I, I can't promise you

That I won't let you down

And I, I can't promise you

That I will be the only one around

When your hope falls down


They're in the middle of a fight, John and Sherlock. Arguing over Sherlock's recklessness, Sherlock's messes, Sherlock's…well, they're arguing about Sherlock. John's holding his own surprisingly well, and Sherlock is getting irritated. And then he does it, Sherlock spits out a simple barb that makes John go utterly silent, and suddenly the argument is over. Sherlock's won, by default, because John's unable to continue. Forfeit. Sherlock revels in it for only a moment before he realizes John's still standing there, staring at the floor, lost in his own mind. Sherlock addresses him, but he doesn't respond. He does it again, and John barely looks up, eyes heavy, and he shuffles out of the room without a word.

Sherlock's mind is instantly at work, running over their tense exchange for what might have triggered such a reaction from the doctor. It had to be the last thing he said, because there were no other signs of distress (besides the obvious) preceding. He examines everything in that statement, from the words themselves to the tone of his voice to the way he had looked at John when he said it—nothing seemed out of the ordinary for such a fight. Yet John was somehow hurt by the minuscule insult.

Sherlock decides he needs more data. He can't make an accurate deduction if the subject isn't even present; so he finds his way to John's bedroom door. It's closed, which is unusual. Sherlock gives two brief knocks, and the door swings open on the second, like John was waiting for him to come investigate. John returns to a sitting position on the edge of his bed, head in his hands and the heels of his palms pressing into his closed eyes.

Sherlock doesn't speak, but observes John.

Making what little progress he can, he is disappointed when the answer still eludes him. He falls back on a more direct approach, and simply asks John what is wrong.

John's fingers turn into fists at the curves of his cheeks and he stands, shoulders squared and looking Sherlock directly in the eye—and intending to give Sherlock exactly what he is looking for. Sherlock delves in again, looking for anything, until it just hits him smack in the face.

Sherlock murmurs something under his breath to himself, and John knows he's solved it. He's trembling in anticipation for Sherlock's reaction to what he's found.

He closes his eyes and waits for the questions or rattled-off explanations of his deductions, but instead he gets Sherlock's hand on his neck. He tilts his head up and opens his eyes, unsurprised when he finds Sherlock's right there in front of him.

And then Sherlock's leaning in, closer and closer as each millisecond passes, until there's a feather-light pressure against John's lips and his heart stops. It's over in an instant and when John looks back to Sherlock, he knows the detective is completely out of his element and his mind is probably going a mile a minute and what just happened is likely to never, ever happen again.

But then it does.

And, oh, Sherlock knows more than John ever gave him credit for.


I ran away

I could not take the burden of both me and you

It was too fast

Casting love on me as if it were a spell I could not break

When it was a promise I could not make


With Sherlock's lips very intently on his, practically insistent, John forgets what Sherlock had said in the living room, he forgets that they were fighting, he forgets his own bloody name. All he can think is Sherlock, Sherlock, oh God, Sherlock.

Sherlock's hands are strong at John's neck, both cradling and containing, while John works his fingers into Sherlock's raven curls. Each kiss was a new blow to their carefully constructed barriers. The wall built between them—created out of necessity, but riddled with reluctance—cracked and cratered and crumbled beneath the crash of their lips.

Sherlock cannot stop the streams of information running through his mind, and discovers kissing yields much more data than he had first anticipated. John John John John John John bites his bottom lip when he's nervous or confused grinds his teeth when he has nightmares had tea just a few minutes ago and snuck one no two biscuits while the kettle was boiling had leftover takeaway for lunch and dinner slept on his neck wrong again John John oh John

John notices things, too. It surprises him, how much he can pick up. Sherlock's told him a million times that he never observes, but he seems to be observing Sherlock's mouth just fine. Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock hasn't eaten since this morning Sherlock Sherlock all he had was that cup of tea I made him and a single biscuit from the box hidden on top of the fridge Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock his lips are surprisingly soft Sherlock Sherlock I should feed him something before he starves Sherlock Sherlock snuck a cigarette maybe yesterday Sherlock oh God what is happening

But then they're moving, and John's feet are moving for him as Sherlock, maybe unknowingly, is pushing him back toward the bed. Then John's knees are against the mattress and he sits and Sherlock's mouth follows so that he's bending over John and it's too much and John knows that something's wrong and he doesn't understand but his body refuses to slow down even a little and oh God, he can't handle all this.

And then Sherlock tenses, as if he's just realized what was happening. His lips are still against John's, and the hand clenched around John's collar is sliding away.

Sherlock stands upright. He looks down at John, sitting on the bed with lips swollen, and something clicks in his head and he's practically running out of the room and John's running after him, shouting after him and calling out apologies, but it's too late and he's out the front door and halfway down the block before John can even get down the stairs, damn his legs.

Shit, shit, shit, John's thinking, sure that he's ruined it and Sherlock's never going to talk to him again, let alone kiss him like that or anything else even remotely as mind-blowing, and he's slumping into his chair, exhausted and terrified and over-stimulated all at once, and then he's drifting to sleep despite all his efforts to stay awake until Sherlock returns.

Sherlock walks and walks until he is almost lost in the London streets—almost, if he were to look at a street sign he'd immediately know where he was and the fastest route to get back to Baker Street and John—but he can't stop walking. The kiss, or kisses depending on how you looked at it, overwhelmed his capacities and the only way to find them again was to eliminate the distraction. And since he knew he wouldn't be able to keep his hands or lips off of John while they were both in the flat, he got out. And he got out fast.

He lets the quiet night hum around him, only focusing on his surroundings enough to not bump into any pedestrians and letting the rest of his capacities concentrate completely on the John problem.


And now this land

Means less and less to me without you breathing through its trees

At every turn

The water runs away from me and the halo disappears

I'm not whole when you're not here


John wakes late into the night, his back and neck aching with having slept so uncomfortably in his chair. He rises and checks the flat drowsily. No Sherlock. So he retreats back to his bedroom and collapses back into bed. He falls asleep with the memory of Sherlock's kiss burning bright in his mind, whether he wants it to or not.

Sherlock could have walked for minutes, hours, or days and he wouldn't have known, all he knows is that eventually he's back at Baker Street and he goes inside and he closes himself into his bedroom.

John wakes a second time when he hears Sherlock coming in the front door. Still lying down, he waits until he hears the door of Sherlock's bedroom close as well. Then he lets himself drift out again.

He doesn't sleep, of course he doesn't. He hardly sleeps as it is, and he'll be unable to while he's still not worked out the John problem. He sits cross-legged on top of his sheets, barefoot but still in his clothes from the previous day. And then, fingers steepled at his lips, he lets his mind work.


What if I was wrong

Oh, what if I was wrong


John wakes for the third and final time that morning around seven—his normal rising hour. He ambles downstairs and determines the recreational areas of the flat empty, and since he hadn't heard him leave again, it means that Sherlock has locked himself up in his room for the foreseeable future.

So John goes about the usual morning routine, trying not to worry about Sherlock and failing miserably. He makes tea and thinks about Sherlock. He eats a biscuit, and thinks about Sherlock. He drinks his tea, slowly, thinking about Sherlock. He gets dressed for work while thinking about Sherlock. Then he leaves Sherlock a note on the kitchen table, right next to his microscope, saying he'll be home after his shift at the Surgery.

When he gets home, the note hasn't been touched. Nothing has moved since he left. Sherlock's coat is still beside the door, so he's still in the flat, but John's growing increasingly worried about Sherlock's state of mind after what happened between them the night before.

He finds himself in his chair, sipping at a cup of tea and thinking maybe he made the wrong decision, kissing Sherlock. Or, rather, letting Sherlock kiss him. Because it was Sherlock who initiated it, but it was him acting on what John had been feeling for the last several months. He remembers Sherlock saying that he didn't feel things the same as everyone else; that's made increasingly clear right now by Sherlock's absence. Still, the waiting was the worst part. If Sherlock would just come out of his room and tell John it wasn't going to work between them, then he could try to let it go. But just kissing him and leaving, it was throwing John all out of sorts.

Sherlock's in the exact same position when he snaps out of his subconscious, sitting on his bed. He doesn't know how much time has passed, but he gathers at least eight hours based on the stiffness of his joints and the cracking of his spine when he stands.

He's figured it out. He thinks he has. But, for now, he will be satisfied with what conclusion he has come to in the John problem. So he ventures out into the flat.

He finds John washing a teacup in the kitchen. John doesn't hear him come in, or so Sherlock thinks when the doctor doesn't even flinch as he pads in.

As Sherlock approaches, John sets down the cup and turns to meet him.


But hold on to what you believe in the light

When the darkness has robbed you of all your sight


They apologize simultaneously, and a chuckle breaks past John's gritted teeth.

But then it's silent. Neither speaks, and both heads are bowed in nervousness and anticipation.

Sherlock breaks first. He whispers John's name, and takes a half-step forward. John looks up and is leaning back by instinct, but he forces his feet to stay cemented to the kitchen floor. And then Sherlock shows John exactly what he's thinking.

They don't stay in the kitchen for much longer.


Hold on to what you believed in the light