John stood too close to him, his eyes boring into Sherlock's. Every so often he'd flick his eyes down, and the scrutiny would be delivered to Sherlock's lips. Sherlock had asked him what he was doing in a whisper a few times, each time receiving nothing but a pointed glare and a hush. He bit his lip, and tried to be quiet. Talking would break the mood. The lip biting is what did it, though. John let out a small whisper of breath, from anyone else it would be called a whimper, and swayed dangerously close to Sherlock's lips. He murmured something indistinguishable, that contained the words 'gorgeous' and 'intoxicating'. Sherlock stared with heavy lidded eyes at the man who paid him such close attention, drunk off his scent. He'd done this before, but no one had had such an effect on him. John leaned forward and covered Sherlock's lips with his own. Sherlock pulled in a sharp breath, and slid his arm around John's waist. John let out another small noise and pulled himself closer. Sherlock let himself be laid down on his back, in the middle of the bed, as John straddled him. The kiss had broken, and Sherlock was almost disappointed. It had been unbearable chasté up to this point. Sherlock reached up, and gained a hold on John's neck, pulling him down and crushing the man's lips against his own in a search for the promise that had presented itself through the sweet gesture minutes ago. His tongue gently probed at John's closed lips, and they parted gently, allowing Sherlock entry to John's mouth. It stayed sweet, just a slip of tongues, before John pushed Sherlock against the mattress again, and Sherlock's hips bucked up. John now dominated the kiss, moving it at a faster pace, heated and full of raw passion. Both were hard and they were rutting against each other like teenagers.

A door slammed downstairs and Sherlock shot to vertical, out of bed in an instant.
For a second he thought it had happened again, he was in a deserted house in a foreign country, completely unaware of his surroundings, and having erotic dreams about his ex-flatmate.
A moment of all-consuming panic clutched at him, before he realised he was in John's room, in John's clothes, jumping out of John's bed. His eyebrows dipped as he repressed the urge to smell them and bask for a few minutes. He might not get this chance again. Then he remembered what he was dreaming about and groaned. He looked down and sure enough-yep he was hard. The door slamming turned out to be John, who was now climbing the stairs, the heavy beat of his feet growing ever nearer. Sherlock sighed and pushed himself into the bed, pulling the duvet up to mask the evidence of his past dwellings. It was for this reason he hated sleeping-the amount of time it took for his brain to speed up again, after.
"Sherlock?"
"Hm?" John paused in the doorway, looking at Sherlock who currently sat, cocooned in John's duvet, on the edge of the bed. He stared for a few seconds before nodding and sighing simultaneously, before turning to head back down the stairs.
"Tea in a few!" He yelled up to Sherlock, who sighed and collapsed against the bed, willing his erection to go away. He lay there for a few minutes, until he was sure it was safe to brave human contact.
A few minutes later found them sitting across from each other at the kitchen table, free of experiments, due to the long interval since Sherlock last had a chance to put make a distinct impression that he was anywhere in the house, with either organised chaotic mess, or experiments. Sherlock circled the rim of his mug, staring into the creamy beige liquid and estimating when the barrage of questions would begin. As predicted, John drew in a breath, and Sherlock smirked.
John let it out in a huff and Sherlock glanced up.
The expression on John's face was oddly close to... pouting?
"Are you...?"
"No." John flicked his head to the side, to stare away from Sherlock and licked his lower lip.
Sherlock's eyes widened.
"Did you just...?"
"NO!" John snapped his head back to glare at Sherlock, who was making a valiant effort not to chuckle. Instead, he raised an eyebrow, and leaned forward. When he spoke it was in an undertone;
"When you act like this... People might talk..."
John mirrored his actions, widening his eyes and leaning forwards so their forearms touched over the table.
"People do little else." Now it was Sherlock's turn to pout.
"That's my line."
John's lips quirked up and to the side, and the expression was so endearing, Sherlock had to lean forwards so their lips were a whisper apart.
"Three years, John. Don't keep me waiting."
John's eyes met his, and then slid closed. Their lips touched, but it was barely there. Sherlock was longing for something he had felt in his dream, he could feel it, just out of reach and true to his predictions, John was pulling back before Sherlock had a chance to advance things.
"Not now, Sherlock." Sherlock grinned.
"Later?" The briefest hint of a wink crossed his face, and John was almost chortling again.
"Definitely." The smile on the taller man's face grew wider.

They talked for hours, getting up to date on the other's activities during the three years apart.
John told Sherlock about Mary, and their quick flair. He spoke of waiting, indefinitely. The suspense, the pain of never knowing when Sherlock would return. At this Sherlock pressed his lips against John's again. He talked about Lestrade and Mycroft, how they found each other, and how Lestrade was ruined. Sherlock's eyes widened, and he told the last factor of the game Moriarty played. John knew the details, Mycroft had explained before John couldn't stand to look him in the face-or in his general direction any more.
Before Moriarty put a gun in his mouth, he explained the entire thing, and Sherlock had recorded it with the camera he found in the apartment, proving he was innocent. As soon as he could get the file off the laptop, both his and Lestrade's names could be restored in the view of the public and Lestrade's superiors. Their names had been cleaned a year and a half ago.
Sherlock told John about surviving the fall, and Molly, about the complicated procedures surrounding it. He recounted picking apart the web, and the array of deeds he had to do. He explained why he was so unprepared with Moran. During the previous day he had taken out another operative, and couldn't get a chance to sleep before Moran would have killed John. He'd planned to do a pure surprise attack, and revealed he knew he probably wouldn't have got out alive. He'd wanted to get rid of the man before he could get a chance to find John. Sherlock's gaze relocated to the table as he neared the end.
He spoke the last sentence and his gaze fixed upon John's.

"Seeing you there... It was the best feeling I've had in three years. Even though you were covered in another man's blood."

John just stared. He grabbed the front of the sheet Sherlock was wearing and hauled his torso onto the table, leaning onto it and pressing his lips deftly against Sherlock's. This kiss was not like the others. The other kisses were soft and reassuring, a promise that 'I'm here, I'm not leaving again. I'm not going anywhere any time soon.' This kiss was frantic, full of the pain and hurt and helplessness and loss that each had felt over the years apart, healing the scars and putting the other's mind back together. It was a promise, a deal, a leap. It was the knowledge that neither wanted anything more than they had, in that room, on the kitchen table. John pulled away, and dragged Sherlock around the table towards him.
"You. Idiot." He punctuated each word with a nip at Sherlock's bottom lip.
"Never. Do. That. To. Me. Again." He kept biting, fastening his teeth on the lobe of Sherlock's ear, before moving down to his neck and scraping his teeth over the pulse point. Sherlock couldn't tell whether it was the 'leaving him alone for three years' or the 'nearly get yourself killed when you're so close to coming home', but right now, he didn't care. The sensations John were evoking in him were so close to his dream, that he was hard before John had manhandled him around the table. All his past dreams flashed behind his eyes, and he shivered violently, and resorted to gently pulling away from John, before he completely lost control.
"Not now, we have to go and tell my brother the good news." His pupils were blown wide, and his hair looked beautifully dishevelled. John just grinned.

A/N: And that's my first fic finished... I might be writing an alternative ending to this hmmm... Only if enough of you want it(;
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