Never
John paced back and forth with enough urgency to wear away at the floor. Sherlock Holmes was back, back at 221b, back to John. It was a bittersweet reunion. Heavy on the bitter. Of course John was happy Sherlock was back, he was over the damn moon about it. Though there was that doubt, that doubt that made John unable to just let Sherlock back into his life. It was impossible for things to just resume. Sherlock had broken John, it was a fact. He had taken John in, fixed him, and then just tossed him aside afterwards. If John were to be brutally honest, he would say Sherlock Holmes took his heart and brought it with him to his fake grave.
John ran his fingers through his hair again. All of this had been exhausting. He needed tea. But Sherlock was downstairs, and John wasn't sure he could handle seeing him right now. For two reasons, either John will attack the man and beat him to the ground, or he'll break down and turn into a puddle of emotion. Unacceptable on both accounts (especially the latter). What would he say to Sherlock? 'Sherlock, I'm royally pissed at you but..christ. . I love you and since you got back half of me wants to yell and be mad at you and the other half can't stop thinking about how your lips would feel on mine.'? Yeah, that wouldn't work.
After a few more moments indulging in his small crisis, John decided that if he could survive a war he could survive seeing is not-so-dead flatmate again. He let out a sigh and exited his room, making his way downstairs to Sherlock—er—the kitchen.
John walked into the kitchen and put the kettle on. The flat felt no different. Sherlock's presence had not actually altered reality. John controlled his breathing. It was just Sherlock, he could handle it. He finished making his tea and turned around, nearly dropping the cup at the sight of Sherlock standing in the doorway. He clearly couldn't handle this.
"Christ" John breathed out; making sure none of his tea had spilled.
"No, just me." Sherlock's lip twitched. Seeing John again, no matter how angry, just filled Sherlock with something…good. Like something that was missing before had now returned. Sherlock felt whole around John.
"Yes. Funny." John said shortly, moving quickly past Sherlock into the living room.
"Are we not going to speak about this? I know you have questions." Sherlock inquired, taking his seat in front of John. It almost felt like normal again. Almost.
"Just one actually," John said, swallowing a gulp of tea, "Why?"
"Why, what? John. You know I hate vagueness."
"Sherlock." John said sternly, quickly losing his patience.
"I had to, John. To save you," Sherlock paused for half a second, "and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade of course. Moriarty was threatening your lives. I had to John." His voice softened just a fraction.
John sat there quietly. Thinking. He looked up at Sherlock and back into his tea, as if it held the answer to the problem he was faced with. He licked his lips and looked up at Sherlock again. There was something in his eyes, something that pleaded with John. But should he forgive him?
And the longer the silence was drawn out, the more Sherlock felt doubt. Doubt that John would ever forgive him. The silence started stringing even more words of doubt in Sherlock's mind. He'll never forgive you let alone lo—Sherlock quieted his mind, ignoring the acidic words burning behind his eyes.
They sat there staring at each other, trying to process what to do next. John shook his head, got up from the chair and moved to leave the room. He couldn't do this. No matter how much he thought he could. Sherlock went to follow him, but John protested.
"Don't," John coughed out, putting a hand up to emphasize. "Just stay over there. Please."
John looked up from the floor. Sherlock was stone faced. His lips stretched tight into a thin line. Now his eyes were devoid of any emotion. John took the lack of response as another chance to speak,
"Sherlock. You were gone, you left. In fact, you didn't just leave you DIED. If you think for one moment that you can just burst in here, and pretend that everything is going to be fine and that we'll be solving cases again—"
"We." Sherlock interrupted.
"What?" John sighed.
"You said we."
"Glad to see your observational skills are still spot on."
Something flashed in Sherlock's eyes for a moment. A familiar glint from whenever they got into their banter. John's heart lurched. The only thing he wanted right now was for everything to be right again. But it wouldn't be. Ever. Sherlock spoke again, his eyes boring into John's.
"You keep saying I left, John. But, you fail to remember that I returned. I returned to you. Aside from Mycroft, you are the only one who knows I am still breathing. I had to leave. For you, John," Sherlock seemed breathless, "for you and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. Moriarty was going to have you killed. Dead, John. The idea of you dead filled me with something so awful that I couldn't entertain the idea for more than half a second. So yes, John, I did leave, but there wasn't one day that went by where I didn't wonder how you were. It terrified me, sometimes, when I got into fights and after, instead of basking in the adrenaline high, all I could think about was Baker Street. Of how good it felt to have a home. To have you."
Sherlock crossed the room and stood an arms-length away from John, "And you said 'we' John so obviously you want a sense of normalcy and the fact that you kept most of my items and clothing means that you wanted to believe that I wasn't gone. You wanted me alive, and here I am."
They stood in tense silence. John was staring past Sherlock rather than at him. John's head not quite turned toward his. Sherlock's words echoed in his mind. Maybe it could work…maybe…
"Look at me, John." Sherlock said quietly, his voice wavering a bit.
John refused to meet his eyes, so Sherlock did the only sensible thing and grabbed John's face and forced it forward to face him. John flinched at the contact; Sherlock's hands were surprisingly warm. John was not used to the warmth of a human body so close to him, and not just any human body. Sherlock's. Sherlock's living, breathing, and existing body. He breathed in deep, inhaling the smell of his old friend. What used to be the smell of chemicals and soap was now just dust and gunpowder. John examined Sherlock's face, again, for the thousandth time. The last time he saw Sherlock, there was blood running from a crack in his head. A flood of emotion rushed into John. He had never been one to hold a grudge and to be frank, he was tired of being angry at Sherlock. It was unfair to the man in all honesty. He supposed, from how Sherlock was acting and how he looked, that maybe, just a little, Sherlock had missed John too.
"I love you." John said simply breaking the fragile silence.
"You mean loved." Sherlock said, his hands releasing pressure from John's face.
"Did love, do love, and will love. So, deal with that, you git." John said, a small smile playing across his lips, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Oh." Sherlock breaths. And then his mind started whirring again.
John nods and Sherlock releases his face. He is thinking, thinking hard, for the first time since he had taken down the last of Moriarty's web. Thinking about John, about them. Factoring and trying to solve the enigma that was John Watson.
"I understand," John started, "why you left. And I suppose I should thank you…for saving my life." John said slowly, watching Sherlock close for any hint of a reaction. But the reaction that followed was not expected in any realm of John's mind. Sherlock pulled John in, and Sherlock Holmes, the worlds only Consulting Detective was hugging Doctor John Watson. And that was a bigger miracle than him returning from the dead.
"I'm sorry I hit you." John said into Sherlock's shirt.
Sherlock's arms tightened around John.
"I'm sorry I left you." Sherlock whispered, pressing his lips to the top of John's head.
They stood there for a bit, reveling in the warmth being transferred between the two. Their breaths matching and their hearts beating for each other. John was afraid that any movement, even him reciprocating the hug or even speaking, would end this wild fantasy. But to hell with that.
"Does this mean that you love me too, then?" John asked, finally bringing his arms around Sherlock, the action felt strange. But good strange.
"John, I would not have come back if I didn't love you. My years away were nearly a form torture. Admittedly, they were mentally stimulating but, knowing how much I had hurt you, it hurt me in a way that scared me, in fact it still scares me. I'm supposed to be cold, detached. A high-functioning sociopath. But you John, you changed that. You turned the chasing Moriarty's allies into a mission to get back home to you, rather than to finally win against him." Sherlock sighed, pulling away slightly to look at John. His John.
"I don't know how we're going to make this work." John admitted, "but I know I want it too."
"And I as well." Sherlock said ghosting his lips across John's. The action making both of them shiver with desire, but that would have to wait. They were going to have to move slowly, no matter how much they craved each other.
"And you won't leave again?" John asked, his voice full of doubt.
"Never." Sherlock affirmed, pulling John close again.