A/N: Hey guys! Thanks for the views! I promised that this chapter would be much longer and it is! Very small feels warning here, but nothing major. :) Reviews are appreciated: I always love the feedback. You guys are awesome, and I hope you keep patient for the next chapters. (2, 342 words)

John awoke the next morning to the sound of…nothing. From what he could hear, the flat was completely silent. This wasn't unusual since the last three-some years; he'd spent entire days by himself, and sometimes not even saying a word. He rolled over on his back and let his eyes wander the ceiling aimlessly. He studied the dull surface for a few moments before something suddenly flashed in his mind. He jumped and rolled over, rummaging through a drawer next to his bed, producing a brown leather-bound book. He let his fingers brush over the cover for a moment before untying the clasp and opening the first page.

Ella continues to insist that I record everything that happens to me with that bloody blog. I honestly don't know if she's helping me grieve for the war, or for…

Anyway, it's been a few months, and I think nothing's changed. Of course the world's changed, people around me have changed, and people say I've changed, but nothing has gotten better.

John flipped a few more pages and skimmed a few more of the entries. He flipped to the middle, a rather large entry he barely remembered writing.

Sherlock, you can stop this game you're playing. I've never been a fan of hide-and-seek and I sure as hell don't enjoy it now. I'm done looking for you and I've given up. Mycroft was right, you know. He told me—he knew me-he said I've missed the war, and I suppose that's partially true. Well,..really, it is true. But Sherlock, that war I was fighting after Afghanistan, that was with you. Now I'm alone, and this isn't a war I want to fight, not like this.

John sighed and stopped reading the entry, and stared at the page, running his calloused fingertips across the paper. He then flipped to the last entry he wrote in the journal, skipping quite a few pages. He remembered this entry very clearly and it brought tears to the brims of his eyes as he remembered the contents.

This ends here, Sherlock. This ends right now and I will make it end. I'm sick of this, all of this. During this time apart, I've come to realize something about myself. Something that I'm not sure if I like or if I hate. It's all so confusing. Is it just me grieving or is all of this real? I've lost the feeling of real so long ago, maybe during the war days, but I don't remember. You brought that back briefly, but then quickly and selfishly revoked it away from me far too soon. There's something I've wanted you to know, something I've shared with Ella many many months after your death and I thought about telling you to your grave, but how silly is that? Extremely. You'd laugh at me, you know. The things I've told that stupid stone in the ground. It's my only anchor to you, and I feel so..content.

John quickly snapped the book closed before reading the rest and shoved it away from him. He kicked it off the bed and it skidded across to the side table he had retrieved it from. He stared at the faded leather blankly before throwing his sheets off him and striding over to the door, and bounding down the stairs. Sherlock was already awake (as expected) on his laptop, staring at it intently. John stared at the latter for a few moments before proceeding on to the kitchen. A very long minute of silence stayed through them as John prepared his morning tea.

"Sherlock?" John called out after a minute. He heard Sherlock grunt a reply. "What's going on, do you know?" Sherlock's eyes flicked to the kitchen before returning to the screen.

"What do you mean," he said monotonously in return. At the counter, John scoffed as he dipped the teabag into the hot water, watching the liquid flow a light brown.

"You were dead just last week, and now you're here," John noted, keeping his eyes on his tea, eager to drink it. "And now you're going about as if you weren't dead for over a year."

"Your point?" Sherlock rolled his eyes up and stared at the empty doorway for a few moments, sitting still in his chair. John leaned back and met Sherlock's eyes, his own filled with disbelief.

"We're just going to ignore it?

" "There's nothing I have to say. I had my reasons and that's all there is."

John pursed his lips tightly and went back to his tea after a hesitant moment. He dunked the teabag numerous times before throwing it in the trash and adding his milk and sugar. He stirred quietly and stared down at the lightly colored liquid for a couple moments before holding the mug close and walking to the sofa to sip his drink. Before he could sit down, there was a small noise from Sherlock and he turned around to look at the other man.

"John," he began, then paused. "If you could..." he gestured to the mug in John's hands. John turned to fully face the other man and he scoffed, looking up and out the window for a moment before setting his mug down and returning to the kitchen, preparing tea for Sherlock. He returned after a few minutes and set the mug next to Sherlock on the table. "Thank you," the detective muttered shyly, reaching for the hot drink and taking a very tentative sip. He nodded calmly and then set the mug down on the table where John had previously placed it.

"I know why you did it and all. I do understand, Sherlock." John said finally, sipping his tea again and keeping his eyes fixed on the carpet near Sherlock's feet.

"Good," Sherlock mused before closing the laptop and setting it on John's chair opposite him. "And John?"

"Yes?" John's eyes lifted slowly, meeting Sherlock's face with a reluctant manner.

"I hope you know," Sherlock paused a moment, then went on, "that I am sorry for this."

"I.." John stammered a bit before collecting his breath, smiling vaguely. "Thank you," he said at last with a nod. Sherlock didn't reply and he simply wrapped his hands around the warm mug and brought it to his lips, sipping the drink gratefully. The men sat in a long and comfortable silence for the next few minutes. John looked down to see the ceramic bottom of his mug; he grimaced and then stood, striding over to the kitchen.

Sherlock was up in a flash, intercepting the other man from the kitchen. "No, really, John." Sherlock said in his low voice, barely above a whisper. His hand reached down and caught John's wrist in a gentle hold and John looked up to meet the other man's eyes. Their eyes locked for several moments before either of them knew that the distance between them were closing, and Sherlock's hard expression stayed firm, but slowly became out of focus as John's eyes crossed for a last struggle to keep his own locked on Sherlock's. A small noise rose out from John's throat, and he tilted his head up, the two men's lips meeting in a very shy and soft brushing of the lips. Sherlock kept his eyes open a sliver, watching John's eyelids flutter closed after a reluctant second. The kiss broke a moment later with a soft smack noise and John's face flushed pink. The latter smiled only vaguely before turning on his heel and walking toward the window opposite the kitchen, his back turned to John. John's feel seemed nailed to the floor, unable to move from the spot he stood.

John peeled his feet from the floor beneath him and proceeded onto the kitchen to set his mug in the sink with a bit of a slower pace. John's mind was running at tremendous speeds, wheeling with emotions, thoughts and reasons. He nearly fell over, the thoughts making him dizzy, and he clutched onto the island counter to steady himself. He felt his heartbeat slow after the adrenaline simmered away, his face heating up in the process. From his spot in the kitchen, John could see the other man pick up his beloved instrument and stare at it for a while before tucking it under his chin and running the bow over the tuned strings. John inhaled almost silently and made his way into the living room, each footfall making a deep thud in the carpeted floor. He walked close to Sherlock, his hand reaching up and pressing his fingers across the neck of the violin, dulling the sound. Sherlock stopped the glide of the bow and his head jerked slightly to look at John out the corner of his eye. Silently, John took the instrument from Sherlock's hands, setting both pieces down on the desk next to him gingerly. One of John's hands pressed on Sherlock's shoulder, turning him to face John. Sherlock's heart skipped a beat at John's touch and he complied humbly and stared down at John with his back straightened. He felt John's hand brush across the back of his neck, then pressure, and his head being brought down, and he then felt John's lips push firmly against his own. His own eyes squeezed shut and he furrowed his eyebrows subtly before reluctantly kissing the other man back. John took this as an invitation, and he pressed himself against Sherlock, his other hand clamping onto Sherlock's hip, bringing their bodies together closely. It was Sherlock who broke the kiss this time, letting his eyes flash open and stare down at John with a half-longing, half-disoriented expression.

"John," Sherlock whispered, his lips brushing softly against John's as he spoke. The latter pushed himself up and pressed his lips against Sherlock's once again before backing up a few inches.

"Stay here," John replied vaguely, turning around and briskly walking from the room and bounding up to his room. He stayed gone for only a moment before he returned holding a leather-bound book tied at the side with a strand of leather. John set it in Sherlock's hands silently, opening the book while the book rested in the taller man's hands and flipped to a page with an entry he—in fact—had read earlier that day. Sherlock stared at the page for a moment before sitting in his chair, crossing his leg and resting the journal against his thigh to read the entry.

This ends here, Sherlock. This ends right now and I will make it end. I'm sick of this, all of this. During this time apart, I've come to realize something about myself. Something that I'm not sure if I like or if I hate. It's all so confusing. Is it just me grieving or is all of this real? I've lost the feeling of real so long ago, maybe during the war days, but I don't remember. You brought that back briefly, but then quickly and selfishly revoked it away from me far too soon. There's something I've wanted you to know, something I've shared with Ella many many months after your death and I thought about telling you to your grave, but how silly is that? Extremely. You'd laugh at me, you know. The things I've told that stupid stone in the ground. It's my only anchor to you, and I feel so..content.

Ella tells me I'm just confusing my grief for something else, but I think she's wrong.

Those times that I've felt so exhilarated with you while we solved crimes and figured out riddles together, and the creeping sensation I'd feel when you'd state something brilliant as if it were common fact, I think I'd mistaken that for something else. It was love. Every jolt, every pinprick of excitement that seared through my veins. That might have been adrenaline but it was also enchantment .

Stop rolling your eyes at me.

I guess that's all I really can say about this without repeating myself. I just wish you could come back so I can finally tell you, though you probably already knew before I even did.

God, I miss you.

The entry ended there with John's shaky signature. Sherlock raised his head and pressed his fingertips together, letting his chin rest on them silently.

"You were right," he said after a silent moment. John raised his head and furrowed his eyebrows, looking over at the detective.

"What was that?" John asked softly, tilting his head. Sherlock's head whipped over and looked at John intently.

"You were right," he repeated, "I knew far before you did. During my disappearance, but yes, I knew." Sherlock's hands fell and gingerly held the journal in his hands, running his hand over the cover, then tying the leather strap together to close it more securely. John's heart caught in his chest and it felt as if he were falling from a high point, a buzzing pulsing down his spine.

John shuffled over to Sherlock and stood in front of him. He raised his knee and crawled into Sherlock's lap, pushing the journal off and pressing his knees on either side of Sherlock. "Why did you come back, Sherlock?" John's hand lifted and brushed away a dark curl from Sherlock's forehead, then cupping Sherlock's face with his hand. Sherlock's eyes flicked down for a split second before meeting John's once again.

It was barely a whisper, but John heard it and it was lost just as quickly. The two men's lips crashed together in a deep and passionate kiss once the words left the detective's lips. Teeth grind together and tongues tangled in each other's mouths, the kiss becoming hot and heavy. The night, beyond then, became lost in their lustful holds.

"You, John."

A/N: Apparently there was a weird formatting error that happened with this chapter. It's fixed now, thank you for pointing this out. :)