reconcile

verb.

friendly relations between,

co-exist in harmony; make or show to be compatible.


It's not until late the next afternoon when John returns home, hair mussed and clothes unchanged but visibly creased. Sherlock barely has to spare him a glance from the couch (from which he hasn't moved for at least three hours) to know that it's highly likely that John had gone to the pub and, as the colloquial term would say, 'got laid'.

(Clothes creased, though to an unreasonable degree if he only went drinking (yes, drinking - strong smell of alcohol; small stain on the sleeve of his shirt near the wrist – spilt his drink); two buttons missing from the shirt – taken off in a hurry; stitching of inside seam on trousers loosened – pulled and yanked violently. Hair sticking up prominently on one side; slept on his side in a bed – yes a bed, his back isn't stiff. Not wearing socks, easy to see from discomfort - shuffling from foot to foot – so he left in a hurry. The sex was good but the woman he slept with wasn't. Yes, a woman; smell of perfume is strong, and lipstick marks still present on the curve of his neck. Conclusion: he got drunk, picked up a woman, slept with her, but didn't want to start a relationship and so left. Elementary.)

Sherlock doesn't mention it though, merely stays laid perfectly still with his eyes fixed on the patch of damp they had on the ceiling above the couch (probably from a previous experiment). Luckily, John also commits not to mention it and merely steps into the kitchen after hanging his coat up on the back of the door, hooking it soundly onto one of the hooks. The sound of the switch on the kettle being pushed down is loud in the silence of the flat. The bubbling of water that follows a few seconds after, along with the clank of mugs (two; not as angry as he was) and spoons (three taps on the side of the cup; distracted), is even louder. It makes 221B Baker Street feel whole again after a long night of missing one of its promiscuous tenants.

After a few minutes, a cup of tea is placed down on the coffee table to his side and soon after John is placed down in a chair at the desk. Sherlock closes his eyes and listens to the sounds as John pulls his laptop out and sets about starting it up. There is a whirr from the fan (on the verge of breaking; will fix it for him later) as the outdated machine is turned on. Soon enough, it is followed by the clacking of keys - that signifys that John is typing his password in ('northhumberland221'; change it for him later) - along with another, slightly louder, whirr from the fan as the laptop slowly logs him in. Not long after, there's a steady tap, tap...tap as John begins to type out the case that they finished about a week ago.

It had been an interesting case, not brilliant, but nice and distracting to keep his mind occupied. It had started off painfully simple as the locked room murder of a daughter of a politician for the local area. The motive was easy enough to figure out alone as soon as he had been told it was a politician who was the mother of the girl; hatred of the political party (Conservative – not exactly hard to hate). The mystery had only grown more complicated when their main suspect had been killed, though through further investigation and following loose trails and wrong roads John had suggested that maybe he'd died a natural death. Sure enough, a scan of the dead body had shown he'd had an undiagnosed aneurysm in his brain, close to the frontal lobe. From there on in, it was simply a matter of pulling the facts together, getting the story straight, and letting Gregson deal with the tedious paper work.

While the case wasn't exactly complicated, he longs for a taste of a mystery despite it being merely a week since the case ended. It's been a while since he has had one that required him jumping over rooftops. Though maybe it is better if they don't have any more like that until John gets better at jumping considering what happened last time.

John had jumped and fallen short of the other side, arms hitting the overhang of the roof and gripping on until Sherlock had pulled him up. They'd joked about it afterwards ("Damn my legs!", "Occupational hazard though really, isn't it?", "It's not my fault I'm short you tall bastard") – well, John had mostly been the one to joke about it. Sherlock had listened to his voice, smiled, and laughed even at some points as they ate Chinese at two in the morning, bundled inside the same restaurant as they had after the first case they had solved together.

It isn't the cases that Sherlock craves anymore, nor is it the thrill of the chase that accompanies them; it's the moments afterwards that feel almost domestic to a degree. Just him and John being...friends? Being what? Just being, he assumed. Just...being—

A pen bounces off his nose.

"Oi, Sherly," John speaks up, voice clear as he talks. He leans on his elbows as he peers over his laptop at Sherlock, "Are you—"

"Don't call me 'Sherly'," Sherlock interrupts, sitting up and rubbing ink off of his nose, though he supposes from the way that it smudges over his fingertips that it must look rather comical.

"Yeah, yeah," John smiles at him, then pauses and frowns slightly as he hesitates before speaking again, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, John. Though," Sherlock swallows, picks up the cup of tea and sips (lukewarm; been sitting and thinking longer than assumed) before continuing, "I must say that – in this instance – I am obliged to apologise."

"Sherlock, it's fi—"

"No, John, I want to. What I said was...endangering to our friendship and that it is likely to have reminded you of what happened Before," Sherlock continued, looking down at the beige liquid in the cup, "I take advantage of your presence in my life far too much and I wish for you to know that you are desired on a level that is more than necessity – though it appears that you have become necessity in more ways than I thought you might." Sherlock sighs and runs a hand over his face, words tangling together as he forces them out, "I value your friendship and I am sorry if I offended you."

There are a few moments of silence where Sherlock continues to stare at his now too-cold-to-drink tea. After two minutes, he looks up and over at John who looks well and truly shell-shocked at this apparent revelation. Sherlock swallows and frowns at him, looking away again before he stands up and takes his cup into the kitchen to pour the useless tea down the sink. Well, he would, however John stands up with him and grabs Sherlock's wrist before pulling him into a tight hug.

It's awkward at first because Sherlock isn't expecting it, not at all. But after a few moments, he relaxes into it and wraps one arm around John in return, burying his face in his flatmate's hair as he holds on as tight as he can whilst still keeping a steady grip on the cup. Eventually, after a disputable amount of time, John loosens his hold and pulls away from the embrace. He's smiling in a way that can only be described as bashful or possibly shy and it looks both endearing and out of place.

"It's fine, Sherlock. I, um, I value our friendship too," John says and gives Sherlock a little pat on the arm before going back to his laptop.

Sherlock smiles softly and revels in the warm feeling that is fluttering inside his chest, behind his ribs and pushing against them pleasantly, before he turns into the kitchen to dispose of the tea.