Hi guys! I know I've been away forever, but the real world is very demanding of my time at the moment. I can't say I'm off my hiatus, but this idea came to me and I had time, so I figured I'd post this ficlet as a sort of apology. Let me know what you think!

~Wings~

"This is disgusting, Sherlock. I don't know how you can stand to live like this! I don't know how anyone can!" Raised voices in 221B Baker Street were not uncommon. However, this was not a normal situation, not by any means. John had come home after another aggravating shopping trip (those chip-and-pin machines would be the death of him) to find Sherlock standing at the window, violin raised, doing nothing but staring out into the gloomy, cloudy sky. But when John opened the fridge, the smell of what was no doubt an experiment made him want to throw up. It had snapped the last of his reserves for the day, and the angry shout had flown out before he even had time to think about it.

Sherlock whirled around, his face tight and angry. He'd been lost in thought, and was irritated at the interruption that had cleared his mind of the few solid conclusions he'd been able to draw.

"Then why do you, if it's such a hardship?" Sniping at those around him was more than a habit. For as long as he could remember, it had been Sherlock's defense mechanism against a world that didn't understand him. Even with John, the person he least wanted to hurt, things tended to come out, thanks to a lifetime of trying to pretend he was as cold as everyone thought him. Even John sometimes wondered if he was part machine, which was one of the things Sherlock had been thinking about. Agonizing about.

"You know, I don't know!" Sherlock nearly dropped his violin, and the silence that followed John's words was deafening. Damning. Sherlock blinked at him, all the things he'd been trying to figure out how to say burning to ashes in a moment, and then fluttering away on a cold London wind, taking the fragile almost-dream he'd nearly begun to believe in with it.

Setting his instrument down with tightly controlled movements, because control was all that he had left in that moment, Sherlock strode to the door, his face blank, eyes emptier than John had ever seen them. And just when his temper started to clear, and he began to realize what he'd said, Sherlock was gone, his last words freezing the air behind him.

"If you figure it out, come find me."

John stood in silence for a long time, trying to work it all out. He knew he hadn't really been angry at Sherlock for being, well, Sherlock, so what had just happened? Finally, he did the proper British thing—made himself a cuppa, settled himself in his chair, and began to go over not just the past several minutes, but the past several weeks, evaluating everything that had passed between them. All the awkward silences that didn't used to be awkward, all the half-finished sentences and glances and moments when Sherlock had chosen to say nothing instead of spewing sarcasm.

And the time, last week, when Sherlock had blushed a bit when John had complimented his music on the way through the room, on his way to the bar to meet Lestrade for a drink. He hadn't turned around or acknowledged it in any way, but he'd turned red up to the tips of his ears, and John, who knew he had a habit of watching the other man too closely, and seen it. But when you added that to the time two days ago when Sherlock had leaned in and locked eyes with John for a long moment before leaving the room without a word…

Those things, and all the other little things like them, suggested something that made John's heart pick up an odd rhythm. Because what they suggested was so unbelievable, but gave him so much hope… At first, he wanted, very badly, to put that hope away. He'd been sure that Sherlock would be disgusted with him and his feelings, and that was why he'd done his best to keep them from the man who saw everything. But Sherlock was not the type of person who treaded lightly. If he'd had a problem with John, he'd have said something. And the only other reason he would have acted as he did.. It was crazy, possibly impossible. But if Sherlock didn't know, but was still so hurt… Well, he had to try, didn't he?

John nearly forgot to grab his jacket on the way out the door. He didn't have to think for very long about where he would find Sherlock, honestly. And there he was, in the place they'd met, sitting still as a statue on a mortuary table and staring at the wall with such painful intensity that he didn't even seem to notice John coming in.

Except, of course, he was the man who saw everything. Well, almost everything. Because when he turned and looked at John, he saw something he'd missed for the first time in a very, very long time. And when John strode forward, grabbed his face in both hands, and pressed their lips together… Well, he definitely hadn't seen that coming.

But it didn't take a genius to figure out what to do next, and Sherlock's arms practically moved of their own accord to draw him closer, his mouth yielding as if it was the easiest thing in the world, and then John was pressed against him and his massive brain fizzled out completely, leaving him with nothing but sensation that rushed though him, leaving him shaking and rumpled and happier than he could ever remember being.