When John returned, the flat was eerily calm. The fireplace was lit, illuminating Sherlock's hunched figure sitting in the corner, with only the quiet pluck, pluck of tuning strings disturbing the peace. Even after years living with Sherlock Holmes, John was baffled by his many dichotomies. Somehow he was utterly destitute and warm simultaneously. He had transitioned so quickly from the events of that afternoon to such a melancholy softness; it was as if nothing was amiss at all. He approached him slowly, hesitating before resting his hand on his shoulder and sitting beside him. Sherlock continued fidgeting with his violin, his long fingers carefully winding the string on its peg and plucking before adjusting again. He didn't break focus until John's hand reached the small of his back and he inhaled deeply before looking over at him. His eyes were bloodshot and glossy as the fire twinkled inside them. John noticed his lip quiver and behind his stone cold expression could see absolute anguish. If he didn't know better, he'd say Sherlock had been crying. For a moment he paused, wracking his brain for the right words, but nothing he said would be genuine enough, acute enough, or kind enough. He lifted his hand to Sherlock's jaw, running his thumb down to his chin and watching the tiny shift in his expression as he leaned closer. Just before their lips met, he let out the slightest gasp and lifted his chin to meet him. He set his violin aside gently on the floor without breaking their kiss and promptly slid his fingers to the back of John's neck, pulling him closer. Before long, John was nearly on top of him on the wooden floor, their limbs entangled as Sherlock's grip tightened in desperation. Suddenly, he pulled away.
"John," He quavered,
"You… You don't have to do this. Also, we should probably move out of this corner."
"I don't have to do what?" John inquired, unwavering.
"This. When I said you chose Mary over me I didn't mean you had to… You don't have to…"
"Sherlock," John stuttered, standing up and reaching his hand out,
"I think you're misunderstanding me." Sherlock took his hand and stood.
"I never do anything for you out of pity, you do know that, right? If I took pity on you I wouldn't be here."
"I never asked you to pity me."
"No, you didn't. You also haven't forced me to do anything I don't want to. Except maybe get shot at a couple times, and drag you out of lawsuits, and… my point is... I'm here because I want to be." Sherlock wrapped his arms around himself, processing John's words with a wispy
"Oh."
"I choose you, Sherlock. You're right. It's always been you." Sherlock stood awestruck, his brows furrowed as he stared down at the floor in thought.
"Now," John interrupted,
"Either we can take this to bed or I can leave you to your thoughts. Which will it be?" Sherlock slowly raised his gaze with a smirk and looked John up and down.
"You're serious?"
"Of course I'm serious," He said, running his fingers down Sherlock's back, "So which will it be?" Sherlock responded simply with a kiss, leaning in as close as he could to John and taking his hand. The two staggered down the hallway together, limbs intertwining, until finally John threw Sherlock onto bed in a passionate frenzy and snickered. He crawled on top of him, his fingers buried deep in his curls, and let out a low sigh. His heart pounded in his chest as Sherlock tugged at his sweater and panted, eventually pulling it over his head and tossing it aside. He leaned in closer, leaving as little space as possible between their figures. He was impatient, desperate: it was everything he wanted and more.
Later, against the warmth of John's bare chest in the dead of night, Sherlock murmured,
"I have waited so, so long for this."