Sherlock never runs. Not really. He might rush headlong but he does not run.
He narrows his gaze upon John's enquiring one, John's deceptively mild expression, and growls, every part of him gone taut and stern.
"…No. I take it back, all that crap I just spouted about your latest wench. Dump her! I'm not settling, not this time, John. Don't think it." The deep voice is absolutely steady and completely level. Very soft-spoken, though, and John has to strain to hear. "I will not settle for second best."
"Settling?" John frowns. "Er, 'second'?"
"Hah! No, she goes—history! And you? You wanted me to care, John? Well, I've learnt to care—"
"Tch! You've always cared, Sherlock. That's not what I'm ask—"
"No! No, I really, really haven't, John. Not the way you do."
The detective visibly deflates, his chest collapsing down upon John's, so close they can both hear the pound of his heart if they care to listen. He shifts his grip from John's shoulder blades, only to cup the man's cheeks instead. One steady pinkie finger soothes John's hair from tangling in his lashes.
"Wrong, Sherlock." John can be stern as well; he's trained for it. "Evidence says—"
"No, fine; I'm aware. I know that. And you've always complained I didn't, John, but that's bollocks, we both know it's bollocks, and you've never truly tried to alter me and you've always recognized I'm not some bloody machine—this I've known. True, I've not had much use for it, all this emoting people do, but I've a use for you. And you for me, John, or it wouldn't be me three years gone and you still only having a girlfriend and nothing more. You've not married. You've made no major moves to alter your confirmed bachelor existence, other than simply shift from this flat to that awful bedsit. You were waiting for me, weren't you? Waiting, all this time."
"Sherlock." John simply must smile up at the intent features, the flickering always-assessing eyes, for here is his own particular detective, alive and well and deducing. Dear and familiar. But different again. For the sake of John Watson. "Yes, of course I was. But—"
"Yes! Everything about you says to me you were waiting for me, John—and very correctly. You solved it."
"Wasn't that difficult, reall—"
"Shh! What I want, then? What I'm doing to you, John, my friend, my persistent curious friend, who likes danger so much? You need to understand, is it? In words. But those words will never be mine. I can speak them, of course I can; I can probably even be convincing, but that's not how—it's not it, John. So I ask. I ask of you—one more puzzle, John."
"Yes?"
"Look—see! Actions. The most telling evidence of all, actions. Who has come back to you, John? Who will do anything necessary, anything, even the seemingly impossible, to keep you in this world and asking questions? Who? And what is it you want from me, my conductor? That I've not already given you."
"Oh…I don't know, Sherlock," John grins, relaxing into the worn cushions. "I'm a man of simple tastes, you know? Obvious desires, right? Dull, even. You've certainly pointed it out to me often enough, before. An idiot, then. Basically."
"No! John, no!"
"Um, er." John shrugs a shoulder and swallows; eyes speak as loud as actions, at times. The manner in which Sherlock looks at him is stunning. "No, all right, it's—it's." He's a little overwhelmed, actually; this has been a long time coming. And if he's having trouble wrapping his tongue round his heart to offer it up in words, even vague ones, he can only feel sorry for his poor detective. "For you to say that to me, maybe, exactly as you've said it. I don't need the flowery language or the poetry, Sherlock—"
"Not on your life, John. I'll never—"
"Shut it. I need you. Here. With me."
"Yes!" Sherlock whoops softly, and dips his chin to press a tiny kiss to John's stubborn one. "I knew it!"
John glowers at him balefully. "But! But, Sherlock, you're not off the hook altogether, either, I'm warning you."
"No, I know that."
"And—and we're taking this slowly. This time. No games, Sherlock. No dropping clues and hints and then running off and abandoning me to sort it. Not having that, not a bit of it."
"Yes. Yes!"
John lays his hands over Sherlock's curled fingers, poking carefully at them till they spread wide and allow his own in between. It's very warm between them, he thinks. It's warmer still when Sherlock flashes that almost-smile at him, the smug one.
"Not so fast! It is your damned area, you know? We've been living in the same bloody area for years now, Sherlock, and perhaps it's not what I ever thought it would be; it's a little weird, here, okay? Very strange geography. But it's ours anyway. Ours, Sherlock. What we are, together. Admit it, and keep on admitting—in words, mind!—and then maybe I'll really forgive you. Okay?"
"Okay."
"Which, my bloody thick detective—"
"Oi!"
"Means that you will talk to me. Not just think really loudly at me with that great brain of yours but actually use the real live words. In the future; no, from this moment on, for that matter, Sherlock, you will take the time to speak to me when I'm actually present, in the same room and everything. You will say it out loud, to my face—explain it, lay it out word for word. What you want, how you feel. So I don't have it drag it kicking and screaming out of you, you great gormless git, and you will also be damned grateful I speak Sherlock while you're at it. Damned grateful! For when you fail!"
"Good, good, yes, I will, John." Sherlock nods his head so hard his hair flops over one eye. "I am, already, in fact. Did you hear, just now? But, now—now?" He's got his knees planted on either side of John's hips, so they're aligned, the hip bones. One telling shove and one of John's brows soars up his forehead. "May we crack on with this? You said take it slowly, before; see, I was listening, John! I heard you. But you are a healthy male in his physical prime, all the same, and so am I, so let's—"
"You want to shag? Me?"
"Exactly!"
"Well, why didn't you say so earlier, Sherlock?"
It's a matter of easily available evidence John's sporting a very wicked grin when he asks the question, the last one he has for his detective. It's a matter of evidence so is Sherlock Holmes wearing a very similar expression—when they finally, finally, start with the snogging.
And with the living. As they're men of action, the both of them, and the words that accompany such deeds can wait a bit. But not three whole years.