was going to rupture. His anger burst forth;

"FUCK, SHERLOCK! I have to work! I have no other bloody way of paying the rent. Christ. No wonder nobody stays with you. I love you, Sherlock. I do. But you lack bloody fucking tact and I can't live with you." Spittle dripped from the corner of John's mouth and he rubbed at it furiously.

He realized – somewhere deep in his mind – that now would be a good place to stop. He could stop and let bygones-be-bygones. But the river of angry lava pulsing inside his body was itching for a chance to speak its mind.

"You know I like working with you and being your best friend, but I need a break, Sherlock. From both. I need to realize once again that you obviously care more about your work than me." John's heart panged at that thought. "And I need to rest. My body needs to rest. My Psyche needs to rest. Christ, Sherlock. I've had enough." He pushed himself from his comfortable seat, ignoring the cry of his bones and made for his room.

"Wait." Sherlock whispered. John stopped. That soft tone was unlike anything he had ever heard from the consulting detective. "I'm sorry." Sherlock's voice dripped sincerity, finding that special chink in John's armor and melting John's heart. "John. I'm sorry."

John wanted nothing more than to turn around and forgive Sherlock. He wanted to hug the detective and stroke his curly hair, perhaps even entwine the locks with his fingers. But the volcano that had once been dormant had burst inside of him and was now active and John knew he needed a few days away from Sherlock. He continued his way toward his room and once inside, he allowed one tear to slip down his cheek and rest on his jaw.

Just one.

He grabbed a suitcase from his closet and grabbed the essentials for a few days away.

He wasn't sure where he was going to go, but he would figure it out.

Once finished, he made his way to the landing outside of the apartment. Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, his head buried in his hands.

'Probably in his Mind Palace. Trying to figure out what complicated social faux pas he had just committed.' John thought, unable to push away the bitter that simmered inside him.

"Goodbye, Sherlock." He muttered, not expecting a reply.

He had taken three steps, before a soft voice floated from the open flat: "You said you loved me."

John was confused. He turned around to find Sherlock leaning against the door frame, a softness in his eyes that looked almost alien in its unfamiliarity.

"You said you loved me." Sherlock said again, shocking John, because Sherlock didn't do repeating. "You said you loved me."

John racked his brains. Trying desperately to remember where he had let that little bomb slip. Sherlock waited.

"Yes." John agreed, hesitantly. He wasn't sure what he was confessing to here. Did Sherlock think John loved him in the capacity of a brother or a lover? "I do."

Sherlock quickly swallowed the distance between them with a few long lopes of his cigarette-legs.

"I'm married to my work." Sherlock spoke, contradicting his words as he lowered his face to mere inches of John's. John tried to speak around the lump forming in his throat. Sherlock added, "But think, John! Use that brain of yours. I'm married to my work."

A spark ignited in John's brain, sending signals to every part of his body. He felt like a live wire and he wondered if Sherlock felt like this every time he solved something.

Sherlock was giving him an out. He was giving John the option to insist that he had meant the statement in a brotherly capacity, but he was also giving John another option. A rather terrifying option that was beckoning to John. Inviting him into it's jagged depths. He acquiesced.

"You are married to your job. So, how about an affair?"

John caught a brief expression of pride on Sherlock's face, before he crashed his lips against the detective's.

There was nothing sweet or cute about the kiss. Both Sherlock and John were clutching at each other, breathing in each other and tasting each other. The kiss was as dangerous and exhilarating as their lives. And they wouldn't have it any other way.

Sherlock pressed John against the wall, moving his lips in synchrony, making small little grunts at the back of his throat. John – having the most experience between the two – slowly caressed Sherlock's lips with his tongue, savoring the tangy taste of his roommate, breathing in the smell of chemicals and the expensive shaving cream Sherlock uses. Their tongues met in the middle, immediately starting a battle of dominance.

"Sherlock! John! Now really! This isn't the place for snogging. Goodness, dears."

The two broke away, flushed and positively debauched. Mrs Hudson stood at the edge of the stairs with a tray of tea and biscuits and a small frown on her face. She bustled passed them and into the flat.

"Snogging in the middle of a hallway. As if you were teenagers. I remember this one time in grade eleven, there was this boy. What was his name? I think it was Anthony. Anywho, Anthony was the handsome-"

The rest of her speech faded and John looked up at the sparkling eyes of his detective.

"Come on, Dr. Watson. I believe that we have an affair to get to."

A/N: Thanks so much for reading. It's not fantastic, I know, but it's a welcome present!

Review if convenient. If inconvenient, review anyway!

Love y'all!

Xxx