Beige Jumper meets Black Coat

Joy. That's what John felt when he met Sherlock at the door. He had run down the stairs two at a time, nearly resulting in the re-adoption of his cane, and wrenched open the glossy door of 221b Baker Street. Sherlock's expression was measured. He was taking in John's reaction and, upon seeing it was safe and he wouldn't be punched in the face, smiled his corner-of-the-mouth smile. The army doctor stood in the doorframe, panting from the elation of seeing him and his accelerated journey down the stairs. Sherlock was about to ask him if he was alright – dilated pupils, thundering heart rate, flushed features – when he was interrupted by John launching himself at Sherlock, doctors lips crushing against detectives. For a split second, Sherlock was taken aback, eyes darting around wildly for an escape – but soon realised he didn't want to escape. He wrapped his arms around the thinning waist of his old flatmate and held him closer, the rough wool of John's jumper tickling his pale fingers. Sherlock maneuvered them both through the doorway, occasionally bumping against the walls in the midst of their passion. John knew Mrs Hudson was out and so led him up the stairs by his hand, almost running to the nearest room (the living room) and collapsing on the sofa, but Sherlock stopped in the doorway. He sat up on the sofa and laughed nervously, patting the place next to him. But the journey up the stairs had been long enough for Sherlock to think clearly. He cleared his throat and looked anywhere but John's eyes or the couch. The doctor, realising something was wrong, stopped chuckling and assumed a face of seriousness, although a small part of him was still rejoicing.

"Um. John, I… uh I don't think I can…" whispered Sherlock, his deep voice so quite that John could barely hear him. He was confused.

"What? What can't you do, Sherlock?" he asked earnestly after half a minute of silence. The detective looked at his friend, his expression serious.

"I cannot become attached again, John. I cannot care about you. I cannot be with you. I cannot…" and with that he broke off and walked right back down the staircase, damnable coat still billowing out behind him. John leapt up from where he was sitting and followed, bounding towards the door with more speed than his old roommate. Darting around the jogging detective, he blocked the door, barring Sherlock's exit and fixed him with a look of unswaying sternness.

"No." he said brusquely.

"Yes." replied Sherlock, going to move around him, but being stopped due to the fact John's face was now extremely close to his, their lips almost touching. He could feel John's breaths wash over him, smelling of mint toothpaste and jam biscuits…and he gave in. There was no use trying to save him now. John wasn't going to let him go; not for a second time. And deep down, Sherlock knew he couldn't bear another separation from him. It would kill them both – not with snipers, but with loss. And so he gave in, and was the first to lean in, enveloping himself in the awkward but oh-so-familiar affection of John Watson, the man who had saved him too.