Sherlock Holmes, John Watson noticed, did not take silence very well unless he was dictating the terms. And John Watson, Sherlock noticed, was unusually skilled at maintaining a calm exterior in decidedly strenuous circumstances. He knew, of course, that it was the time in Afghanistan that had forced him to remain calm in stressful, sometimes catastrophic situations, and normally his calm façade had no cracks. Tonight, however, there were signs of an inevitable eruption – something that had happened only a handful of times as long as they had been working together.

Sherlock was intrigued, and began cataloguing his observations towards their inevitable conclusion: determining what was bothering John. He could see from the way John opened and closed his mouth as if chewing on words he could not find, as well as the involuntary twitch in his left brow, that John was on the verge of a tirade. He could see, in the way John's eyes darted from the cab driver to Sherlock's profile, that John was waiting until they were alone to have his outburst. The outburst was unavoidable at this point, but Sherlock was no closer to figuring out why John was so furious.

They were both alive, hardly injured, and it was barely eleven. They had parted with Lestrade on good terms (highly unusual, he had noticed) and agreed to meet him the next morning at Scotland Yard. True, they had both just had their lives threatened, and death had seemed briefly inescapable, but that was hardly anything new. Near death experiences were all in a day's work for the detective and his doctor, so why was John especially angry tonight?

"John – "

"Sherlock."

Not just Sherlock, but Not now, Sherlock. We're almost to the flat, Sherlock. I will explain when we are in the flat, Sherlock.

For once in their partnership, Sherlock shut his mouth and looked away from his doctor.

He surely wastes no time, John thought with bitter amusement, settling onto the sofa with a scorching cup of tea. Sherlock stood opposite him, next to the telly, brows furrowed and coat still buttoned tightly. He was fit to bursting with questions, demands, even a potential temper tantrum if he didn't get what he wanted. He wanted answers. John could see all this, and he knew Sherlock knew, and so he sat on the sofa, sipping at his tea. If the berk wanted answers, he'd have to bloody well figure them out himself. Wasn't he the one with the giant genius brain?

"John." Traces of anger, annoyance, and a possibly imagined tone of pleading. John resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Sherlock." I'm having a nice cup of tea, Sherlock. Don't ruin teatime, Sherlock. I will explain later, Sherlock.

"No. Now." Sherlock Holmes wasn't one to waste full sentences when they weren't needed, even if it did make him seem like a petulant child.

John sighed, setting his teacup down on the floor, and made himself comfortable on the cushions. He met Sherlock's furious gaze unflinchingly and gestured widely with his arms.

"Go ahead. Deduce."

Sherlock waited eleven seconds before diving in.

"You're upset with me about something. It's not anything I would have noticed. It's something…human. Something I did to insult your honor, or hurt your feelings. You won't let go of it until I've figured it out and apologized for it, but you don't expect me to apologize. You want me to have to ask you why you're upset. You – "

"Why am I upset with you, Sherlock?" John asked calmly, creating a steeple with his fingers and resting his chin upon them. He rather enjoyed borrowing the detective's "thinking pose" while the man in question was deducing himself into a frenzy.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, swooping forward to kneel in front of John. He placed his hands on either side of John's legs, digging them into the cushion.

"I put you in danger. It's only been seven months since I returned, and we have not been this close to death since before I left. You – "

"Wrong." John's voice was firm, his expression unreadable, and that was what convinced Sherlock he was at least half right. Sherlock's year long absence was rarely a topic of discussion; John did not like to dwell on the dark months he had spent alone with his slowly dwindling sanity, and Sherlock absolutely refused to acknowledge the weeks of emotion that had followed his return. Even now, thinking of an apologetic yet sullen Sherlock caused John great discomfort; the genius detective had not been himself, and while his endless acts of kindness and apology had been humbling and much appreciated, John found that he did not mind keeping the flat orderly nearly as much as he thought he had. Watching Sherlock make tea and attempt to keep his experiments under control and out of the kitchen was a nice change, but it did exactly what John didn't want it to – it drew attention to the cause.

The fall.

As much as John liked to pretend things were back to normal, that he wasn't haunted by nightmares of Sherlock's fall, that he forgave Sherlock for deceiving him so deeply, they both knew things would never return to the way they had been. This wasn't entirely a negative change, something they both acknowledged, but even if their relationship was deeper, more meaningful, and definitely more complicated, it was also shrouded in a darkness that would never permanently disappear. Looking at John now, Sherlock searched his face, drinking in the frown lines and the bags under his eyes, feeling some sort of strange satisfaction in knowing that he had caused all of John's stress. There was no one who could instill such worry in John, and Sherlock, selfish as he was, did not want that to ever change. As much as he denied being affected by such trifling things as emotions, there was an unspoken understanding between the detective and his doctor, and that was that John Watson was his, and only his.

"I don't give a fuck that you put me in danger. I've been far closer to death than tonight. You forget that I was in Afghanistan. What I'm concerned about – "

"Is me."

Their eyes met as Sherlock uttered these words. Sherlock's eyes widened and his lips parted as though some missing piece of information had suddenly slotted into place. John gazed intently at him, waiting for him to speak again. When Sherlock continued to silently stare at him, nearly gaping with surprise, John allowed his gaze to flicker down to the detective's mouth.

"Yes. You. I have had you back for seven months, Sherlock. You were right about that part, I know you know it. You threw yourself in harm's way. You nearly got yourself killed. How did you think I would take that?"

Sherlock did not move an inch as John began to lean forward.

"Nothing to say? Have I finally struck the great Sherlock Holmes speechless?"

"I did not calculate your emotional reactions into my plan," Sherlock Said stiffly. John nodded; he had expected nothing more. Sherlock tended not to calculate emotional reactions to anything if it threatened to involve him in any way. Whether he shut them out because he found them distracting or tampered them down because he found them terrifying, Sherlock was an abysmal failure with matters of the heart. John had often wondered how someone so brilliant could be such a complete dunce with something so important, but then again, he had deleted the solar system.

Sherlock closed his eyes, still kneeling in front of John. The doctor reached out a hand and placed it gently on the detective's cheek. Sherlock's sharp intake of breath was the only reaction he received.

"John."

There was something in Sherlock's tone that caused a pool of warmth to flare to life in the pit of John's belly. For only the third time since he had known him, John could see fear in the piercing eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

"You promised." John's voice was low, shaky, dangerous. He looked at Sherlock, frowning, and distantly remembered that his fingers were still attached to his face. His thoughts were running wild; he couldn't pinpoint a single one, didn't know what to do next. Sherlock, apparently, was having the same difficulty.

"I beg your pardon?" Sherlock's voice was only slightly steadier than John's.

"You promised. You promised you wouldn't leave me again. I expect you to keep that promise."

Sherlock scoffed, pulling away from the couch. John's hand fell to his lap with a sharp smack, and John nearly growled in frustration.

"Promises are only made so that they can be broken," Sherlock said gruffly.

"And this was one made to keep me sane, Sherlock. Surely you wouldn't begrudge me a little sanity?" The after what you put me through last year went by unsaid, floating between the two of them. John's breathing was becoming labored, and Sherlock seemed to be sifting through a number of responses in his head. He knew John wouldn't move or say anything more until he spoke, and he was coming up short on responses that wouldn't earn him a fist to the stomach.

"I'm here now," The detective said slowly, "Isn't that all that matters? I didn't die tonight. You knew I wouldn't. You always know…we're not the sort of people who can die in such dull ways, John. Surely you must have figured that out by now."

John was, quite honestly, floored. It had never occurred to him that Sherlock risked his life so often because he saw himself as some sort of higher being, incapable of being beaten to death by thugs. He stifled a snort; Sherlock was such an arrogant sod, it didn't seem such an unlikely idea.

"And in any case, watching me die wouldn't have been anything unfamiliar."

Ironically, in that moment, Sherlock Holmes' arrogant, blunt manner was what saved him from getting his nose broken. John had lived and worked with him long enough to know that Sherlock did not waste time sugar coating anything, and said nothing for any illogical reason. He did not edit himself simply because he did not calculate emotions into his decisions. John had always liked to think that Sherlock was slightly more tactful when it came to the doctor, and that had always been what kept him from introducing the detective's ridiculous cheekbones to the butt of his gun.

This was by far the cruelest Sherlock had ever been toward, John, and damned if the doctor didn't know he had a reason. Unfortunately for the consulting detective, John had picked up a few of his tricks. The way his eyes darted over John's face, searching and waiting for a reaction, his suddenly heavy breathing, his slightly defensive stance – all of these factors solidified John's theory that Sherlock had said this simply to get a rise out of his doctor. He was spoiling for something, and John was, for once, not going to let him have his way. Instead of throwing a fist in the detective's direction and showering him with a stream of threats and swear words, John Watson decided to do something he had not done since his detective had returned from the grave.

He turned around silently and walked away.

"I'm sure it was a relief to finally have me gone. Not having to apologize for my behavior every time you went out must have been quite nice."

John stopped in his tracks, turning to face the icy gaze of the detective. Sherlock cocked his head to the side, eyes glittering dangerously, inviting John to retort. When he was greeted with silence, the corners of his mouth lifted in a satisfied, if not somewhat remorseful, smile.

Sherlock Holmes rarely argued for the sake of arguing, and he certainly did not do so with John Watson. John stared at the detective, furiously trying to find his angle. Why the bloody fucking hell was he being so especially cruel? What did he want John to do? Sherlock continued to look at him, waiting.

Apparently tired of the one-sided discussion, Sherlock turned to walk into the kitchen, and was stopped by John suddenly rising from the couch and launching himself at the detective. Caught off guard, Sherlock yelped, and they both crashed to the floor, a tangle of limbs, coat and scarf. He had certainly been angling for a reaction from John, but he had not anticipated being flattened against the floor, pinned down under the doctor's considerable strength.

"This is not a joke! This is not – this is real, Sherlock! I had to bury you! Do you – I had to bury you!"

They stared at each other for a few moments; Sherlock's eyes were wide with shock, and they were both aware of John's warm thighs pressing against either side of Sherlock's legs, John's fists grasping the front of Sherlock's coat.

"I know, John," Sherlock whispered, squeezing his eyes shut, "I know…"

Just as John was able to convey more meaning in Sherlock's name, Sherlock was able to put all of his unsaid apologies into those two words. I know, John. I know, John, and I'm so sorry…I cannot imagine how that must have felt, I am so sorry that the one person I care about in the world had to go through that because of me…I know, and I am sorrier than I can ever say. So please, please don't make me say it aloud.

All of this passed between them, and John could say nothing more; he had exhausted his words for the evening, and he had exhausted his emotions. There was nothing else he wanted to say to Sherlock, nothing else he could say. Words seemed hopelessly inadequate, and now John's traitorous mind was drifting towards other, entirely unacceptable ways of communicating what he felt. Given the near painful pounding of his heart against his ribcage, this could all get out of hand quite quickly.

Hardly aware of what he was doing, John pressed his fingers to the hollow of Sherlock's throat; the detective took a deep, shuddering breath and closed his eyes, surrendering to the doctor's trembling touch.

"Sherlock Holmes," John whispered, leaning down to rest his head against his detective's chest. "You fucking monster." The heartbeat he felt was out of control, probably much like his own. The fact that he was lying on top Sherlock Holmes in the middle of their flat registered in his mind, and he wondered vaguely if he had truly lost his mind. "You beautiful fucking monster – "

The urge, the want – the need to lean down and claim the detective's lips with his own was unfamiliar and overwhelming, and he was momentarily horrified to find himself leaning towards his goal.

"Tell me to stop," He mumbled, mouth inches away from the near-translucent skin of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock, finally able to dictate the terms of his silence, didn't say a word.

Well, that was fine. After all, John Watson was unusually skilled at maintaining a calm exterior in decidedly strenuous circumstances.

He leaned in and closed the space between them.