Author's note: Thank you for reading this! This is my first one. Really surprised at the number of story alerts I got. Thank you! Would keep updating every few days. Stay tuned! :)


As much as John was certain that he was a heterosexual male, over the years, he had discovered that when Sherlock Holmes was in the mix, all bets were off. And he tried to deny it, but he was way past that. Two months ago, on a particularly bad day, he, John Watson, went to a bar where homosexual males were known to frequent. He did not feel any attraction at all to the males there, they were admittedly good-looking. But John never felt the yearning to run his fingers along the cheekbones of those men. He did not want to bury his face in the crook of their necks and inhale.

He admitted this fact to his therapist three months after The Fall. He felt that he no longer had to hide; he had no one to hide it from. Sherlock was gone. He was dead. And admitting that he loved this impossible, brilliant man was like a relief, a burden removed from his shoulders. With this new revelation comes a suppressed regret of every second before The Fall that he did not use to tell his friend how he felt. Hell, maybe it would have stopped Sherlock from killing himself.

John told Leia about all the little things that Sherlock did, the things that he missed now, of all. The way he demanded for his tea in the mornings just the way he liked it, two sugars and three teaspoons of milk. The way he would energetically pace about the room when he was on a case. The frenzied look in his eyes when he reached an epiphany. What John didn't share was the secret smile that Sherlock gave him, just for John, when he was pleased. That was John's favorite look.

The perfect cupid bow lips, sometimes surprisingly sultry when he doesn't get what he wants and sulks. John now admits that at times when Sherlock was being exceptionally trying, he wanted to seal those lips with his, just to shut him up for once. He lamented the wasted time, the time he now knew was limited. He wished he could have told Sherlock how he felt, even if it wasn't requited. And lord knows what that strange man hides behind his guarded expressions.

"It doesn't matter now!" John bellowed into the empty apartment, mad with grief and regret. "He is dead, John, he is dead. It doesn't matter anymore. It doesn't mean anything. Nothing means anything anymore." He held his head in his hands and heaved dry, harsh sobs. He thought about the things he wished to say. And he was in the middle of a speech declaring his impossible love to his dead friend when there was a voice.

"That's where I sit, John."

The army doctor's head shot up. That voice. It couldn't be. It simply cannot be. Could it?

He stared at the figure leaning against the doorframe. swathed in a blue scarf over the familiar coat. The one that he last saw covered in the blood of his friend. He saw those eyes, they were blue now, the unruly curls that nestled against the upturned collar of the coat. The cheekbones that The Woman has remarked upon.

I am truly mad now. John thought distantly. And aloud, he said. "You are officially bonkers now, aren't you, Doctor." And numbly, madly, he went about the packing. He began throwing things into the boxes, first went the papers that were everywhere. And when he was about to put the violin back into its' case, he heard the voice again. It was louder this time.

"John, what are you doing?" came the voice.

John continued in his frenzied packing. "You're not real, Sherlock. I must be so maddened by grief that my chose to conjure you up. "

And to himself, he whispered "Oh good lord, what fresh hell is this?"

"John, I am here. I am not dead." The voice drawled. The voice that had not been heard for the past twelve months. Sometimes John heard the voice in his head, and he was certain that this is a further deterioration of his mental condition. He continued to bury his head in his hands, he couldn't bear to bring himself to hope that the miracle he asked was here. He couldn't bear it if it wasn't true.

John felt a rustle of cloth as the figure that is evidently Sherlock kneeled in front of him. Warm leather gloves held his head, slowly bringing it up to face the man that he could no longer ignore.

He stared into the familiar eyes, the ones that changed color according to their owner's mood. John had seen those eyes turn almost black in anger, as clear as the sky when he was amused. And John could not deny that the warm breath that was against his face.

"But how? I saw you, you had no pulse!" John's voice cracked once more, he felt the hope that he tried to ignore rise up and burst free of his doubts.

Then Sherlock sat down beside John and in true Sherlock fashion, explained how he needed to appear that he had killed himself to protect him, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. He explained how he had spent the past year locating Moriarty's three assassins and making sure that they disappeared.

Sherlock didn't mention how he would interrogate them. He did not talk about the soundproof room that was in safehouse that Mycroft procured. He did not talk about the things he did to make them spill the secrets of their master.

But John knew, as he always did. He knew what was left unsaid. And he was touched by his usually insensitive friend and what he left out to protect him.

John had questions, he wanted to ask why Sherlock did not inform him of his being alive. He wanted to ask why Sherlock left him behind when he could have helped. He wanted to ask so many things. But right that very moment, he just felt a huge sense of relief. The dramatic loss of his friend and his quiet return.

"Do you understand now, John? I did what I had to do. And even if I had to choose again, I will do this all over because it would mean that you…that all of you would never be threatened again." When he said this, his face was eerily calm, and in contrast, his eyes were a brilliant blue, blazing in all their intensity.

John was distracted. He had been staring at the bleeding cut on his friend's lower lip. Those cupid bows, ever expressive, continued moving while Sherlock rambled on. John didn't hear a single word. His gaze travelled to Sherlock's face, his hair, his sculpted cheekbones. All he could think of was tracing his lips along them, just to prove that his friend, his heart, was really here.

In his daze, John realized that Sherlock had stopped speaking moments ago and was now gazing at him curiously. The doctor blushed and broke the gaze.

"John." Sherlock began in the voice he used when he was deducing. "You should know by now that when I observe people, I see everything."

John did not like where this was going. Could it be that Sherlock knew his change of heart? Oh hell, of course he knew, I have been so bloody obvious, he thought.

"Judging from your dilated pupils and slightly parted lips," Sherlock paused and actually looked pink in the cheeks, "and the visible outline in your trousers", he continued, with a voice that was huskier than before. He allowed his sentence to trail off and his gaze locked with John's once more.

Embarrassed, John sputtered and grabbed a cushion to hide the physical evidence of his secret thoughts that were obviously no longer secret. He backed away from the force of Sherlock's gaze, which was now intense and slightly feral, one might describe it as hungry, even.

"So let's hear it then, your little speech. The one that you were obviously rehearsing before I alerted you to my presence." Sherlock's gaze was unwavering, and John felt his face heating up. And his heart was racing. It couldn't be, could it? He thought.

At some point during this internal crisis that John was having, Sherlock decided to give his flat-mate a little incentive. He closed in against John and nuzzled insistently.

"Give it to me, John. I want to hear it." Sherlock's words were a warm whisper against John's neck, and he nudged him playfully, like a overgrown cat.