Disclaimer: I do not own, nor profit from.
Authors Note: Sorry this chapter is slightly late, I had to write it out long hand as I had no internet for the past 4 days. I think I started showing withdrawal symptoms. It wasn't pretty. I also wanted to say that I am on Tumblr (type in "charanteleclerc" to Google), and I will be taking prompts, alongside You Believe in Ghosts. I am also starting a FrostIron fanfiction, so keep an eye out for it! Enjoy!
Revelations
John could see the tension behind Sherlock's eyes, coiled like a spring. Sherlock shifted, uncomfortable.
"I'm not sure if that is such a good idea John." John winced at the pain underneath those words.
"It may not be a good idea. But a worse one would be to let you walk out that door and out of my life again."
"Technically, I fell..." Sherlock promptly stopped after a menacing glare from John."
"You know exactly what I mean." Sherlock hung his head. The silence stretched out between them.
"Your bedroom is exactly how you left it." Sherlock nodded absentmindedly.
"Thank you." John frowned.
"What for? It's not that difficult to upkeep a bedroom no-one uses." Of course you don't use that room. You only hide in there once a month, once a week, every day...
Sherlock smiled slightly, a smooth quirk of the lips that John had missed so badly.
"Not just for the bedroom. A lot of people wouldn't be so... understanding, and just let me back into their lives like you are." John nodded at his feet.
"I'm glad you didn't say forgiving. I might have kicked you back out again. Sherlock grinned a smile, his whole face lighting up.
"Precisely why I didn't."
And John couldn't do anything but laugh.
o0o
John blinked awake in the morning light, a little disorientated. He dragged a hand through his short sandy blonde hair. He glanced over towards his alarm clock, sitting beside a cup of tea. 7:04am.
Wait a minute... cup of tea?
He didn't remember getting up and making himself a cup of tea. Unless he'd suddenly taken to sleepwalking.
"Precisely why I didn't." Sherlock had amusement glinting in his eyes. John was laughing, his voice a little hoarse. Sherlock joined in too, his velvet laughter mingling with John's, in perfect harmony.
Sherlock.
Sherlock had returned to him.
His Sherlock. Back from the dead. Back from that fall. Back.
John stumbled down the stairs into the living room, scanning the room quickly. The cushions on the sofa were slightly ruffled, a blanket strewn across the seats. John stared at the scene, his breath taken away by those small details that meant that Sherlock was still here.
"John?" Sherlock stood in the doorway the kitchen, holding another cup of tea.
"Sherlock." There was no underlying message, no pain. Just a simple affirmation that he was still here. Sherlock's eyes John's face, registering every emotion that played across his face. John smiled. Sherlock's eyes creased in confusion.
"What?" Sherlock looked down at himself, checking he hadn't spilt tea over himself. This lay with John badly. John had never seen Sherlock so insecure. John always looked at Sherlock strangely. Sherlock had always either ignored it or shrugged it off with some sort of comment about John's idioticy. But Sherlock had never been insecure. Far from it. He always bordered arrogance.
Before he knew what he was doing, John strode across the gap separating them, and enveloped the stunned detective in a hug. Sherlock froze for a moment, then slowly leaned into the embrace, awkwardly wrapping his arms around the shorter man.
"Don't." John whispered. Sherlock stiffened, frowning in surprise.
"Don't what?" A quiet question slipped from the detective's lips.
"Don't stop being you." John mumbled into Sherlock's purple shirt. The Purple Shirt of Sex, as dubbed by Sherlock's fans, John wryly thought. What wouldn't they give to be in my position?
Sherlock gently smiled into John's shoulder, smelling in John's scent of tea, coconut and wool. John had missed this scent so badly when he had been away from John in those 8 months. A scent of security, of warmth.
It was also the smell of home, love and acceptance. And Sherlock never wanted to let go.
John felt Sherlock slowly draw back, but Sherlock's grip around his waist didn't relax. John looked up into the detectives face, and saw emotions flitting across his face, emotions he couldn't pinpoint. There was hope, hesitation, Sherlock seemingly having an inner conflict.
Oh.
Sherlock started to lean in slightly, and John involuntarily stiffened. Sherlock picked up on it instantly, and moved back to his original position. John backed out of Sherlock's grasp, and turned back towards the stairs.
He didn't look back down until he was behind his closed, locked door.
o0o
Did Sherlock really feel that way about him? Sherlock had never felt that way about anyone. The closest anyone had got to Sherlock was Irene Adler, but that was only admiration at the most. The man was a self-proclaimed sociopath for Pete's sake! He didn't feel emotions of that kind.
But what if he did now? Had disappearing for 8 months changed him that much Had it been seeing John with a gun inside his mouth?
He knew that the git probably wouldn't make another move after he had stiffened and run out on Sherlock. He had been confused. Scared. Shocked. But he did care for Sherlock, so deeply. He worried about Sherlock's health, whether he was safe or not. He would take a bullet for the man. He relaxed around Sherlock in a way that he did around no-one else. He felt a fierce need to protect Sherlock, to defend him even if Sherlock himself scorned him for it.
John slowly slid down the back of the door, hitting the ground with a dull thud.
He loved Sherlock Holmes.
John sat there immobile, unthinking, just those four words swirling round in his head. He heard footsteps on the stairs, descending to the front door.
Sherlock.
"SHERLOCK!" The footsteps stilled, hesitant. John rushed down the stairs, three steps at a time. Sherlock stood, one pale hand resting on the doorknob. John stood directly in front of him, staring into Sherlock's lowered face.
"Where do you think you're going?" John questioned. Sherlock's eyes fluttered towards the door under his long, dark lashes.
"I don't want to inconvenience you any longer, John. It's best if I just left." Sherlock whispered, still refusing to meet John's gaze.
"Inconvenience me? Sherlock, you walking back into this flat was the best thing that has happened to me in months! If you left again, I wouldn't cope. I can't do without you Sherlock." John stepped closer to the porcelain statue of his best friend. "I just can't."
Sherlock's gaze finally swept up to John's face. "John, I..." Sherlock exhaled deeply, his face furrowing. "John. I can't stay while knowing that what I want is impossible. I can't do that John. It's not fair on you."
John moved ever closer, raising a hand to cup Sherlock's cheek, rubbing a thumb over the pale cheekbone.
"John..." Sherlock breathed, a hint of pleading in his tone.
John stretched up on pressed a soft, lingering kiss to Sherlock's pale lips. Sherlock leant into the kiss, one hand lacing itself in John's sandy, unkempt hair, the other wrapping itself around the shorter mans waist. John moaned into the kiss, pressing himself up against Sherlock. He slowly pulled away then, Sherlock whimpering at the loss of contact. John leaned his forehead against Sherlock's gently pushing the taller man's curls out of the way.
"Stay." John repeated his request of the previous night, his voice little more than a ragged whisper. Sherlock smiled, genuine.
"It would be my pleasure."